Me Too

Published November 5, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am about to make some grand generalizations so calm the fuck down. Don’t write me a note – I don’t give a fuck.

So – it seems that a bunch of men in Hollywood are disgusting lecherous pigs who push their power on weaker people and take advantage of them.  Hang on a second – let me go put on my big surprise face.  Oh wait – I’m not surprised.  I have had more disgusting shit said to me in my years in this business than i even remember – and yes – I’ve had someone force themselves on me – twice – and I was too drunk to stop it.  If you have worked in the industry you have either seen or overheard someone doing or saying something inappropriate to someone else. Period. The end. No ifs ands or buts about it.  It’s the nature of this business and it attracts a lot of good looking people who are sometimes banking on their looks to break in and are probably used to being hit on by fat pasty white people too old to handle their shit.  And sometimes – in some of the cases we’re hearing about – it’s not just words and touches – its full on rape, assault, treacherous behavior from predators.  And when all the dust settles from this – I hope we have a better  understanding of how to talk to each other and how to behave – like fucking adults – because the truth is – it doesn’t matter if you just patted her or him on the ass – she didn’t ask you to do it, so keep your grubby chubby paws to yourself.  She (or He) also didn’t ask you to comment on her tits, her hair, her ass, her anything  – and that my friends is really the problem because it’s not Hollywood that has a harrassment problem – its America – and if you’re a woman, it’s with you from fucking birth.  I’m starting to understand why certain religions cover their women up – cause you people can’t handle it when our knee caps are showing. I guess I’d have to do some research to see where it all started – how women became the pretty sex.  The sex that is dressed up and sexed up for male pleasure.  I’m sure there are scads of books I’m not will to read on how we became the ones focused on beauty and being beautiful and attracting the opposite sex as if its our job or our lives depended on it.  And I guess our jobs of being wives and mothers does depend on us being pretty and snagging ourselves a good man.  God knows you’re ostracized if you don’t have a man.  What’s wrong with her? Why is she still single?  It would be a very different world if it were the men who primped and pea-cocked and made themselves sexually desireable.   I would safely venture to say that most men don’t leave the house and think about what they look like and I guarantee you almost EVERY woman does.   And by the way – just because I spend a lot of time making myself look  pretty doesn’t mean I’m doing it for you.  I’m doing it because thousands of advertisers and magazines have told me my entire life to care about this shit and so I do. I can’t stop it and it’s not my fault.  I mean – look at how women are judged for how they look?  It’s never about how smart she is.  It’s how pretty she is. Or how thin she is.

As newborns we come out of the womb and people say – look how pretty she is.  As toddlers we get dressed up in adorable outfits and people touch us all the time. They pinch our cheeks and pat us on our heads and butts. You’re so pretty! You are going to be a beautiful bride. It’s banged into our heads. As teenagers we can’t wait to try on makeup and high heels and we dress ourselves in seductive outfits. We instantly become competitive with our girlfriends – over men. And they reinforce this behavior pitting us against each other.  We spend all of our young influential years fighting off the incredibly strong sexual desires of these pimply faced adolescent men and are literally taught that that’s what we are there for. To fulfill their desires. We do everything physically possible to get boys and hope they will ask us out and eventually give us big shiny rings we can flash in other girls faces to make them feel bad.  We dye our hair, wear makeup, get tighter dresses, get boob and ass implants. Please find me a woman that wants her tits bigger for herself. We don’t give a shit about tits. I had giant cans when i was younger and spent my entire life hiding them until i finally cut them off.  It’s so nice to have a conversation with a man looking me in the eye for once because I took away his other focal point.   To me – cleavage was a no no.  Now where do you think that idea came from?  Every time I revealed my boobs when I was younger I got – “Wow I didn’t know you had those.” Sigh.  Then we get older and become invisible to the opposite sex because we are no longer what they are looking for. We’re too old, too loose, too wrinkly to whatever you stupid fucks. And now – because all those people who told us we’re pretty – don’t say it anymore – and we feel like crap all the time. What a horrible life of trying to be perfect and pretty and desireable.  I know I’m fucking exhausted and I don’t see myself stopping anytime soon.

And lets talk about the competition with women – we don’t look at other pretty girls as potential friends – we look at them as women who will steal our boyfriends – why? because men will flirt with your friends and not give a shit.  They are not in the same sexual game as us.  They are fucking.  We are mating.

