June 19, 2017
Rick, we've known each other for so long - 14 years to be exact. Your heart has been aching, and you are too shy to say it.
Rick, inside we both know what's been going on. Yes. Yes, we do. And we both know the game, but instead of reverting to our youth and playing the game, let’s be an adult for 2 minutes.
Do you want to know the solution for your aching heart?
I’ve got three words for you, Rick, “Never Say Never.” Didn’t Justin Bieber and Jaden Smith teach you anything?
Don’t back yourself into a corner by telling the girl of your dreams you’ll never make her cry. What’s going to happen if she’s emotional, hormonal even, and you do a sweet gesture and she trickles a single tear?
You just made her cry, Rick.
Don’t back yourself into a corner by telling the girl of your dreams you’ll never say goodbye. How are you going to end any phone conversation? And do you think you’re just gonna sneak outta the house for work every morning without a goodbye kiss?
That’s only going to give you more heartache, Rick.
You see, writing a song with 38 “Nevers,” and also negatively comparing the girl of your dreams to a blind person (have you forgotten the incredible Helen Keller, or Stevie Wonder?), you are singing yourself into a deep, deep, deep corner. A corner that’s as deep, deep, deep as your voice.
All's not lost though, Rick. You made a lot of money from this song, and Rickrolled millions of people. That’s something to be proud of. And, in case you forgot, being proud fosters confidence. And you can use this newfound confidence to your advantage.
Remember the lesson our boys Hall & Oates taught? Go tell that girl she makes your dreams come true. That she has what you want. That she’s the flame that burns your candle. It’s a guarantee you’ll seal the deal, and cure your aching heart.
Papa bless, brother.
May 25, 2017
Yo. Look. Eminem, if you had one shot or one opportunity. An opportunity to seize everything you ever wanted in one moment…WOULD YOU CAPTURE IT OR JUST LET IT SLIP?
Yo. Look. Eminem, I understand your knees are weak, arms are heavy, you’ve got vomit on your sweater already. I mean by the looks of it it’s MOM’S SPAGHETTI.
But we’ve been over this already. When you’re nervous you shouldn’t be eating 3 plates of MOM’S SPAGHETTI.
It’s a rookie mistake. A mistake easily avoided after watching Michael Scott’s Dunder Mifflin Scranton Meredith Palmer Memorial Celebrity Rabies Awareness Pro-Am Fun Run Race for The Cure. Carbo-loading and abstaining from water is not the answer.
I’ll cut you some slack cuz that episode came out 5 years too late, so let’s try a different route. Let’s snap back to reality, where gravity is non-existent, and you’re back in your mobile home, hitting the lab, not a meth lab, a lyrical lab.
Take a cue from your own lyrics, baby. In order to lose yourself in the music, the moment, to own it, and never let it go, use some deductive reasoning. Will you be able to do that when you’re heaving up some sweet, sweet, MOM’S SPAGHETTI?
This opportunity comes ONCE IN A LIFETIME. A rare opportunity requires some advance planning. Planning with the help of the Google gods. The first Google result for “Nutrition Advice for Nervousness?” Eat beef.
You see, this isn’t a lesson in abstinence, it’s a lesson of moderation. With Mom’s meaty marinara sauce you can do anything you set your mind to, man. But only when you have one serving of MOM’S SPAGHETTI.
May 7, 2015
Since I was 16 my siblings and I have developed this affinity for Judge Judy. I don't remember when it began but do remember every weekday after school waiting for my siblings to come home. That's was the indicator Judge Judy was on. When she appeared on screen we were in a trance hanging on her every word, and during commercial breaks and after the episode, we'd reenact the court scenes. We became so comfortable with her we dropped her title and referred to her as Judy.
Fast forward to my first year in college. I was a sheltered, straight edge kid (meaning I didn't drink or do drugs) who decided to attend the Fashion Institute of Design and Merchandising in Los Angeles. There I learned the stereotypes of young girls in the fashion industry were on point. These stereotypes include sex, drugs, Thursday night club excursions, and wearing your Louboutin heels every day until finals came around, which granted liberty to whip out your Juicy Couture tracksuit.
I had three roommates. First, there was Plastic. We’ll call her Plastic since her 16th birthday present included a nose job. Plastic was from Portland, OR. She was a size 00, brunette, and never went anywhere without her Louis Vuitton handbag which she held on her left arm at her elbow. I knew she was in a different league when she told me her dad shipped her year-old Benz to LA since he didn’t want to put the mileage on the car.
My second roommate was Casper. We’ll call her Casper not because she was white (she was South American) but because the only time she was at the apartment was when she had class the next day. She grew up in a town 90 minutes north of LA called Ventura and made the journey home more often than not. She also had a heck of a mother. If a Tiger Mom and a Helicopter Mom had a love child, it would be Casper's mom.
And then there was Muffin. We’ll call her Muffin because every time I made muffins within 8 hours the tops of the muffins would mysteriously disappear. Muffin was blonde, from a small town in Oklahoma, and was always on the lemon-cayenne-water “cleanse.”
Plastic and Muffin embraced the newfound freedom of leaving their parents' nest and having a fake ID. They kept this to a minimum since they didn’t want to give our strict RA any reason to kick them out of student housing. And Casper, well, she was just never there.
