My Inappropriate Life Read online

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  CONTENTS

  FOREWORD

  1 THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF WOODLAND HILLS

  2 GOING BANANAS

  3 THE NINE STEPS OF BEING KICKED IN THE ASS BY SUZE ORMAN

  4 B.C.

  5 MY PERSONAL STYLIST

  6 PLAYMATE MOM OF THE YEAR

  7 ONE NIPPLE OUT THE DOOR

  8 GOOD HELP IS HARD TO FIND

  9 THEY TRIED TO MAKE ME GO TO REHAB

  10 WILD WORLD

  11 THE CHELSEA CLIQUE

  12 DEATH BECOMES HER

  13 NOT WITH MY MAN YOU DON’T

  14 MY INAPPROPRIATE FRIEND

  15 B-DAY PARTY

  16 THREE WEDDINGS AND NO FUNERAL

  17. THE SIXTY-FIVE-YEAR-OLD INTERN

  18. CRAIGSLISTING FOR FAMILY POOL PARTIES

  19. BAD WORD

  20. DOES MY BOY LIKE BARBIE?

  21. OMELET

  22. I DON’T WANT TO BORE YOU WITH THESE STORIES, BUT . . .

  23. MY HIATUS

  24. RED-CARPET READY

  EPILOGUE: EXTRAS AND DELETED SCENES

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  This book is dedicated to my husband, Peter, and my three children, Mackenzie, Drake, and Brandon. Thank you for understanding that by Mommy revealing a lot about herself and our family in this book we can afford amusement parks, electronics, and 3-D movie tickets.

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  This is the memoir of a comedian. There is no one parent, amusement park, birthday party place, etc., quite like the ones that I’ve described. Names have been changed; characters, locales, and events have been combined, compressed, and reordered. I have exaggerated. I have made some stuff up. That is what I do.

  FOREWORD

  I was going to ask Chelsea to write a foreword, but she is all the way down the hall, so instead I asked my fellow Chelsea Lately writers, since they sit right next to me.

  There is no one I know who leads a more inappropriate life than my friend Heather. I’ve personally witnessed her drinking Jamba Juice out of a production assistant’s mouth while dressed as Amy Winehouse; she’s shot Ping-Pong balls from her nether regions dressed like a Real Housewife; and I’ve done more sexual positions with her in the name of comedy than I have with half the girlfriends I’ve had. And all the while, Heather does these things while balancing being the perfect wife, mother, and friend. I hope this book allows you to get to know and fall in love with her the same way I have over the last five years, and I hope I’m still around when Heather has to explain to her youngest son why she was on television French-kissing Fortune Feimster while giving birth to Chuy.

  —Chris Franjola

  Most moms that you work with come to your desk uninvited and start showing you photos or telling you boring stories about their kids, like “Timmy lost a tooth today.” Not Heather McDonald. I’ve never seen a picture of her kids in a school play; instead she shows me photos of her new pool or of the stuffed-animal monkey that she keeps in the car seat in the back of her SUV so that she can ride in the carpool lane to avoid traffic. Or she’ll come by to borrow my nail file and then tell me she believes in assisted suicide and is looking to gain residency in states that allow the procedure, or she’ll make up a story about my future wherein I move to New York City and decide to be a lesbian for a year. Right now I’m a little nervous that this isn’t a very good blurb because I know Heather dreams of reading sentimental things her friends write about her so that she can be moved to tears.

  —Jen Kirkman

  Heather makes no apologies for who she is, and she shouldn’t. She’s a great mother, wife, coworker, and friend. No matter what’s going on, you always know that she loves the people she loves, that if you need her she’s going to be there, and that she’s going to be dressed super-cute. I know it’s no secret that she’s the center of a lot of jokes at work. But what people may not realize is that she’s always in on the joke, and she runs with it. You know if you poke Heather, she’s going to respond with something unexpected and hilarious, or a dead-on impression of someone else in the room. She can make a story about going to a coffee shop in Woodland Hills funny, even if all that happened in the story was she went to a coffee shop in Woodland Hills.