Look at the television shows about women (and I watch them all) fighting with each other and destroying each others lives.  It’s the most popular type of show on the airwaves. Women screaming at each other and treating each other like shit.  Is there a male equivalent to this? Sports?  Men don’t watch these show by the way. They just set us up to act like this and then run until the dust settles.  Then they laugh at us and say – women don’t get along with each other.  Well you know what – we would if we pulled you mother fuckers out of the equation.  I know there’s nothing interesting about watching a show where women all get along with each other but I’d watch a show where they all tell the cheating beating men in their lives to fuck off.

And I think in general we need to call people on their shit more.  I’ve been harassed by horrible mean women in this life as well.  But I’ve always used my voice and not worried about the consequences of calling out my abusers – when i’m aware of it.  I’m not your average woman though and I know how hard it is to say goodbye to a job or paycheck because someone wants to make your work life miserable.

We are pawed at and clawed at from a very young age and until we change the way we raise little girls and little boys – not much will evolve.  I love making myself pretty and wearing sexy clothes – within reason – but I think and hope that at my age I’m doing it for me.  Sometimes I get the sinking feeling that theres an actual chip in my head somewhere that has programmed me to feel this way but until I find it – I’ll probably continue to dye my hair – work out every day – microblade my eyebrows – tint my lashes – paint my toenails – wax my vagina – bleach my teeth – massage my cellulite – fuck i can’t finish this list because I’m late for a hundred appointments.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

If A Single Woman Falls In The Yard…

Published October 29, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

2017 has been a year of great revelations for me. I have discovered things about myself I never knew or was never willing to admit and I feel like this year is setting me up perfectly for a pretty epic 2018 – a sort of set up punch for an upcoming 365 days of magic.  Some of the things I’ve learned are – the power of choosing what to give a fuck about and not get on someone else’s angry ride,  the ability to use my voice and ask for what i want and need and expect and finally, that The Chop Stop is my happy place. Scoff all you want but never underestimate the power of a great salad.  However,  everything  I know and feel and want and expect were thrown up in the air and out the imaginary window the minute something happened that made me realize I am utterly and completely alone. I had literally fallen and couldn’t get up.  It will heretofore be known as “The Incident at The Chimenea.”

First of all – a Chimenea is an outdoor freestanding front-loading fireplace  with a bulbous body.  Same way I describe myself.  I bought one for my yard and dragged the incredibly heavy piece of pottery from the hardware store to my car to my yard. Then I bought an equally heavy bag of sand to coat the bottom, a stack of wood to burn and a giant stand to sit it all in.  All of these items were painstakingly put in my yard – all by me – all 5’4″ 110 pounds of pure jewish strength.   I was exhausted but thrilled that I did it all myself.  A thrill that quite frankly is starting to get a little old.  In fact – we’re past little and way into super fucking annoying.  It turns out – I don’t need to do everything for myself to feel accomplished.  Turns out – I’d be fine if someone else wanted to drag a chimenea into my yard.   I’m fucking tired.  I know I could pay a handyman but quite frankly I think this is why women get married so that they have someone to cary shit for them. I would buy so much more heavy stuff if a guy with muscles and a tool box lived here.  I mean – I have enough extra closet space for a tool belt.  But thats about it. Maybe he could be a guy with one t shirt one pair of jeans and a tool belt.  It could happen.  Anywhoo – I was all finally all set up and thought – i’m gonna have my first backyard fire and its going to be so amazing I don’t even need anyone to enjoy it with me and so I took one step toward a lighter, tripped over my own two feet,  saw myself falling slowly and put my hand out.  What happened next was right out of a horror movie and not the good kind wear you scream and giggle thorough your fingers over  your eyes.  No this was full on snot flinging tears pouring out of my face horror movie.  I looked down at my hand and my finger was doing something not humanly possible.  It was pointing in a direction it definitely was not meant  to go and it looked like it wasn’t attached to my hand.  Oh fuck . What is that?  Whats happened?  This isn’t good.  Ohmigod it hurts so badly.  Holy shit its swelling. Fuck my ring is stuck. Am I dying? Who do I call? WHERES MY BOYFRIEND!!???   I just kept staring at it and I literally did not know what to do.  It turns out the reason I’m so calm when shit goes down is that I am actually so dumb that I don’t know what to do in a panicked situation. I texted my friend Brian to see if he would know what to do.  He always knows what to do. No answer.  How dare that mother fucker go and get a job when I need him. I literally thought to myself – well if I had a boyfriend he’d probably be at work right too and he’d definitely have a big job because I’m not going to date some fucking loser who sits home all day.  I already do that enough for two people.  So he wouldn’t be able to rush home and save me anyway.  Meanwhile my hand is blowing up like a Thanksgiving Parade Garfield float and that’s when I lost it.  This is why I need a boyfriend!!!  Why am I so stubborn?  I need a partner.  He’d know what to do.  Or at least get me a tissue and hug me. My finger looked so disjointed and it was as solid as a piece of steel.  So I did what any normal person would do –  I tried to pop it back into place myself – hahahahahahahahahha.  Idiot. Finally it dawned on me that I needed to go to an Emergency room.  Now where do I find one of those?  Turns out there is one down the street from my new house.  I cried all the way to the hospital.  Why isn’t my boyfriend driving me there?  I’m such a loser. I have no one.  Sigh. Weep. Snot. Sleeve. Wipe. Repeat.

