Life will be the death of me And you, too!

Chelsea Handler

Book - 2019

"In a haze of vape smoke on a rare windy night in LA in the fall of 2016, Chelsea Handler daydreams about what life will be like with a woman in the White House. And then, Donald Trump happens. In a torpor of despair, she decides that she's had enough of the privileged bubble she's lived in--a bubble within a bubble--and that it's time to make some changes, both in her personal life and in the world at large. At home, she embarks on a 'Year of Self-Sufficiency'--learning how to work the remote, how to pick up dog shit, where to find the toaster. She meets her match in an earnest, brainy psychiatrist and enters into therapy, prepared to do the heavy lifting required to look within and make sense of a childhood m...arked by love and loss and to figure out why people are afraid of her. She becomes politically active--finding her voice as an advocate for change, having difficult conversations, and energizing her base. In the process, she develops a healthy fixation on Special Counsel Robert Mueller and, through unflinching self-reflection and psychological excavation, she unearths some glittering truths that light up the road ahead. This is a thrillingly honest, insightful, and deeply, darkly funny memoir that is the perfect read for this moment in time"--

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BIOGRAPHY/Handler, Chelsea
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Subjects
Genres
Autobiographies
Humor
Published
New York : Spiegel & Grau, an imprint of Random House [2019]
Language
English
Main Author
Chelsea Handler (author)
Edition
First edition
Physical Description
239 pages, 16 unnumbered pages : color illustrations ; 22 cm
ISBN
9780525511779
9780525511793
  • Where have I been all my life
  • Room temperature water
  • Death Valley
  • Tammy time
  • Seymour
  • Chunk
  • Oh, mother
  • Ayahuasca
  • Moving hillsides
  • New love
  • TK
  • Marijuana keeps families together
  • TK
  • The year I became me.
Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

Amusingly offbeat and told with the biting sarcasm expected of the TV personality, Handler's sixth book (after Uganda Be Kidding Me) packs a surprising amount of emotion and introspection. After a somewhat shaky start that amounts to an extensive admission of her attraction to special counsel Robert Mueller, Handler quickly dives into the meat of the memoir with a detailed and passionately wrought account of her therapy sessions with neuropsychiatrist Dan Siegel. Through dialogue, Handler shares her struggles to complete menial tasks, her contentious relationship with her father, her inability to empathize ("I never stop showing up [to help], but I don't put myself in their shoes"), and the profound impact her brother's accidental death had on her when she was young. The long stretches of self-reflection become dense at times, but are punctuated by lighter excursions in which Handler talks about her dogs ("I am someone who knows that loving a dog makes you a kinder and fuller person"). These insights provide much needed moments of lightness in an otherwise sobering narrative of how Handler came to peace with her complicated relationship with vulnerability. Fans of the comedian will appreciate her candid and sincere introspection. (Apr.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.