  To put it simply: I don’t know any other person who can tell me they are “over trees,” mean it, make me laugh about it, and at the same time make me wonder if perhaps I am too.

  —Sarah Colonna

  If Heather McDonald was my mom, I would know the difference between a dry white wine and a buttery Chardonnay. If Heather was my mom, I would have a pool and lots of cute summer pool parties. If Heather was my mom, I could always count on her to crack my back because she loves the sound it makes. If Heather was my mom, I would know the names of all the housewives of Orange County, New York, and New Jersey, but probably not Atlanta because she didn’t really care for that season. If Heather was my mom, I would have gotten to meet all of the Kardashians by now. And if Heather was my mom, I know that I’d be loved and entertained by her every single day. Heather, you’re a hysterical, genuine, and completely original human being. I can’t wait to read about all of the ridiculous things that you put your family through.

  —Jiffy Wild

  Heather McDonald is the most nonphony person in the world. She’s unapologetically Heather McDonald and I love her for that. If she’s upset because someone else is getting more airtime than she is, she’ll literally say, “Why is she getting more airtime than I am?” She cries at work constantly—who doesn’t love someone who cries at work! If the world was made up of only Heather McDonalds, there’d be peace on earth (or at least in the West Valley), every backyard would have a nice water feature, and everyone would have a really cute, flat ass.

  —Steven Marmalstein

  When I first started working at Chelsea Lately, Heather McDonald was the last person on earth I thought I’d be friends with. It’s not that I didn’t like her; she didn’t like me! I know, I’m just as shocked as you are. To be fair, they had already gone through two new writers and she was hesitant about investing in a third. Once she realized I wasn’t going anywhere, she started to come around. The fact that our boss had just forced us to share an office may have also had something to do with it. I knew I had a lot to live up to, considering her most favorite officemate had been a hilariously witty gay man. Lucky for Heather, I was a laid-back Southern lesbian whose idea of dressing up was throwing a sweater vest over my stained T-shirt and heading for a night out on the town at the Cheesecake Factory. To say we were different would be an understatement. Before long, though, we were gossiping about people in the office, comparing notes about the previous night’s Bachelorette, and she was asking me, yes me, for advice on which dress she should wear on the roundtable! I was becoming what Heather had been dreaming of . . . a gay man! Now I consider her to be not only a fantastic coworker, who keeps me entertained on a daily basis, but, more important, a friend.

  —Fortune Feimster

  I’ve had the privilege of working with Heather since day one of Chelsea Lately. I thought she was an idiot because she didn’t know where to park, and she thought I was gay because I drove a red Mini Cooper. She had a point. Needless to say, it was a rocky start. There were many clashes that ended with her in tears and me having to apologize. Now five years later, I have come to love and respect Heather for who she is—the most
sincere, loving, and adoring narcissist ever. But as much of a narcissist as she is, I have to admit that no one was more excited for my wedding or the birth of my son than Heather (and I’m including my wife and myself). She is a true friend with an amazing talent for telling hilarious stories about herself. I’m honored to be included in this foreword, but mostly I’m thrilled that I haven’t made her cry in over four years.

  —Brad Wollack

  1

  THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF WOODLAND HILLS

  Listen, I am the first to admit I am a huge Real Housewives fan. I am also proud to say that I never discriminate between the cities in which the action takes place. I will watch the gals from Beverly Hills, Orange County, Atlanta, New Jersey, Miami, and obviously, New York. I even extend my devotion to those lower-caliber shows, like Mob Wives and Basketball Wives, where the term “wife” is used very loosely. Some days, I wish I wasn’t such a wife junkie and could turn to Downton Abbey like other, more sophisticated folks—but who are we kidding?