Once at the hospital it really hit me how awful this would be if it were a break.  I need my hand to type important things like this – shut up – and a break would mean a significant amount of down time and possible surgery.  I went in to x-ray.  “Holy shit you really fucked it up” said the x ray technician with terrible bedside manners. Thanks for that vote of confidence.  i burst into tears again.  What am I going to do for 8 weeks?  Who’s going to help me cook and dress and most importantly – dry my hair and put on false eyelashes?  These are two handed jobs!!  I cursed myself for not getting in this stupid dating game.  I’m going to die alone – my middle finger twisted up in the air in a grand statement of “she said fuck you to everyone and now she s alone!” Why me why me why me? Then the doctor came in and said – you’re good, it’s just a dislocation and poof I was fine.  Oh , so you’ll just pop it back in and splint it and i’ll go home and be fine in a week?  Sweet.  Fuck you non existent boyfriend!  I didn’t need you anyway!!!  I did it all myself!!

They shot my finger with numbing drugs and then a big nurse came and pulled on my finger and i heard it pop back into place.  It was very cool actually.  I grabbed my things, went home,  smoked a joint and sat on the couch and watched the entire season of Stranger Things 2.

Sure it has taken me 12 hours to type this blog with a bum hand but I did it and I did it on my own and while one can’t do everything by one self – I am a pretty tough bitch – and now I know what to do in a crisis.  Marry a doctor.

 

 

The Password is F**k You

Published September 23, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

All I wanted to do was watch a little television in bed late on a friday night.  Simple enough.  There wasn’t much else for me to do last night as I had thrown my back out first thing in the morning doing a very difficult yoga pose I like to call – yawning.  Yes – as I laid in bed at 8am and stretched my arms over my head to welcome another glorious day on this planet living life and loving it – when I heard a snap crackle pop and it wasn’t my rice krispies. Here we go. Mother F-ing Shitballs. One day it’s tying your shoes and the next it’s yawning.  My first thought was – great – there goes another two or three days of not working out followed by – and now I can’t put anything in my mouth because I’ll blow up like a tick.  Facing a bad back and your body dysmorphia before 9 am is a lot for anyone.  For me it launches a bout of malaise that sends me to the online shops. New sweatpants to lie around in will help my back feel better right? I’m sure I don’t have these grey sweatpants. Or do I? Whatever. These look better. I’ll give my other grey ones away. (I never do) Watching tv in bed is a total luxury for me and I don’t normally turn it on except in extreme circumstances and this was extreme.  I decided I wanted to watch something on HBOgo but when I pulled up the app it was asking me to log in again. Fuck, shit, balls, why? I just logged in out in the living room like a week ago don’t you smart tv’s talk to each other because if you don’t you re not very fucking smart. And so began the worst game I always have to play in my house called – what’s your password? It all starts with the login.  That’s usually just my email address so that one isn’t too difficult.  Sometimes it’s just my name so if I get the email thing wrong I just go straight to name. Then comes the password.  Mine is usually one of three passwords. Basically if you figure out my code for one you can hack your way into all of my poor life choices and weird shopping orders.  It was midnight and I was kind of tired but I really wanted to make this happen and so for about twenty minutes I began the arduous task of typing in different combinations of log ins and passwords.  This is not easy using a remote.  In fact – its torturous.  I’d rather try on all my skinny jeans that don’t fit me anymore than do this. I’d rather stare at my cellulite naked for thirty minutes than do this. Though that may be more difficult now as I’ve purchased the fascia blaster. Yep. I’m the one. If you want to go into a facebook hole for about three days – watch videos of fascia blasting and you’ll buy one too. Basically my facebook page is targeting me with ridiculous things that I just have to have.  Dumb pore tightening masks. Hair pills that don’t work. Underpants that don’t show lines. Vegan leather shoes. How does it know? Mark Zuckerberg is a mad genius.  So,  I type away and nothing. Crap. Then I do the one thing I hate to do – ask to reset my password. They send me the email and here we go again but first I have to answer a security question. What’s the first street I grew up on or whats the name of my first dog. Both of these are crippling because I can’t remember if i put in the name of the first street I lived on that I loved or the first street I lived on and did I use the avenue or boulevard part or did I just type the street name and my dog question – was it my first dog as an adult or my first dog when I was a kid?  It’s now 12:45 and I’ve broken out in a cold sweat and I can’t remember anything and everything is failing and now I’ve been locked out of my own account. Damn you HBOgo.  Now what? Let’s try Hulu. Again – the password game begins. Again I fail. Again I have to reset my password but this time I don’t get locked out because one of my choices resets everything. Hooray. Yippee. I’m a genius!!  Now – lets write this one down on a pad before I forget. So I get out of bed and head for my office but unfortunately I stop in the kitchen because now it’s officially saturday and I’m only allowing myself to smoke pot once a week and that once is saturdays and so I smoke a joint and before I know it I’m eating four bagels with vegan cream cheese (I’m not a total loser) and then I’m back in bed and I’ve totally forgotten what the password is.  Looks like I’ll be playing this game again next week. Sigh.

