I Miss My Mailman

Published November 18, 2021 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Long before this period in our lives we are currently living through (are we? ) I had the most amazing mailman.  His name was Peter and come rain or shine he did – like clockwork – at the same time every day. He was a classic mailman – should I say mailperson? – probably – a classic mailperson in the sense that he wore the really chic parts of the uniform – the hat – the long shorts – he did it right.  He was the first mailperson in LA that I came to know because quite frankly – Peter was my only source of income. Peter brought me my residual checks – which are no more – because the network has deemed us unworthy. It’s cool guys, just my health insurance running out, no big deal. I digress per usual.   So, Peter brought me money and in exchange I gave him whatever I was baking.  Sometimes jam but mostly lemon cookies. He really liked those. And when the pandemic began – man I can’t wait to say when it ends – Peter and I chatted a bit more about his kids etc. I loved the small chats we had because it reminded me of my childhood when we knew the mailman’s name.  Mine was Frank and he used to come loosen up my pogo stick by actually jumping on it and his massive key ring filled to the max would jingle like crazy.  We also had a milkman but I don’t remember his name.  Gosh that was the greatest service.  But back here in 2020 – the pandemic hit and the US Mail started to fall apart and right at the same time – Peter was gone. Suddenly the mail would come at 9 pm at night and it was never delivered by the same person.  How can I forge a relationship if it’s someone new everyday?  And quite frankly – nothing has been the same since.  What is happening in the world? Is it me? Am I watching too much news? I mean – life has become so terrifying to me that I keep forgetting to live it. I actually spend a large portion of my day thinking about my NEXT life. Like – that shit is gonna be mental.  You know all these Mad Max futuristic movies where we’re killing each other for water and gas?  I can’t be the only one out there who sees that future speed balling towards our heads? Lord this took a very depressing turn but honestly – I wish there was more kindness in the world because I think this is all such a lovely gift and I want to live in a world where everyone knows their mailperson.  The good news is – yes there is good news – I found out Peter got a new route that suits his lifestyle and we got a new mailperson and she wears the most badass hat the USPS makes. Part sunhat part 50’s glam beach model.  I haven’t asked her name yet but we’re already at a daily wave and I believe that is hope.


Published September 10, 2020 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The text said … “call me” – with a number attached. 

And so I did. 

Now I want to know… Why?

Another day and another match on Bumble aka Tinder for old people.  When you match with someone on this app, the woman gets to reach out first.  I have a lot of difficulty with this one.  What’s the first thing to say to someone here?  “Hi, I have no idea what I’m looking for and in fact this may just be an experiment to see if men are still the same as I remember them” doesn’t have much nuance to it.  “I haven’t been on a date in 20 years” seems like a mine field.  I usually go with something harmless, something from their profile.  Date #2 had said something lovely about his ex-wife and kids and so I commented on that. So began the conversation.  He immediately told me he hates texting.  Red Flag.  I LOVE TEXTING.  But I can live without it.  He immediately wanted to meet IRL. (that’s “in real life” as the kids say) I told him I was moving way slower. I said we could chat a bit more and see.  I needed to see someone’s face before I met them.  We exchanged numbers. The next day the text popped up at 11am.

“Call me” – with his number.

And I did.  Right then and there like a good little soldier.  I picked up the phone and called him.  Zero boundaries in place.  I jumped into the abyss.  I got lectured for about 45 minutes about how I needed to be, and what my issues were and why I was being so hard on the dating process and blah blah blah.  At the end of the conversation – hours after I’d hung up – I realized that some other version of me was on that call.  I don’t even know who she was.  Some girlchild had stepped up to speak and got bully whacked right back to her place.  She was very unsure of what she was saying and what she was saying was how she actually felt.  How dare she!

Having boundaries is difficult. 

They are challenged. Questioned. Ridiculed.

You may be backed into a corner and forced to shout your truest truth when things like this are said…

“You need to lighten up.”  

“It’s just dating, chill out.”  

“Go with the flow.”

“We’re just having fun.”

Any or all of these statements infuriate me. But what do you say?  “Men have used me as a chew toy my whole life and I have massive walls thanks to your gender?”

This is the challenging part for me about this online dating nightmare. How much do you say about how you got to this place?  