  I am so obsessed that I will call my husband, Peter, from my car to make sure he has programmed the TiVo to record the Real Housewives and also to make sure that we have chilled Chardonnay for viewing. I prefer to drink while I watch to create a more interactive experience; it helps me relate to the drunk housewives just that much more. This way, I can feel like I’m actually at Beverly Hills’ Adrienne Maloof’s cocktail party to unveil her new line of platform metal-studded heels. It’s just like how my kids prefer participating with their Wii to just watching TV.

  Over the years, some of the housewives have become my Facebook friends. I’ve even met them and shared a meal. And, since they don’t eat, I always get to take some leftovers home for Peter. But I don’t feel bad about using them for free food. I know the only reason these “wife stars” want to be my friend is because they want to get closer to Chelsea Handler. This happens to me a lot. I tend to think of Chelsea as Jesus and myself as one of her disciples. They’re excited to meet Saint James, but who they really want to share that wine and break that bread with is the savior herself. Most of the time, when they hang out with me, they’re really just hoping to be booked as a guest on Chelsea Lately. They even get upset when they can’t get a booking and will call me to complain. I don’t know how much longer I can handle the drunk tears.

  From our Real Housewives of New Jersey reunion parody. I’m playing Danielle Staub.

  Deep down, though, I know where they’re coming from. I mean, if you think about it, they’ve worked so gosh-darned hard to get where they are. Let’s take a quick look: first, they had to marry well, then get divorced and marry well again. Next, they had to go all the way over to the Bravo website and fill out an application. Just think of the concentration required: remembering their Social Security number while also trying to recall their actual birthday. It must all be so taxing.

  To be honest, I think Real Housewives fame might be just as dangerous as teen-idol fame, if not more so. Six months prior to being booked on the Real Housewives, these women’s biggest claim to fame was being the hottest mom in the car-pool lane at their kid’s school, and now they’re starring in a prime-time television show and are on the cover of Life & Style magazine. And the fact that it happens at the ripe Botoxed age of forty-five makes it that much more difficult for them to handle everything that has become available to them—thus, this delusion of grandeur. OK, I confess, I’m jealous of these women with their one-hit-wonder dance tunes, private wine labels, and wig lines. They didn’t log in thousands of hours doing stand-up comedy. They didn’t have to go on hundreds of auditions. They never had to be fingered by a William Morris agent through a bodysuit during the ’90s.

  So you can understand that when I experienced my own unsolicited evening of real housewife–hood it took me by surprise. It was my husband’s birthday, which happened to fall on the airing of an After Lately episode. This episode was special because my husband and my two sons, Drake and Brandon, had a scene with Chelsea. Since my kids had never been on TV before and were very excited about possibly being recognized at Target, we decided to invite some families over for wine, dinner, and a lively viewing of After Lately. My little shindig could hardly compare to the extravagance of a Real Housewives–type party, where even brunch requires the hostess to have a stylist help her choose her wardrobe. But I think I did OK when I carefully selected my Hudson jeans with the buttons on the buttocks to make my flat ass cheeks appear less concave, paired with whatever T-shirt was on the top of the folded pile of clean laundry, and gold flats. And why do they all have personal assistants? Again, I’m jealous; I would die for an assistant. That way, my family and close friends would finally receive the thank-you notes they so rightfully deserve.

  Peter sent out an Evite and invited four families. This included my very best friend, Liz, whom I met in first grade and her husband, Mark. Also on the list were Anna and Steve, whom we socialize with all the time because their son is Drake’s best friend; Ted and Dina, whom we had only hung out with a couple of times so we didn’t know well; and Angelina Rose and Bill.

  It was a Sunday night, and I had just returned earlier that day from Denver, where I had done six stand-up comedy shows over the weekend, so I was a little tired. Still, I’m always up for a party, and Peter seemed really excited about it too. We ordered some Greek food and I pulled what I like to call a “Kris Jenner” (Momager™ of the Kardashian clan, aka ruler of L.A.) where I transported the take-out dishes from their original foil containers to my personal serving platters. The adults and their kids starting coming around five p.m., but the wine had started flowing for me around four thirty. The kids ran around our backyard and jumped on the trampoline, and the women gathered at my kitchen table and talked about school while the men hung around Peter’s new barbecue grill smoker and did guy things.