 

AGING GRACEFULLY: nope

Published August 30, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t know where this asinine term came from but I’m here to tell you that those two little words are not possible. I don’t care who she is who’s telling you she’s aging gracefully, look her dead in the eye – because she’s a liar.   There is nothing to be graceful about when it comes to aging.  You just gotta strap in and see if you can enjoy the ride on a roller coaster that will only be going down from here on out.  Even my tiny re-lifted boobs aren’t living in the penthouse anymore.

Just yesterday I had a lovely conversation with my friend Victoria about cellulite and it turns out – mine has actually for the most part – gone away.  Party!! Who knew – working out works.  But the cottage cheese has been replaced with something worse.  Old crepe-y loose shitty shit shit fuck you man why – skin.  To my ridiculously body dysmorphic naked eye – it looks hideous.  Like, I don’t even want to go outside hideous. And so, I did the unthinkable.  I ordered Jane Seymour’s Crepe Erase.  I was pretty excited to try it.  I got to order it from the privacy of my home and no one needs to know anything about it. Unfortunately when it came in the mail, it wasn’t my old lady balm – it was Cindy Crawford’s Meaningful Beauty products.  A lot of them.  You know what I don’t want? I don’t want meaningful beauty.  I just want regular beauty.  But thanks Cindy.  (Her products are great btw.)  So now I had to up the embarrassment  level and actually call someone.  A man it turned out – and beg him for my Crepe Erase.  That was a great day.  It’s hard to be graceful when you’re shouting the words Crepe Erase to a stranger in India.  It’s like having the cashier price check you on hemmorhoid cream at the CVS store over the microphone.  Not cool Brenda. Not cool. 

There are also fashion choices affected by my age and that really ticks me off and stops me from being graceful.  There comes a time when you have to say goodbye to certain pieces that you are simply too old to wear.  Again, I don’t care what someone is telling you about her tutu – and I have 11 – you just can’t wear them everywhere anymore.  All of my friends have promised to alert me immediately and send me home if I’m having a Baddie Winkle moment.  If you don’t know who that is – Instagram and Understand. 

I mean – i’m trying to be all Diane Von Furstenberg because that woman is doing it right. She is aging gracefully.   I’m quite certain SHE does not have a cabinet of Crepe Erase.  She is aging on point.  I mean there are scads of women that I think are spectacular looking I’m just saying – I bet they go home at the end of the day and look at everything and sigh too.  The mirror is becoming my mortal enemy.  And don’t send me any cute message because i won’t hear you.  I have been brainwashed to beleive this sense of beauty in my brain and I’m too old to lose it now.