Date #2 wanted to know why I hadn’t dated in years.  They all want to know your dating history on the app or other apps.  I don’t know why this is, perhaps they are trying to find out if you know other women they’ve fucked or fucked over on the app.  I was vague but gave enough information for him to use against me. He basically called bullshit on all of it.  This was weird.  And hurtful. And made me revert to a small child. We hung up.  I was pissed. And I got more pissed as the hours passed.  I deleted him from the app so he can’t even find me.

How did that happen?  How did an incredibly tough and strong-willed woman get talked right back to the bad place?  Was it my fault?  Did I reveal too much?

I realized that my first zoom date was a lot of me smiling, ACTING like I was interested.  “Wow, that’s so fascinating” came out of my mouth.  It was not fascinating.  At best it was dull.  So, this time it was the real me on the phone and apparently, I need to lighten up.  Sigh.  I can’t folks.  I don’t want or need small talk.  I’ve had enough of that in my life.  I want real conversations or I’m out.  One male friend said – “don’t you have to have the small talk to get to the big talk?”  And I guess my answer is – why?

So, I talked to an expert.  My friend Kat.  She said her therapist told her to say “This is my Crazy.  What’s yours.”   Weed out the people who aren’t for you. And I like this.  Not, “hello I’ve been raped, assaulted, etc. and have issues” crazy but “hi I haven’t been doing this because it seems weird and uncomfortable to me” crazy.

Before date number two and I even got on the phone he said – “are you on social? Here’s my Instagram. Whats yours?”  I was afraid to release this information because you know – between my blog and podcast – it’s all my CRAZY.  But I did.  So when we did talk on the phone I was surprised by how surprised he was at what kind of person I am.  I said – well it’s all on my Instagram.  He said “Oh I never looked at it.”  He just wanted me to see his.  Which was a lot of shots of him working out. 

So I guess what I’m trying to say is… I’m not going to chill out. I’m going to just be me.  I’m going to know my worth, recognize my faults, and live the life I have worked very hard to live.  

I’m available to be swept off my feet.  And if that’s too hard, or too much to ask – then I’ll stay in my lane.  Where I’ve happily been for quite some time.  I’ve been sweeping myself off my feet for years.  I am awesome.

Date #3 is even better. 

Please Stand By.

The Date

Published September 3, 2020 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Get ready for some audible gasps from those who know me best. 

Don’t worry, you’ll hear them. 

I am about to tell you something that I managed to keep secret – for an entire three days.  This may not seem like a huge feat if you are unfamiliar with me, but if you’ve read or listened to anything I’ve ever said or written, then you know that I am an open book who admits all kinds of things, like throwing away my vibrators before a trip in case I die in flight, or that I have – on more than one occasion – eaten things out of my garbage.  But here we are – with a secret twenty years in the making – a secret so monumental – I couldn’t even say it out loud.

I went on a date.

Hold for gasps.

I think I heard someone fall.

We all good?

Now, many may not call a Bumble Zoom – a date – even my date laughed when I called it a date.  But to me, it was. So shut up and go with me. 

After a particularly shitty, dehumanizing, depressing week of being “Sisyphus” (the guy who pushed a rock up a hill for all eternity, the hill being my script) I decided to really shake my life up.  I went back on Bumble, an app I’ve never used to actually lead to a date.  I’ve had two or three really random conversations with a few really random humans but, when I read a post from someone talking about this amazing new moon and how to prepare for it, I decided to pay attention.  Yes, I’m one of those moon people who think you need to send your hopes and dreams up to the sky and write them on paper and burn them and charge all your crystals but I’m also super lazy and so normally I just lay on the couch, smoke a joint and look out the window sitting squarely inside a pane at the end of my couch – and dream my dreams. 

This moon was about flexibility, trust and excitement.  Now I don’t know about you guys but what’s more exciting  and trusting than talking to a stranger and telling them your darkest secrets over an open zoom line?

I started swiping.  I swiped right on three guys.  One was an instant match.  He looked kind.  Like the outdoors.  We texted back and forth a few times and when I asked him where in LA he lived he said “in a van down by the river.”  Sold!!!  I pulled the trigger.  “Hey, we should zoom” – which in case you didn’t know, is the “Covid” term for “date.”  This guy was on it.  He sent me a time and date and a zoom link.  Wednesday 9:15 pm.  He was producing.  I was loving this.

