Life Will Be the Death of Me: . . . and You Too!(38)

My mother died twenty-two years after Chet—the same amount of time he was alive. She had him in her life for twenty-two years, and then she tried for twenty-two years to live without him—and then she gave up. I know now that she did her best.





Whereas siblings tend to police you, cousins are your partners in crime. A cousin is who you go out to breakfast with after a night of debauchery, and who doesn’t flinch when you ask the server to put a margarita in your omelet. My sisters would tolerate that behavior, but they wouldn’t help me achieve my goal—or try to reason with the server on my behalf. My cousin Molly would.

I would also say that if there’s anything better than a cousin or a sister, it’s Molly. Technically, she is my cousin, but I think of her as my mother, father, sister, brother, and daughter. We are intertwined. My ugliest is fine with her. I wish I could say the same about her, but her breath in the morning is strong. She knows that although it’s not a deal-breaker, she should always have her back toward me when we wake up after a sleepover.

    Molly is a producer on all of my projects. Karen is also a producer. Karen started out as my assistant on tour about ten years ago, and then became my personal assistant full-time. When she was ready to move on to a different role, she found Brandon and Tanner to take her place. That’s why I call Karen “Bitch.” Because it took two men to replace her. Also because she doesn’t put up with anyone’s shit.

Karen is kind and strong, but she makes you earn her trust. She’s from Oklahoma and she’s a Christian, and the fact that she supports whatever I do is a testament to the strength of her character. I chose her to come on tour with me initially because she didn’t speak very much, and at that time in my life, that’s what I was looking for. She also knows how to run a book signing and a comedy tour, and she always lets me find out about people on my own, even though she usually has them pegged months before I do. Like the time I got sick of my therapist (not Dan) and sent Karen in my stead. After her second visit, I asked her if she felt like she was making progress.

“For who?” she asked.

“For you,” I said.

“I didn’t know I was supposed to talk about myself,” she said. “I thought I was in there to talk about your problems.”

I’ve learned more from Karen’s restraint than she could ever learn from my noise. She disagrees with me on so many topics, yet is the first one to get up and start planning when I say I want to cross the country and talk to Republicans about abortions and guns. We’ve grown a lot together over the years.

Molly, Karen, and I are a triad.

    Molly is the one in charge. Karen supports the decisions Molly or I make, and I do whatever Karen tells me to do.

We have an understanding: They will enable, support, and encourage me, as long as I behave in a loving way toward others and myself. If I behave badly, they are more like disappointed parents whose daughter got suspended from fourth grade for the third time this year.



* * *



? ? ?

The three of us were sitting around my office, brainstorming about a documentary series I was filming for Netflix. We had chosen three topics—marriage, race, and Silicon Valley (and my allergic reaction to technology)—but we needed a fourth.

“I think I should do one about drugs,” I said. “It’s kind of like my wheelhouse, no?”

“Yes,” they both said in unison, as if I asked this question several times a day.

“Do you think Netflix will let you do that?” Molly asked. “Won’t that just sound like another one of your boondoggles?”

Molly likes to write down words that I throw around or misuse, look them up, and then use them properly in a sentence directed at me.

“You guys want to do it with me?” I asked them, winking at Molly for her on-point usage of “boondoggle.”

“I’m not doing any drugs on camera,” Karen said, zipping up her sweatshirt.

“I would,” Molly said, “but if we film this, I’ll technically be working. I don’t think anyone’s going to go for that.”

    “Why not? Chelsea will also be ‘working,’?” Karen reminded us.

“Yes, but Chelsea’s ‘work’ requires different things from her than ours does from us,” Molly said.



* * *



? ? ?

My first choice of drug was mushrooms, my favorite, but that is pretty much illegal everywhere. Someone mentioned ayahuasca. This is the drug that’s derived from a plant in South America and brewed into a tea that you drink. More often than not, you shit your pants, vomit, and then have some sort of transcendental experience—in that order. There are some people who actually have mental breakdowns during their experience, but I have always felt that I’m not a candidate for that sort of thing.

“I don’t know how I feel about shitting my pants on camera,” I told them.

“Why?” Molly asked. “That seems like something you would do.”

“They don’t have to film you actually shitting your pants on camera,” Karen reminded us. “And I’m sure you don’t have to shit your pants. I’m sure production can secure a toilet or a bucket for you. They can’t force you to shit your pants like a baby.”