Don’t get me wrong – in the grand sense of the cliche – I DO love the skin I’m in.  I just wish someone made a better moisturizer.   I have to go to a pool party tomorrow and I my burkini hasn’t arrived yet. Sigh.

PLEASE BUY MY SHIT

Published July 22, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

 

I could smell the excitement in the air – my first garage sale – in an actual garage – was less than 24 hours away. I was about to break my “please stop touching my stuff” cherry and I was a little more than thrilled about getting actual cash for my belongings. For the past ten years I have fed a terrible habit of just putting my stuff on the curb and watching the old man down the street take it away. I swear to god if you roll up his garage door – my entire house is inside it. I don’t know what he’s doing with my old blow dryers, hi top sneakers, broken hangers and dvd players but he is probably making a small fortune on ebay – selling my shit. He probably has a fucking butler on my dime. So, it was time for me to sell my own shit. But where to start? I don’t know anything about yard sales in Los Angeles. I’m the girl who NEVER stops at one. And they are EVERYWHERE. I don’t buy other peoples shitty shit. I like to spend good money on my shitty shit and then give it away. So I called in the experts – MJ and Victoria – two of my oldest and closest friends – and certified yard sale experts. I’m quite certain they actually have some kind of diploma or degree somewhere in this trade.

I was selling a bunch of stuff, my ex roommate was selling a bunch of stuff and my friend Brian was selling a bunch of stuff so we put all of our bunches of stuff together in my garage. Now my roomates stuff was your basic stuff – paper shredder, Vancouver Canucks flag, a snow globe of NYC. My stuff was a bunch of clothing from some good labels, a couple of very nice end tables from Mitchell Gold and some high end sunglasses. But it was Brian who really brought the high ticket items – items NO ONE AT A YARD SALE WOULD BUY. At least – that’s what we thought. He had so much shit from DWR – he could open an outlet store. If you don’t know what that is – it’s expensive – overpriced – magnificent furniture. Again – stuff no one is buying at a yard sale. People don’t roll up with a thousand dollars. They come with coin purses. And they are holding them tighter than my grandmother held her secret chopped chicken liver salad recipe. But we were determined. This shit was not staying in our garages. It gots to go. So, MJ and Victoria came over and fixed up all the items and helped me price everything. And then while I was very busy seeing a play – they did all the footwork and hung all the signs in the neighborhood. I’m such a dick. I went to the bank and got 100 dollars in singles so I could make change – and went to bed nervously hoping – gosh I hope my crap leaves my house before I do.

The sale was advertised to start at 8 am. At 7:48 a handsome older gentlemen came by. “Mind if I start early?” Nope I said. He then began to pick up and touch every single fucking item in my garage and I immediately started to panic. This is not going to be fun. After 30 full minutes of caressing things – he left – with nothing. Fuck you dickbag. This was going to be rough. But then things picked up and so did my anxiety. It’s not that I didn’t want to sell my stuff – I just didn’t like all these people pawing our things and sort of turning their nose up at the price. “You want thirty dollars for this table?” “Yeah, it cost 1200 fucking dollars. Is that okay?” One woman actually told a story about how she had to JEW SOMEONE DOWN at a yard sale once. Thankfully – I didn’t hear that – or I would have killed her on the spot. There was an old man who refused to pay 25 cents for a Disney mouse purse. There was the woman who would only pay 25 dollars for a stereo system because it didn’t have a remote. I’m like – bitch – you’re buying a boom box for 25 bucks – is your house so big you can’t go push the button? There was the old man who bought glow sticks even though he didn’t know what they were, the lesbian couple who had to go in my house to try clothes on and look in a mirror, and the awesome woman who bought some of my clothes then returned with a sample from her line of weed cookies. (They were delicious) It was a cavalcade of freaks, geeks, and extreme cheapos and thank Jesus that Victoria and Brian stayed with me because I was truly afraid for my life at times. A ton of friends stopped by to say hi and give five bucks here and there and overall – it was quite the day. We even sold Brians snobby ass expensive shit. We almost sold it all.

At the end of the day I took my hard earned stripper singles and decided to go buy my dog Tulip some treats. It felt good to be out of the garage and back in the real world of normal people. But as I began to carry my stuff out to the car I heard the next woman at the counter say – “Can I ask you a question? My cats are going through something right now…” I love you Los Angeles but you are one weird mother fucking town. I hope the next time I have a yard sale it’s an actual yard I’m selling that sits in front of my big phat pad that I’m not even at the sale for because I’m in Tahiti with my 35 year old boyfriend. Peace Out.