Can you guess the first thing I did after the date was set? 

I’ll give you a minute to think on this.  Imagine the jeopardy theme is playing in your head.  Got it?  Did it end?  Okay….

I bought a ring light.

If you’ve seen me on my podcast clips, then you know I have a lighting drought.  I wasn’t going to go on my first date in twenty years looking like the Sea Hag persona I’ve spent six months creating.   So, out to Best Buy, and then home for a few 7 or 8 hours of playing with that – I was ready.

My friend Sophie and her dog Rascal came to play as they always do around 6.  I kept quiet about it. This is not easy when you’ve literally spent almost every single night with a girlfriend for almost a year and not tell them every thought inside your head.  But in the past I would get too excited about boys and place way too much pressure on the concept of them or a date and this time I just wanted it to be what it was – a zoom.

Then panic set in.  Should I shower? No fuck that.

Wash my hair? No, who cares.

I tried not to inhale my entire pot pen.

I took a propranolol. (beta blocker stops you freaking out)

I put on makeup.  I even put on PRIMER,  which feels like a thin creamy layer of chalk but fills in those crevices that were about to be blasted by my 39 dollar ring light.

Then, I pulled all of the flexibility trust and excitement I could muster… and pressed the link.

You know what?  It was fine.  He was lovely. We talked a bunch.  The only weird thing was that I dropped an f bomb once and I feel like that gave him permission to curse and then he didn’t stop cursing for an hour.   But the best part of our date was – I learned that I have the control. 

My past sexual encounters and dates are a mess.  In my younger years, I  swam in seas of assholes and abusers (not all)  and men who made me for some reason, feel small.  I probably ignored all the good ones.  But when I got sober twenty years ago – I took a break.  I needed one.  My alcoholism was making all the bad man choices.  But I didn’t know it would last this long.  And while I was on a break, dating went online.  Now, I don’t know about you, but as I’ve said many times in the past, the only place you should meet a stranger on a date – is a police station. 

So here we are today, building up something so simple into something so difficult that I wasn’t sure I’d ever go out with anyone again.

Then covid hit.  And for some reason this week I realized – oh shit – I can go on a date while staying in the safety of my home?  Baby steps.

I am the one setting the boundaries.  I am the one with the power.  And going on this zoom date made me remember that.  Also judging from the way the conversation went – I’m a pretty great catch.  I told him the truth, that this was a kind of an experiment for me, and he told me I came off authentic and (TATTOOS) a badass.

I don’t think this man was the one for me, but the zoom band aid is off and I’ve already lined up my next victim.  Will I continue this non quest where I don’t even know what I want?  Probably.  There are over 50 men waiting in my Bumble room. It is 2020 after all.  The year of WTF.


Published August 29, 2020 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am about to make some grand generalizations.  Go with it.

So, you want to be a tv writer.

First things first… make sure you have a job.  A job that doesn’t involve you being a tv writer because this one only pays if you’re already rich and famous or spectacularly lucky.   So, unless you can afford to work for free for at least a year – per project – find another career.

Also, be willing to see your ideas on the screen with your name not attached to it because the world is a collective conversation and if you think you’re the only one who thought Teenage Serial Killer Hookers was a good idea for a show – you’re sadly wrong.  In fact, I can guarantee you that on the morning you get your last pass from whatever “POD” is trying to sell you – DEADLINE will post an article about your show selling for millions but you won’t be able to find your name in the article.  You’ll probably find the name Chuck Lorre or something similar.  He DOES have a proven track record. 

It’s been almost four years since Baby Daddy ended, and for those fans who think it didn’t get a justifiable ending and that the plug was pulled out from under us, it wasn’t. That simply isn’t the truth.  They ended us.  They were over us.  We knew it and so we crafted what we thought was the perfect ending.  Sure, they called us back after that and said “hey what if it didn’t end” but then another show that looked different from us took our time slot and that was fine with me.  I’m not going to lie, being that it was my first scripted writing job – I was over it 100 episodes later too.  I had so many other things to say that couldn’t be written about twenty somethings.  I was going to kill it as a writer.  I sold my house so I could afford to live.  I was just starting my career at 55 and this 5 years of pure Baby Daddy magic, was obviously a sign that my life was about to be lived as a real writer.  It wasn’t.  

