I'll Have What She's Having

I'll Have What She's Having

Little Girl

When I was a little girl, I spent large parts of my day dreaming about the kind of woman I’d one day be. I wanted to fast-forward through all of my youth and misery, and become the more glamorous, successful, adult version of myself.

She would be nothing less than fierce, this woman I’d become. She would never have to worry about fitting in—she wouldn’t be the type of person who valued herself based on other people’s opinions. She wasn’t going to be someone who followed what others did; she would be a leader. She’d be someone who would never have to rely on another person for anything.

She would be confident and never hesitate to stick her neck out for other people. Anyone who needed a hand would be able to depend on her. She’d be strong and she’d be beautiful, with a mind so sharp no one could ever call her just a pretty face. She’d be so much more than that.

She’d be able to light up a room, and her light would spread, making others feel brighter, better. She would be passionate and fiery, and courageous. She’d never be afraid to tell the truth, no matter the consequences.

She’ll be different, this woman. She’ll set an example for all other women. She’ll soar through the world, traveling the globe, leaving her mark everywhere she went.

She’ll break some hearts and heal others. She’ll have men at her feet, begging to be with her, and women at her feet, begging to be her friend. She’ll cast a wide net, and have friends all around the world. She’ll have different loves throughout her life—and then, maybe one true soul mate, an everlasting love. Or maybe not. She’ll be a beautiful hurricane.

She’ll be respected for many reasons. She’ll love people passionately and save people’s lives with her generosity. She’ll be educated about global politics, read every book she can get her hands on, and speak multiple languages. She’ll have certainty in her own opinion and the power to change others’. She’ll have the courage of her own convictions and the boldness to know she is capable of whatever lies at the heart of her dreams. She will be the baddest. The best kind of bad. A matriarch.

This woman I’ll become, she will never be silent.

She’ll be brave, and strong, and able to get out of any bad situation. She will have the kind of bravery it takes to walk into a situation knowing that the worst could happen, and she’ll jump in anyway. The type of bravery it takes to walk away from something or someone you love, knowing that you are walking away not in weakness but in strength. Knowing that you will survive, because you are a survivor. She’ll be a survivor.

Why do I have to wait so long to get to be this woman? I’d wonder. Childhood has been such a waste of my time.

When we are children, the essence of who we are is front and center. We are unscathed by what can very often be an ugly world. Bringing that child into adulthood, even only for moments at a time, is how we remain true to ourselves. Hold on to that child tightly, as if she were your own, because she is.

Hard Lemonade

At ten years old, I decided to start my own lemonade business. I asked my sister Shana if she would be interested in going into business with me. She was five years my senior, and she insisted that in order for her to come on board, this would need to be a joint venture—we’d have to split everything fifty-fifty. I begrudgingly agreed, but I was firm in letting her know that I would be the one making most of the business decisions, and that in order to make some real money, we would be reimagining the lemonade stand business. Ours would be a hard lemonade stand, serving gin, whiskey, and tequila.

On our first day, we made thirteen dollars, and after splitting it down the middle, I was left with six dollars and fifty cents. This was not going to work. I needed a greater profit margin and less overhead. The bottom line was that I would have to find cheaper labor.

“You’re fired,” I told Shana as we walked down the dirt road back to our house with all of our lemonade equipment.

She tried to explain to me that I wasn’t in a position to fire her, but I reminded her that it was my idea in the first place, and that she was welcome to start her own lemonade stand and become my competitor.

The next day, I went door-to-door in our neighborhood looking for staff. I knocked on each door, announced that I was Chelsea Handler, a ten-year-old business owner who was interested in hiring another child to work with, and if the employee insisted, I would allot a half hour of playtime after each shift. I was well aware that most children my age did not have the same work ethic I did.

That’s when I met Nelson, another ten-year-old who seemed eager for a playmate. I started grooming Nelson right away. I took him back to my house and demonstrated the right ratio of lemonade to alcohol. I explained that our target market was the parents, and that our ancillary market would be their children—and that we would be giving straight lemonade to anyone who looked younger than Nelson.

On our first day in business together, Nelson and I made thirty-three dollars. When I handed him his commission, he couldn’t believe his good fortune in meeting me.

“Stick with me, Nelson. I’ll show you the way,” I told him, tousling his hair, and dropping him off at his house.

By the end of our first week together, word had spread about our little lemonade bar, and business was booming. I made over $359 in that first week, and when I gave Nelson his commission of $3.59, he lost his marbles.

“This is more money than I would have made if I lost five teeth in the same week!” he exclaimed.

I didn’t have the heart to explain that the tooth fairy, Santa Claus, and the Easter Bunny were not real. This kid has a great work ethic, I thought. He’s enthusiastic about bartending. Better to keep him motivated and delusional if I want to earn a serious living.

First Class

My mother took me on my very first airplane ride across the country to visit my aunt and grandparents in Los Angeles when I was ten. There were four of us traveling, including my mother, and when we boarded the plane and walked past the first-class section, I stopped and sniffed around.

“This seems like my group,” I told my mother. Instead, she ushered me down the aisle toward the very long coach section and whispered that the section I was referring to was “first class” and that we would never be flying first-class because there were five kids in our family and we couldn’t afford it. Speak for yourself, I thought.

Once we got back from California, I was more motivated than ever to start earning some of my own cash. The writing was on the wall: if my family was content flying coach for the rest of their lives, we simply weren’t on the same page, and I would, at some point, have to split ties with them.

My parents had a house on Martha’s Vineyard where we’d spend the summer months. That year, when we arrived, I called every hotel in Edgartown and gave them my name and number in case any of their guests needed a babysitter. I was ten at the time, but I looked like I was fifteen, so I lied and said I was fifteen. I ended up spending that summer babysitting for a fourteen-year-old boy. His name was Jeremy and he had behavioral issues, which required me to regularly put him in time-outs. I babysat for Jeremy for the next three summers until he was seventeen and I was thirteen.

Thanks to my lemonade stand business and burgeoning babysitting empire, I saved thousands of dollars between the ages of ten and twelve. So, when my mom announced that we would be flying to California for my grandfather’s funeral, I walked down the street to my friend’s house. Her mother was a travel agent, and I gave her three thousand dollars to purchase a first-class ticket to Los Angeles—for myself.

When we boarded the plane, I was with my two brothers and my mom. I located the seat identified on my ticket, stuffed my Barbie backpack into the overhead bin, sat down in my assigned seat, 2C, and looked at my family.

“I’ll see you idiots at the end of the flight,” I said.

I looked around at the passengers in first class, many of whom were drinking champagne. These are my people, I thought. This is my group. This is where the woman I will become is going to sit.