I’ll Always Have Paris

Published June 21, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Blonde girl in light up Butterfly Boobs:

“Ohmigod can I take a picture of your skirt? I want to do something just like that for my clothing line. It’s amazing.”

Me: “Sure Paris Hilton.”

 

I could stop there because as a former tabloid baby and celebrity news junkie – having a conversation with Paris Hilton has now been entered into the Heidi Hall of Fame Moments Library.  It’s a huge library despite a fair amount of dust and memory loss, thank you alcohol, and quite a lot of the files have deteriorated over the years from liquor spillage or edible mushroom mold or a little weed smoke damage and that one time I think I dropped acid but can’t really remember and maybe a couple other drugs that have slipped through the brain cracks, but this moment lives in pure clarity – ish – along with so many others recently formed at EDC. Paris Hilton was lovely and she was wearing a tutu and a rainbow shaped back pack purse and in my book – that makes you cool.  For those of you not in the know – The Electric Daisy Carnival is the most beautiful rave you can ever hope to go to held in the middle of the Las Vegas Speedway and attended by almost half a million people or from what I could tell – one million perfectly pert boobies. But lets start at the beginning.

My friend Victoria is besties with one of the most beautiful women I’ve ever met. She’s a world famous former playmate turned television star  turned new york times best selling author, wife, mom and she’s a total badass… like legit… like unsuspectingly cooler than all y’all motherfuckers. She’s also a Disney princess. A real princess. I know this because I’m quite certain I saw birds help her get dressed the night of the show. I was a little stoned. But I’m sticking with this. Anywhooo – she’s married to the king of the Electronic Dance Music Festival Scene – and EDC is the biggest there is. I don’t want to be a big name dropper so I’ll just tell you that her name rhymes with Molly Hadison and he only needs one name – Pasquale – and it’s a name you hear on repeat as you walk through the masses at this amazing show. But I didn’t really know any of this when I said yes to a day trip to Vegas.

Victoria: Want to go to EDC with me for a day?

Me: Yes. (BEAT) What’s EDC?

Victoria: It’s the EDM festival in Vegas.

Me: Great. What’s EDM?

 

Victoria is also way cooler than me. But all I needed to hear was there’s music, it’s outside and there are more neon lights than any neon light junkie can handle and I am a super freak neonaholic. So I said – YES! Now the panic set in – what does a 56 year old carrening into 57 fashion freak wear to a neon rave and try to fit in without standing out but look cool enough to make people think – who’s she? The answer? – I brought four outfits. Also – no one in this crowd cares who anyone over 40 is.  I first decided to try and strip this weird green color that has been in my hair for weeks but sadly ending up making it even greener so I had to dye my red hair – chocolate brown. DULL. BORING. LOSER. BLEND IN. SIGH. That was the first sign I should just shut up and let shit happen. Then I looked up some pictures of what other people wear to EDC and realized – oh wait – it doesn’t matter what I wear because all the girls there are naked. BONUS! So I picked a black tank dress with a pink neoprene skirt over it emblazoned with the word heavenly. Yeah I know – I’m a little past heavenly but – it worked.   Victoria and I drove to Vegas – pulled in to the Palm Hotel and checked in to our perfect room chilled to any icy sixty something. I attempted to put false eyelashes on Victoria but I’m still not sure I got it right and I may have permanently blinded her with glue but hey – she had some shit to bat away the 115 degree heat. I wore a baseball cap with the words Central Casting to keep my jew hair in control.  Jew Hair in Vegas is like a recipe for an afro.  I didn’t want a frizz bomb on top of my wrinkles.  No one needs to see that. We all left from one house together and drove to the Chopper pad. I’m sorry – Chopper pad? Yes, that’s what I said. Chopper pad. It was time to smoke some pot. Flying high was going to be way better if I was flying high. We entered the helicopter lounge and there was a full on rave already going on inside and we hadn’t even hit the concert yet. It was 11pm – aka – already past my bed time.   People were throwing back shots and recharging their battery packs to make sure their nipple pasties didn’t lose any wattage during the show. There was a dj and airline stews wearing sexy butt bearing outfits. I was immediately sad that this didn’t exist when I was growing up and had way better tits to support some light up pasties. I would have rocked some neon tutu’s and ass bearing angel wings back then. If I wore them now they’d just be shining a light on my knees and nobody wants to watch a swiss cheese ass even if it has angel wings above it. But I digress. We boarded the helicopter and swooped up and over one of the most magnificent sights i’d ever seen.  The festival from above was exactly what the inside of my brain looks like and I had never seen it until then. Neon – everywhere. EVERYWHERE. It was truly beautiful and massive. Our choppers touched down and we were immediately moved into golf carts which spun us off to our first stage – or backstage as it were – where I almost instantly walked smack into DRAKE. And I even knew who he was so that was a major bonus.  Drake is very tall.  And handsome.  We dated for the entire ten seconds I was standing next to him.  Moments later we were whisked through GEN POP (the crowd) and out onto a special platform where we got to watch Drake surprise the audience on stage with Young Metro. Okay so had I not seen what outfit Drake was wearing before I watched the show – I would not have known it was him because it legitimately took me twenty minutes just to find where the music was coming from on the stage. I’m old – so I assume the act is actually on the stage. But with Dance music – they’re above it – in a tower – and I could not pinpoint the source for a solid amount of time and I knew I couldn’t ask anyone I was with because the lame alarms would have gone off and someone would have kicked my old ass straight the fuck out of there. So technically I saw Drake but honestly I just saw the end when I finally realized the shirt on the guy onstage was the shirt I had just almost backed into earlier and dated for ten seconds.   I was also with a very cool young man name Tal – who legit runs Las Vegas – and he would have definitely revoked my cool card if he knew I didn’t know what the fuck was happening – or to be honest – who the fuck Young Metro is – but I do now mother fuckers – I do now. And he’s genius.