I’d love to blame 2020 for being the icing on the shit cake that is my scripted writing career but it’s really just another great excuse to NOT buy what I’m selling. And I’ve tried to sell quite a few things. 

Over the past four years I’ve written and or pitched four original shows.   Sometimes they say they want to read a script.  S0metimes they say they want to hear ideas.  So, I’m prepared either way.   The first two shows I “took out”, I actually had a manager and then an agent joined in.    I always write from the female lead perspective but not every show was EXTREMELY personal to me.  They were parts of me or my stories from over the years.  A compilation of the “me’s” that have existed as I’ve aged. 

And here’s how it works if you have an idea:

1. You pitch it to an agent or manager.

That’s always fun because most of the time they are just trying to re-wedge your idea into an opening they “heard” about in some genre that someone else was working on.  Or they even have another writer that has that idea and try to reshape yours.  So, you work on your “pages” – the pitch document – and you pass it back and forth until these managers and or agents think it’s good enough to “take out.”  Sometimes that can take six months.

Now – I am not a huge fan of taking notes from people who have never written a script but that’s what you have to do or you won’t get any meetings.  I always feel like the fat kid who can’t have desert until they finish their broccoli during this process.  The ONE manager I had actually told me I was being a dick on a phone call because I didn’t want to come in and live pitch my idea to the new Agent he had acquired for me.  I was so shamed into doing it that I made sure it was perfect.  They loved it.  They were sending me out to Networks. This was an amazing pitch.  Woo Hoo!  Yay me! 

I didn’t hear from them for weeks.  My manager didn’t hear from them.  “Things take time, relax.” They don’t take that much time if you’re an already established writer.  He didn’t seem to care that much.  I called the agent who told me he hadn’t sent it out yet because he was working on a new TAG line for my show because he didn’t like mine.  And then weeks later,  I finally had three meetings to pitch my show.

  2. You pitch to networks/ and Streamers (Netflix etc).

Unfortunately, for newbies like me – you now, most likely, have to pitch to a POD before you ever even get to a network.  All of the meetings the agents set up for me were PODS. Sigh.   If you are unfamiliar with this – this is a production company also filled with more people who have never written a script who are trying to re-write yours to make it – according to them – better.  If they pick you – you sign a contract working out your entire deal – before you pitch it out to people they set up for you to pitch to.  This ensures that you – the newbie writer – will be locked into this deal, at this salary.

Are you confused yet?  I know I am.

I pitched to three PODS.

The last was a vanity POD for a successful actor.  His “person” in charge of picking scripts for him to produce – suffered from Narcolepsy – and slept through the pitch.  I’m not kidding.  I have no confirmation of the disease – but I was there for the sleeping.

If no one buys this idea that you have now worked on for over a year with people you don’t really trust – it dies – the end – you’re done – rinse repeat start over. 

3. You do this over and over again until you die.  Or you get attached to someone else’s story and help them flush out an idea.  I developed an entire show for one network executive who had paid a young writer to write a script she thought sucked.  So now I was going to be paid nothing to fix it.  If she liked it – we would take it out.  I worked for weeks and sent in an idea. She wanted more.  My manager and agent SHAMED me again to doing the work. They told me I wasn’t famous enough to not do some work for free.  This was my only way.  Suck it up.  Not only did I never hear from her again after I did the work – she wouldn’t even return calls to my agent or manager.  No one cared. Everyone moved on.

I am currently pitching a new show.  We have been working on it for over a year.  Many things have happened during this year but none of them include me actually making this show or making any money. Not a dime. I have written, rewritten, and written again.

All this so I can hopefully walk (zoom) into some rooms and leave my soul on the floor facing a bunch of people with pads who smile and then ask you questions about something you literally told them two minutes before. Sometimes it feels like the only person who actually cares about the project is you the writer. The rest feels like – can we sell her? And apparently – we can’t.

4. You get staffed on an existing show.

This happened to me once.  Baby Daddy was created by my old writing partner and so he hired me.  That’s what friends do, and it turns out, that’s what all writers do. They hire their friends.  This makes sense to me a bit.  Sadly, none of the writers on Baby Daddy were successful selling another show.  And so we sit. And wait. 

I’ve had many phone calls and emails with many kinds of people who want to be writers, who have scripts they’ve written, ideas they think are good.  I help them all. I open my brain and let my ideas out to help them with their scripts while I sell another handbag to pay my phone bill.   That seems weird. 