  Let’s pause for a moment to discuss Angelina Rose. I know when you hear that name you think stripper, but she isn’t. However, for some reason unknown to all of us she never dropped the middle name of Rose. Can you imagine if I was Heather Ann and everyone in my life—all my coworkers, family, and new associates—had to call me Heather Ann and if they just said Heather, I’d politely smile and correct them by saying “It’s Heather Ann.” How obnoxious would that be? I mean, I have to be honest, sometimes I can’t even remember my own kids’ middle names. Anyways, I met Angelina Rose a few years earlier when her daughter, Sophia, and my son Drake were at St. Ignatius’s preschool together and Angelina Rose coordinated a “Moms’ Night Out” at Paoli’s Italian Restaurant. Normally, I don’t go to Moms’ Night Out–type events because they are during the week. After working all day, I just want to spend a couple hours with my kids, but I said yes because it landed on a Tuesday and Tuesdays at Paoli’s is karaoke night. I’ll take pretty much any opportunity to sing “Something to Talk About” by Bonnie Raitt. I was born with a mike in my hand, and I am one of those freaks who will sing karaoke without drinking (though who’d want to?).

  At this time, I had only been working at Chelsea Lately full-time for about a year. When I explained what I did for a living, Angelina Rose rolled her eyes and said, “I was in the business for years, but once I became a mother, I just couldn’t imagine leaving Sophia with some stranger to raise her while I went off to star in another movie.” Now, I watch a lot of movies, but I had never seen this woman outside of the preschool parking lot. “Oh, what have you been in?” I asked, trying to sound interested. “What haven’t I been in?” She laughed as she tossed her blond hair about. After fifteen minutes I concluded her last role was a guest spot on the original Hawaii Five-O, not the Hawaii Five-0 with the super-short hot guy who used to be on Entourage.

  Angelina Rose was very attractive but about eight or nine years older than me, and it was starting to piss me off that she was acting like she turned down the Julianna Margulies role on The Good Wife because she didn’t want to put Sophia in day care. Her career wasn’t going anywhere and hadn’t for a while, but I didn’t judge (ex
cept, yes I did).

  I admit, I have a lot of guilt about being gone so much, so I was taking it personally. A lot of moms choose to stay at home because they can afford to, or they always hated their job in insurance (or whatever) and giving birth was their lottery ticket out of cubicle hell. I doubt any stay-at-home mom would choose to stay home if Kelly Ripa’s one-hour-a-day job was suddenly offered to them. None of them, even Angelina Rose, would say, “Sorry, I just can’t leave my daughter to cohost a national morning talk show. Breakfast is just such a special time for us, and I am the only person who can pour her a bowl of Cinnamon Toast Crunch the way she likes it.” Just like no one has ever said, “Heather should be able to bring her kids to work with her every day and have them sit beside her at her desk as she writes jokes about a man in Florida who got caught having sex with a red picnic table.” Was I feeling particularly guilty that day about being a working mom? Yes, I believe I was! I had also basically chosen karaoke over reading to my children, so that didn’t help how I was interpreting her comments. Sorry, but I’ll take singing “I Touch Myself” to an audience at a restaurant over reading Everybody Farts to Brandon and Drake for the hundredth time.

  Despite Angelina Rose, I still had a great time. Not only because I practically got a standing ovation when I held the word “touch” for fifty-seven seconds, but also because another woman in our group was going through a tumultuous divorce; it made for a very juicy conversation over eggplant Parmesan. I couldn’t wait to get home to tell Peter and was taking very meticulous mental notes.

  There is nothing that annoys me more than when Peter comes home from playing golf for seven hours with three other men and has no stories to tell me, no scoop, nada. This is how a typical conversation will go.