I love music festivals. I’ve been to quite a few recently – but this one is different. Every single solitary person I encountered – was nice – and kind – and sweet – and really into the music and being together and dancing. I’m sure that unity and kindness came in a pill form called Molly hence the amount of free love I was watching – but it didn’t feel like a big drugged out bunch of losers at all. It felt magical. I was whisked through so many crowds via bodyguards and onto so many stages with dj’s who’s skills truly blew me away. I mean – I was literally on stage with Kaskade. (the cool kids are feeling me right now) It was the most exclusive pass to the most magnificent show I’d ever seen. I was in the White House with the President – and the cool black President not the weird orange cheetoh President – the only difference is – this President actually OWNS the house – and it’s not white – it’s pink and orange and blue and purple and filled with giant moving owls. We would walk through the crowds and they would part to take a picture with Pasquale – a true electronic god among men. How many concerts have you been to where the promoter and creator is actually bigger than the musical acts? It was an incredible thing to behold. People were so grateful for what he has created and you could feel it in the way they called his name and took pictures with him and thanked him for all he’s done. And you could see it in his eyes – his pride – for this lit up legacy he has created out of nothing. It was inspiring. I looked around and said – I could never produce something this big. Victoria took a beat and said – yeah you could. And she was right. It was in this crazy moment of booming sound and pulsing lights that I realized – I need to dream bigger. I need to say yes to more than just a night in Vegas – I need to say yes to all of it.  And when we set our mindS to what we want we can make things happen.  Just then the sun started to come up and we decided to end our magical night at EDC.  IT WAS 5AM. I turned to say thank you to Victoria just in time to see near naked twin sisters making out with each other.   Okay – so maybe not everything was magical.  In the end the EDC not only  turned on all the light bulbs in Vegas – it turned on the big lightbulb in my brain. I hope I don’t get the electricity bill.  At least – I’ll always have Paris and her amazing grizzled grey haired ponytail wearing bodyguard – who wore that rainbow backpack for her when it got to heavy.