Over the years, my projects have become much more personal.  That’s what “they” tell you to do.  My last two were extremely personal.  I sobbed in my pitches talking about my own sexual assaults and my life as a woman because it was so real for me.  I actually had one executive tell me it was good to cry and if I could do it more than once that would be great.  No one bought that show.  But Jane Lynch is making the same concept with some other women who are very talented.

I have four years of more stories like this.  I’m giving you the Cliff’s Notes to the Shit Show. It’s amazing that we are in a time where so much television is being produced, but I can’t find my way out of the black hole of unemployed writer. It doesn’t help that I am careening into 60. That in itself is proving to be a whole other Oprah.

I’m not saying I’m a genius. 

I’m not saying my stories are more important than anyone else’s.

I’m just saying that if you want to be a writer, get ready to work for free.

As for me – I’m available.  Who got what?


Published June 14, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’ve noticed a new trend happening in my world – a deafening wave of rudeness sweeping through the electronic or digital airwaves – leaving all forms of messages… unanswered.   Now these days there are multiple ways of connecting and chatting with people – email, text, instagram, facebook, what’s app, etc. yet the more ways we have to communicate – the less amount of communication is happening. Let’s get this straight, I’m not your average bitch. If you send me a message – I will respond with such lightening speed you’ll think I’m hiding in your closet waiting for your email. I’ll ping back so instantly you’ll believe I really have nothing else going on in my life and I’ve been sitting and staring at my phone like Miss Havisham without the weird creepy old wedding dress. But the truth is – I’m so type A I can’t stand having unanswered messages on my phone or computer. People who have 471 unanswered emails is enough to give me hives for months.   Those little “unread” dots stare at me like warning signs of an uncoming plague. Answer me. Answer me. Answer me. And so I do and as quickly as possible. I like to get shit off my digital plate. I actually enjoy texting. I was never a phone caller. I don’t like the long awkward breaks in silences. I feel uneasy when the conversation runs out and I hate the fact that I can’t multitask while talking on the phone. But more than that – I’m not a fan of how other people talk on the phone. If we’re chatting via the old Alexander Grahm Bell then I want your undivided attention. Don’t eat, wash dishes, talk to your kids, brush your teeth, play with your dogs etc. while I’m telling you about my very important day taking a new yoga instructor. I love when people yell at their kids while I’m on the phone with them. In fact, if you have kids – don’t fucking call me – ever. Now I do enjoy the catch up with an old friend phone call where you spend an hour on the phone because you haven’t spoken in forever. These are conversations I long for. But for the most part – thanks to instagram – everyone knows what you’re doing every second of the day so those calls have become slim to none. And so I’m a fan of texting. I don’t know and don’t need to know what you’re doing while we’re doing the tappy tappy thing.

Here’s the thing though, I seem to be increasingly alone in my love of texting. I’ll send someone a message like – “hey, want to have lunch tomorrow?” and I literally won’t hear back from them for hours sometimes days. Now no one I know is that busy. Nobody in my contacts list is running a business – or a country. I don’t understand what takes days to answer a text. I know you saw it. You’ve been posting and liking on your instagram account relentlessly for hours, days, sometimes a week. Is the response of a total stranger more important than responding to a friend? I have younger friends who say to me – Ugh I hate texting. Please explain to me the fucking difference between a text and an instagram message? Do you need me to send you a photo? Will that get you to respond to me? Do I need to send NUDES to get a rise out of your fingers? Trust me – nobody wants that. And it’s not just friends who suck at responding these days. Countless emails that I’ve sent to so called “business associates” are also going unanswered. You start an electronic conversation with someone and then and poof – they’re gone. They ask you for a recommendation for someone – and then weeks later you find out they hired that someone – and no one bothered to thank you.   You do work for someone – communicating back and forth until they decide they’re done and then they disappear. You shouldn’t be allowed to ghost someone in the professional world. If someone sends you a request for help – answer them – even if that response is – sorry I can’t help you. IT’S NOT THAT HARD PEOPLE. I recently did a whole bunch of FREE (and quite frankly illegal) writing work for someone at a very large company who chatted with me during the process for weeks and then – I guess she decided that she didn’t want to continue this business relationship anymore. Communication cut off. Buh Bye. Thanks for playing. We shall now commence to pretend we never knew each other. This is wrong. This is shitty. This shouldn’t be allowed. I’m hoping a karmic shit storm rains down on her for this. Now again, I might be an unusual person when it comes to this but if you reach out to me I will respond to you. Unless I can tell that you are trying to do something creepy with me – like capture cook and eat me – I will help you any way I can. So if you’re one of those people with a ton of unanswered messages of any form on your phone – start responding. And a word of warning to all of the people I reach out to – if you don’t get back to me in 24 hours – you’re out of my contact list for good. Also, if I take the time to send you a note of encouragement and you don’t respond – expect to never hear encouragement from me again. Sure I don’t have a boyfriend, or kids or a job right now – LOSER? – but I know that when you need me you expect me to be there in a heartbeat – so now I’m expecting the same. If you think this is about you – it probably is. I love you all.