One day we discovered that renting our own apartment would be half the price of renting a place through student housing. They hopped on the "let's get our own apartment bandwagon" quickly. My gut was screaming at me not to join them, but my head couldn't figure out how any other option would work. I slowly gave in to their persistence of joining them and signed my name next to their's on a yearlong lease.
Everything about the situation was weird, tense, and wrong. Even the way we split rent was twisted. Instead of splitting it equally 4 ways each month, we rotated between the four of us to pay the full month’s rent. As if that wasn’t affirmation enough to know I made a horrible decision, we took a trip to Ventura to spend the weekend with Casper’s mom and stepdad. The purpose of the trip was to buy furnishings for the apartment. The three of them wanted all of the furniture, linens, and décor in our future “home” to match. Their interior design aesthetic was Real Housewives of New Jersey, where mine was Starving Artist in the East Village. Instead of backing out before making a large financial investment in gaudy furniture, I dug myself deeper into the dark vortex.
When we moved into the new apartment, what I was hoping would continue to be a bearable living situation deteriorated to hell.
Plastic had a "promoter" boyfriend which I quickly learned promoter was a fancy term for drug dealer. They were both hungry for their 15 minutes of fame. Their television dreams came true by broadcasting their dysfunctional relationship on MTV'sTrue Life: I Don't Trust My Partner.
Casper was almost the perfect roommate because, again, she was never there. As time rolled on, her weekend visits became more frequent and extended. When she was home she'd sit Indian style on our zebra print couch browsing Facebook and watching trash TV.
Then there was Muffin. I know the most about her since we shared a room. Muffin’s ex-boyfriend, who also lived in LA, frequently used her as a booty call. She'd come home the afternoon after their hookups and it would quickly turn into therapy sessions with Chelsea.
Then there was that one morning I walked into the restroom Muffin and I shared and discover a "white powder" sprinkled all over our bathroom counter. Me, whose only drug education came from D.A.R.E. in the 5th grade, and not realizing the monetary value of what was scattered before me, brushed it all on the floor.
The final straw was when Muffin woke up with a dozen large, red, oozing blisters around her lips. Being the good therapist I was, I accompanied her to the doctors. With one glance he diagnosed her with herpes.
Shortly after the trip to the doctor's office, I persuaded the girls to sign me off the lease. I realized after they signed me off the lease I overpaid $1275 in rent. When I asked them to repay me their response was that I owed them the money for signing me off the lease early. This was also followed by Casper's mom calling me and for 15 minutes screaming at me saying I was sick in the head if I thought they were going to repay me. Pretty sure my uncontrollable sobbing made her end the call.
Realizing the only way I would ever see any penny of the $1275 again was to sue them, I filed a small claims case again them at the LA county court. About a month after moving out of that situation and 2 weeks after filing the small claim, I received a voicemail from one of Judge Judy's producers asking if I wanted to appear on the show. I must have listened to that voicemail 58 times. I couldn't believe it. Before this voicemail of hope, I was straight up depressed. How could I have been so idiotic? But now the tables were turning. Judy gave me a renewed sense of hope. I could rise triumphant with the help of my idol. She was going to be my Savior, my partner in crime, to put these girls in their rightful place.
A day later I received a FedExed letter from Judge Joe Brown asking to appear on his show. That was a no brainer. My homegirl Judy already had my back.
Not surprisingly, the roommates all gave their affirmative answer to appear on Judy's show. We had a filming date, time, and location. Two days before our film date I received a call from Judy's producer, "Chelsea. I'm sorry to tell you this. Judy looked over your case. She doesn't want to do it." I was shocked. In my mind I began to visualize Judy in her court robes, sitting at a large oak desk reviewing the case. She just read over the last 6 months of my life. How could she not be empathetic? I spent hours writing a convincing claim that proved they owed me the money. In typical Chelsea fashion, I got carried away in my thoughts. Judy's producer not being able to hear my internal dialogue broke the silence. "Judy doesn't get how you split the rent. It's not going to be easy to explain in a 10-minute segment. Sorry. Bye." This feeling of ultimate rejection overcame me. My idol just removed herself from the situation with a really lame excuse. What was I supposed to do now? It also didn't help that I was so looking forward to taping the show for my future kids. 30 years after the episode aired I was going to gather my kids around the television and show them this moment where homegirl Judy came to my rescue. Now that wasn't possible.
Joe Brown caught wind that Judy bailed and began hounding me to be on his show. No. It was Judy or nothing.
Two weeks after this ultimate rejection was the LA County court date. The only thing that helped me get my act together was asking WWJD? What Would Judy Do? The answer: she wouldn’t let these girls win. She’d take them to court and she’d win. Judy became my spirit animal. I had to win. I had to stick up for myself.
We went to the courthouse to plead our cases before the county judge. At one point during the proceedings, Muffin yelled at me from across the courtroom. During her outburst, I locked eyes with the Judge. I gave him a look that said, "See what I had to live with?" He reciprocated with a look that said, "They really are crazy. Don't worry, I got your back." And I won the case. I got every penny of that $1275 back. While I don't have a tape of it, I like to think Judy was trying to teach me a bigger lesson. That I could do it on my own. For years she taught me and my siblings what to do in situations like this. I like to think I did her proud. You can call me Judge Chelsea.