Review by Kirkus Book Review

A presidential election, a midlife crisis, and psychiatric therapy bring some revelation to the author and perhaps a turning point as well.Handler (Uganda Be Kidding Me, 2014, etc.) is at a crossroads. She has become the embodiment of the sort of elitist entitlement that she fears helped elect a president she hates. She also seems burdened by what she previously might have considered blessings, living a bubblelike existence with assistants to deal with her every command and inconvenience and few significant responsibilities. "I have the Trump family and their vampiric veneers and horrifying personalities to thank for my midlife crisis," she writes of the anger and emptiness she felt amid a successful life. She had conquered the comedy circuit, the TV screen, and the bestseller lists, but it no longer seemed enough in the wake of a national crisis. But what could she do? As it became obvious that her inner turmoil ran deeper than Trump, she finally sought therapy. "I was forty-two when I finally saw a real psychiatrist," she writes, providing an exhaustive account of her therapy that includes pages of re-created dialogue. Handler also details the traumas that have shaped her, mainly the death of her brother when she was 9 and, later, the death of each parent, whom she had loved with such ambivalence and grieved differently than what she thought was expected. Her brother has remained fixed in her memory as the first man who broke her heart, and rather than experience such heartbreak again, she has found deeper, more meaningful relationships with her dogs, who provide much of the comic relief in the text. When her therapist advised, "you have been a human doing, and we need to get you to be a human being," she winced at the banality. But by the end, she matches him with, "wake up. Take a nap. Laugh. Cry. Rinse. Repeat."An adequate self-help memoir from a woman who wouldn't seem like the type for self-help books. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Chaper 1 Where Have I Been All My Life I don't remember the actor, and I don't remember the movie, but I remember it was five o'clock in the afternoon and I had just taken a couple hits off my vape pen. I needed to load my Pix account, which held pre-released movies that I was expected to screen before a star of one of the movies was a guest on my Netflix talk show. I was sitting on one of my overpriced chaise longues, the kind that celebrities and Russians purchase for their bedrooms, when I found myself once again unable to convert the TV that descends from the ceiling from Apple TV to Pix. Rich people have descending smart televisions. The idea is that they descend silently and gracefully from the ceiling, but because I am nouveau-riche rich, mine sounds more like a helicopter landing. I'd like to blame my inability to change the mode of my television to Pix on the fact that I was stoned, but that would be a lie; I'd be even less capable if I was sober. I called my assistant Brandon at his house, to tell him to tell my other assistant, Tanner--who was downstairs in my house--to come upstairs and help me with the television. I hung up the phone. I looked down at the table and saw the vape pen. How many more hits of marijuana would I need to get through this movie? I knew things had hit a new low--or high, depending on how you looked at the situation. I picked up the iPad that controls the TV along with everything else in my house--from the window shades to the exterior lights in my backyard, to my pulse, probably--and tried to pretend that I was troubleshooting, so that Tanner would think I had at least tried to figure it out on my own--as if that had ever happened before. How did I become so useless? And how many assistants did I actually have? Answer: two. Brandon and Tanner. Brandon is gay and has an incredible attention to detail. Tanner is straight, and before he met me, he thought that the Four Seasons was a weather pattern. Before I met Tanner, I thought Venmo was an online liquor store. Tanner was now upstairs standing behind the chaise I was sitting on. I wondered if he could smell the weed I'd just smoked, and if so, what did he think of me? Did he realize that most television hosts don't even make the time to watch movies and TV shows to prepare for each of their upcoming guests? Did he understand that I was a consummate professional who went to great lengths to get ready for my show? Or did he think that I was just some rich, lucky, white bitch who continued to fall upward? No, that wasn't quite right: I doubt he was thinking in terms of race. Two white people surely weren't thinking about skin color. I was the one thinking that. I didn't want to watch another stupid f***ing movie that I didn't care about. And I really didn't want to interview another action star bloviating about his motivation for playing a half man, half mermaid. I just didn't care, and I wasn't doing anyone any favors by pretending that I did. Did I ever care? The answer is yes. There was a time when all of this mattered to me. There was a time when being famous and having this kind of success and money and having a TV show was what drove me to want more and more and more, and now I found myself exhausted and ashamed by the meaninglessness of it all. I remember coming home a couple of weeks before the 2016 election on a windy fall night--which for Los Angeles is rare. Anytime there's weather in Los Angeles, even rain, it's exciting--the constant sunshine can start to grate on your nerves. I went up to my bedroom, opened up my sliding glass doors, grabbed my vape pen, and turned on some Neil Young. I lay on my bed in the dark, watching the wind blow my bedroom drapes around, hearing the ruffling of the leaves, and watching the lanterns that hang from my backyard trees swinging into each other, thinking, If there's an electrical fire, I hope the dogs will at least bark to wake me up, but overall, my thought was: This is f***ing awesome. This is exactly what I'd hoped adulthood would be. No kids, no husband, no responsibilities--just a TV show on Netflix and whatever else I felt like doing, whenever I felt like doing it. Not trapped, not stuck, not dependent on a single person but myself--free to be you and me. I couldn't believe how lucky my life had turned out, how many of my dreams had come true, and also my good fortune in being alive during this time in history--the year we were going to elect our first female president. I suppose I could blame my state of mind on the election of Donald Trump--so I will. I have the Trump family and their horrifying personalities and veneers to thank for my midlife crisis. Along with more than half the population--of the world--I couldn't grasp how, in this day and age, we elected a man who insulted Mexicans and women and Muslims and veterans and disabled people and everyone else he has insulted since. The contrast in decency between Barack Obama and Donald Trump was too much for me to bear--like electing Snooki to the Senate. Now people were seriously talking about Dwayne "the Rock" Johnson running for president. How on earth did we get here? Although, if I'm being honest, at that point in time--or at any other time during the entire Trump presidency--I would have preferred an actual rock. Excerpted from Life Will Be the Death of Me by Chelsea Handler All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.