Published May 16, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I was standing in a sea of cocktails and smiles celebrating 100 episodes of the television show I had worked on. It was an incredible accomplishment and I was feeling high on life. Then a pregnant member of our crew joined a conversation I was having with one of the male executives. The conversation shifted to her impending motherhood and he said “You will never know a love as great as the love you will have for that child. Nothing can compare to it.” Well fuck me. I guess there’s another thing that makes me a failure. There I stood, 51, childless, and once again – feeling shame and humiliation for the choices I have made. At 51 years old I will certainly not be having a baby anytime soon. Deep true love was not going to be on my life menu… order something else.


Having children is a choice that women get to make, but if the current administration has their way – it won’t be. In the year 2019 women are actually losing the rights over their own bodies. Just look at what’s happening in Georgia and Alabama. It is outrageous. We are having choices taken away from us. Motherhood may be a privilege but before it becomes that – it is a decision that we get to make because it happens in our bodies. Let’s put aside the arguments about when life begins – and lets take up the argument about who gets to decide what happens inside of us. Having an abortion is not an easy choice. Women don’t get up one morning and think – should I cut bangs or terminate this pregnancy? I know this because I was faced with this decision myself.


Mother’s day always reminds me of another box I don’t get to check in life. Sure, I’d like to think I’m a mom to my two dogs – but it’s really just something I tell myself to cover the fact that I was a Mom once – even if it was just for about 8 weeks.


Yes, I had an abortion. The year was 1986. The day was Yom Kippur. The place was New York City. I was 26 years old. It was a day of atonement and I was about to atone for the sin of a broken condom.


For me, there was no question about whether to have this baby. I was in an extremely abusive relationship with a cocaine addicted nut bag. Love really is deaf, dumb and blind. When I told him that I was pregnant he said – “get rid of it.” He offered no assistance and no support financially or emotionally. He even refused to go the clinic with me. There I was, a young woman who thought she could handle anything – forced to handle something that was way above my twenty-something pay grade. Yes, I had thought I always wanted children but no – not this with guy.


I found a clinic and went there ALONE. I signed in and sat in my plastic chair facing the other women trying to hide the deep shame I could see in their eyes. There was no privacy. We all knew why we were there. For one reason or another we had all come to this decision.


When they called my name, panic swept through my body. I changed into a robe and climbed up on a cold table in a very bright room. No one was kind. No one had a nice word to say. No drugs were given to me. The abortion itself felt like they were scraping the roof of my mouth from inside my vagina. I cried – a lot. I felt humiliation – a lot of humiliation. When it was over I had to go have Yom Kippur dinner at my parents house. I didn’t tell my mother what had happened. We didn’t have that kind of relationship.

If anyone tells you their decision to have an abortion was one they entered lightly – they are lying. For me it was a trauma that I buried so deeply I didn’t even remember it until last year.


I was driving up the coast from Los Angeles to Seattle to visit my sister. The top was down on my jeep, the air was crisp and clean, and the sun was shining over the Oregon Dunes. Then the song “Brick” by Ben Folds popped out from an old playlist and I the dark sad ballad burst into the airwaves – I burst into tears. It seems as many times as I had heard it – I was truly hearing it for the very first time. The song is about Ben taking his girlfriend at the time for an abortion. He describes in detail the exact thing that had happened to me. There I was driving alone this beautiful stretch of road as a full body guttural release of tears blew out of my car and scattered themselves amidst the trees. Finally after 33 years of holding that trauma in, I left it in the Pacific Northwest.


