Are You There, Vodka? It's Me, Chelsea by Chelsea Handler Read Free Book Online

placing you under arrest and taking you to jail.” Upon hearing that, I immediately fell over and hit the pavement with one heel on and one heel off.
    I looked up at my officer, knowing this was not going the way I had planned. “She always gets like this when she has a cold, plus with her dog dying and everything, please don’t arrest—”
    He interrupted me as he helped me to my feet. “I thought it was her cat.”
    “It’s a hybrid,” I mumbled as I looked down at my freshly pedicured toes, wondering why they couldn’t all just be the same length.
    “Miss, you can either take a Breathalyzer here, or we can test your urine down at the station. Which would you prefer?”
    “That depends,” I said. “Is there any way to detect marijuana through a Breathalyzer?”
    Lydia was now sobbing heavily while also screaming obscenities at her cop as she was being escorted into their squad car.
    “Let’s go,” he said. “We’ll take you downtown for a urine test.”
    “No,” I said. “I don’t even have to go to the bathroom.”
    “Fine,” he said, and went to retrieve the invention I now feel immense hatred for—the Breathalyzer is second only to the answering machine, which has led to three separate breakups.
    It turned out that I was, in fact, intoxicated. I blew a 2.4, which far exceeds the legal limit of 0.8.
    Once handcuffed in the squad car next to Lydia, my blood really began to boil. “So this is how it’s gonna go down, huh? You can’t just turn around, drive the fifty yards back to my house, and drop us off? NO! Of course not, because I fought the law and the law won!”
    After a pause I murmured “racist” under my breath, loud enough for both of them to hear.
    The cop in the passenger seat turned around with a confused look on his face. “We’re all white.”
    “Whatever,” I said.
    “Well…still” was Lydia’s comeback.
    “I’m Jewish,” I told them. No response. “Did you hear me?” I said. “This is racial profiling, and I won’t be a party to it. Let me out!”
    “Anti-Samoans!” Lydia yelled.
    “You girls will be released when you sober up. You’ll be charged with a DUI, Miss Handler, and your friend will be charged with being drunk and disorderly. Would you like us to add obstruction of justice to those charges, or would you two like to be quiet until we get down to the station?”
    “There better be air-conditioning there,” I mumbled.
    “We’re going to prison!” Lydia bawled. She was still sobbing heavily.
    “Don’t worry. Just calm down. My father’s an attorney.”
    “No, he’s not,” Lydia replied.
    “Shut up,” I growled. “What’s going to happen to my car?” I asked the officers.
    “It will be impounded,” the officer said.
    “More great news,” I huffed. “Is this going to be an overnight thing?”
    “We’ll release you girls when you sober up,” replied the cop who was driving.
    “Well, then, can we at least stop by my apartment so I can get my contact solution?” I asked him.
    Once again both officers ignored me, and Lydia was now moaning like she had been mauled by a grizzly bear. As ridiculous and belligerent as Lydia was, I still felt bad for her. I have a very hard time maintaining my composure when I see anyone cry. It only takes a few seconds for me to start crying too, which has ruled out any chance of me becoming a rape crisis counselor.
    “Okay, girls, let’s get you booked,” my cop said as we pulled up to the police station. He got out of the car and opened my door. Finally, some chivalry.
    We went through the motions of the fingerprints, photo shoot, and paperwork. Then we were thrown into a holding cell with one other woman who looked like Courtney Love’s twin sister.
    “What about our phone call?” I asked the female officer who brought us two blankets.
    “Would you like to make one?” she asked.
    I looked at Lydia, who was already sleeping in the fetal position on her blanket.
    “Yes…no, just forget it!”