Camp Indian Head aka Jewtopia

Published June 12, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I was ten years old when I learned the fine art of begging. There was something I wanted more than anything, would die if I didn’t get, life would be over, I’d be stamped a loser for eternity, all the cool kids were doing it, please Mom and Dad please don’t make me stay home all summer, please let me go to sleep-away camp! For those not in the know – sleep-away camp is where Jewish kids and one or two stray non Jews went in the summer for 8 glorious weeks at a time. Yep – two months of childhood freedom somewhere in Pennsylvania or the Berkshires, or other places Jews learned no one else wanted to go and so they built a bunch of cabins on a bunch of lakes. Talk about a congregation of nerds and the largest collection of flat irons the world has ever known. (In fact – I learned my first hair straightening trick back then which involved wrapping your hair around a soda can.) I grew up in Staten Island where all the Jewish kids fled for two months every summer to magical places where no parents existed. I wanted in and I wanted in bad. The camp I chose was called Indian Head.   The year was 1971 and it would cost 975 dollars to put me up and feed me for two months. At the time, this was an outrageous amount of money. This was the kind of cash my parents would have to do without other things to afford. But my begging was first class – and I got what I wanted. It was an experience that would last ten years and make me the person I am today.

After my parents handed over the fees we were sent a list of more things we needed to spend money on. The first thing we had to buy was a trunk and uniforms and name tags. Basically it looked like I was heading to a well organized neatly dressed death camp in the 1800s where everyone used steamer trunks. I had to get a canteen and certain types of shoes and I had to have white clothes for Friday night services. Uh oh that didn’t sound good. But I didn’t care. I was heading to Indian Head in Honesdale Pennsylvania. My friend Judy had been going to camp there and it sounded really great. We boarded our buses in Staten Island and off I sped to the greatest summer I was ever going to have. The first day I arrived – Judy told all the other girls I was an asshole and they all stopped talking to me immediately. I cant remember why she said this?  Maybe we both chose the same boy to set our sights on that summer? All I know was, I was alone. I was alone in Pennsylvania. I was alone in a bunk in the woods with twelve other ten year old girls. I was doomed.   I hated it. I wanted to go home. I wanted Judy to die. This was the worst mistake I ever made. At the end of the first week – I fell over a rock and broke my wrist. Now I had a cast. Now I WAS an asshole. A klutzy asshole.  (Thats yiddish for clumsy) Now I couldn’t partake in any of the water activities – water skiing and sailing – which I loved the most. I hoped a bear would find me and eat me. I prayed a monsoon washed the camp away every night. I called my parents and begged them to let me come home. My mom basically told me to go fuck myself. They had just dropped all that money and there was no way I was coming home in a week. Then something magical happened – I entered a tether ball competition. (this is slamming a ball on a string around a pole and the first one who winds it all up on their side wins – don’t try to figure it out it’s retarded.) I hit that ball with my cast and slammed home a win like I had never seen. Instantly I was a hit. I was the badass with the cast. Judy could go fuck herself. Judy was the nerd. I was the winner! And from that day on Camp became the single greatest experience of my life.

I’ll never forget the cabins and the moldy cubbies where you would put your clothes that NEVER seemed to be dry. They were like little youth hostels in the woods. I’ll never forget getting called up to the flagpole in the morning when it was your birthday or you won a special competition. I’ll never forget the MD line that split boys camp and girls camp and standing on that line kissing your boyfriend goodnight – toes on each side – leaning in then breaking like you were never going to see each other again – but you would at 2am when you would sneak into each others cabins on what was called A RAID – and make out till the sun came up. My very first boyfriend was the camp owners son. Well fucking done Heidi. I’ll never forget going to the Canteen for dances and using coupon books to buy sugary treats. I’ll never forget the musicals I starred in or the overnight camping trips to the Third Hill where we would tell ghost stories. I’ll never forget the bonding time with girls who I still see on Facebook. I’ll never forget watching movies outside on blankets on a big lawn – still one of my favorite things to do. I don’t remember that many moments from my childhood but I remember every single solitary day from camp like it was yesterday. I still dream about it today. I went to camp from the ages of 10-20. I would spend every summer as a camp counselor today if it paid more than two hundred dollars.

I learned how to share, how to be independent, how to make things, how to produce things, how to choose friends, how to be a bully, how to eat terrible food, how to write letters, how to win, how to lose, how to camp out, how to kiss, how to do makeup, how to sing, how to dance, how to sail, ski, swim, play every sport there is, how to laugh, how to cry, how to be a human being. But most importantly – I learned that there are no limits to who you can be. We were shown a world of choices and we were being made into strong independent confident women.  And those Friday night services were way less about religion and way more about congregating and bonding and taking a moment to be thankful for all that we had. Camp was everything. Indian Head – was everything. I only wish I still had one of my shirts with my name-tag in it. I would wear it proudly today.

If you have little kids – send them away for as long as you can afford.  Send them to camp.  They’ll be better people for it.