By the year 2020, America could be illegal in 20 states. This is unacceptable. America is not the Handmaids Tale – at least not yet. Stand up, speak up and do whatever you can to keep the things that happen to your body – your decisions to make.

The Body Whisperer

Published March 27, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If I had a dime for every time someone said to me “You need to eat a cheeseburger” – I’d have a fuck ton of dimes.  Today however, someone said it to me and he wasn’t trying to tell me I was too skinny – he was trying to tell me that my body was waging a war on itself because I wasn’t feeding it what it needed. And it needed meat – specifically red meat.  I burst into tears. I have been vegan for two years and hadn’t had anything but chicken or fish before that for about six to eight years –  barring the occasional cheeseburger someone could always talk me into.  I grew up eating meat. I probably ate a cow a week. We ate veal when I was six. But then I had a pot bellied pig named Elvis so the pork had to go.  And then I hugged a cow so that had to go. And then someone I lived with went vegan so I thought – fuck it, I’ll go full V.   I had terrible cholesterol anyway so why not give up the cheese and dairy. I really enjoy being vegan – but it’s not an easy life to feed.

It’s been a really interesting two years.  The first year I never felt better. But damn this second year has been weird. I have a lot of anxiety I’m not sure I had before and I’ve had a lot of problems with my back not to mention the kidney thing and the appendix thing. If you haven’t been paying attention I celery juiced myself into a kidney infection and my appendix basically exploded in a fit of rage about six months ago. And I’m in really good shape.

Now if you know me, you know that when I get a new idea in my head I dive 100 percent into it.  Three weeks ago after I couldn’t get up off the couch without screaming,  I read a book that I believed healed my back overnight.  I even went skiing for the first time the next day.  Boom – it worked. But then the kidney thing happened and when I was done with the antibiotics – I still had weird pains in my back. I really didn’t feel – RIGHT. I knew I needed to see someone. Maybe just find out that my back was structurally sound because it just keeps getting worse.  My back is ALWAYS sore. I don’t remember the last time I woke up and felt – good.

My friend Dan had a terrible back problem that basically crippled him and he had been telling me about this magic man who fixed him,  for years.  A body therapist so to speak.  I remembered that the last time I did Ayahuasca – the therapist recommended that I get some body work done to release all the shit I had brought up.  I had completely forgotten about this. I texted Dan. “Yeah he’s amazing. Unfortunately there’s a six week wait to see him.”  But he called for me and I got a call back an hour later from his equally magical assistant who said – “I don’t know how this happened but there’s a cancellation. He can see you tomorrow.”

The minute he sat across from me and said “What are we feeling?” I burst into tears. Shit. This isn’t going well.  I pulled myself together and gave him a little bit of my history about the past year and told him that I just didn’t feel right.  It had just been one thing after another and I truly felt like I was taking all my anxiety and stress and holding onto it very deeply in my body. What am I so stressed about you ask? Honestly – I just spend too much time with myself lately. Not going to a 9-5 job will do that to you. Most people act and or write so that they can escape their crazy introverted extroverted minds. While everyone else was working all day – my mind had been spinning for two years in between small projects. And I know how to spin like a master. But – I digress.

“Okay, let’s take a look” he said moments after I arrived.  I got on the massage table and after “assessing” my back, he began to crack every single solitary bone in my body – down to every finger and every toe. He moved me around and dug into places I didn’t even know existed on my back. The entire time he was talking to my body, saying things like “You are so small but you are mighty. You don’t need to hide.”  Then I think he said, “Oh what he did to you.  But I’m going to fix you.” I’m thinking – which he? Pick one. Honestly though,  I was in a fog of emotions. He didn’t just dig into my back he got into my head. When he was done my entire body felt like it had been cracked wide open and all the garbage was spilling out onto the floor. “You are going to be fine” he said. “This, we can fix.” He told me quite a few things I needed to do to aid my back. “Drink warm water, not cold. Eat warm cooked food. Nothing cold should go in your body because you’re always cold.” Truth. “A salad is not a meal for YOU.” “You need cardio not weights and not yoga but yoga is fine mixed in. Get out there and hike.” There was a lot of information about my adrenal glands which are fighting my thyroid and affecting my sleep. Actually I wouldn’t call what I do sleep. I nod off for six hours if I’m lucky. And then he said IT. “You need to eat meat.” WTF? I told him I’m vegan and that I am for the simple reason that I can’t stand how we torture animals in this country. He told me he too used to be vegan as well and that I didn’t have to eat red meat if I didn’t want to. But he said – I recommend that you do. Fuck. I burst into tears again. I’ve become a public crier. It’s my most loved new attribute though. Everyone should cry a lot more. Especially boys and men.

But this was a big dilemma for me. I have given Veganism my all. My friend Brian said that I do everything 100 percent and that when I go for something I go all in – and while he thinks it’s me striving for perfection – (I wish I was smart enough to seek perfection but I’m actually quite lazy) I think it’s my way of always racing to some sort of finish line – some rainbow leading to that pot of life gold. If I do this workout I’ll crush life. If I eat this way I’ll be healthy forever. If I tattoo my eyebrows I’ll never have to wear makeup again. If I do this and that or this and the other thing – every thing in my life will be great. Which of course we know – isn’t the case and life isn’t about a race to an end – it’s about everyday being it’s own beginning and end of happy.   And the hardest thing we have to do is live in the happy – live in the present – and always strive to bring joy into your life. So of course – I immediately ate a burger. It was good. I feel fine. And now I’m not sure what to do. Will I eat another? I don’t know. I’m sure there’s a way that I can figure out how to feed myself without red meat and get the nutrients my body needs and deserves but it’s so very complicated it seems.

So for all of you skinny shamers who have been telling me to just eat a cheeseburger already – you’re welcome, you win – I did it. Now what do you call a vegan who eats meat? SIGH. LABELS. The only thing I know for sure is that I’ll being going back to the Body Whisperer. I’m going to do what I have to, to feel good each day in this particular casing I have chosen. Now if you’ll excuse me – I’m going for a hike and maybe have a steak smoothie.




Published March 20, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I hate drinking water.  Like… HATE. I’m never thirsty. It’s boring. I feel full. I have to pee every ten seconds… blah blah blah… water water water no thank you can i have a kombucha instead is that enough?  I know that water is good for you. It helps you sleep. (I never sleep enough) It helps your body move more fluidly. (I can hear my bones scraping against each other like sandpaper.) And yet – I don’t do it. I am a camel. My New Years resolution every single solitary year is – drink more water. Yeah, I like to keep it simple.  Every year I buy a new water bottle that will help inspire me to drink more and every year I leave that water bottle at a gym or yoga studio somewhere.  My DNA is so scattered all over Los Angeles right now I could be framed in 263 murders.

This week however – I truly learned the value of water and what happens to you if you don’t drink any. That’s right – I’m so bad at ADULTING that I  almost landed smack in the emergency room – again.

Saturday night I attended a friends engagement party.  I had this odd tender pain in  my lower left back. Back pain is nothing new to me. I’ve been experiencing some pretty bad back pain this past year but I had just read this remarkable book called HEALING BACK PAIN and found out that my pain was mostly ANGER.  And judging from the back pain I had – I am so very angry.  But the book was really helping me figure out where I was holding anxiety and anger and release it enough to release my back pain. So here I was thinking – who am I angry at? What am I angry over? I couldn’t find anything so I just figured I’d think happy thoughts and the spasms running through my back that night will be gone by morning. What a moron.

That night I couldn’t sleep. I could feel something truly aching in my back.  So I did what I normally do.  Ignore. Move on. It’s fine, says the woman whose appendix almost exploded because she doesn’t understand pain.  The thing is – I’m never sick so I never think it’s anything with my actual organs or body.  On Sunday it was fairly debilitating. On Monday, same. I pushed through. I went to yoga.  I had lunch with a friend who suggested reflexology.  “You need to find someone who can really get in there and work those knots out.” By Monday afternoon I knew something else was up. This isn’t my back. I texted my friend who’s a doctor and explained my symptoms.  Back spasms. Lower left back pain. Exhaustion. Slight nausea. Then I told him that not only had I not been drinking water but I had been drinking celery juice every morning instead.  He said two words KIDNEY INFECTION.  “Celery juice is amazing but very dehydrating.  Drink a ton of water and if you spike a fever go immediately to the hospital.” FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK FUCK.  Suddenly I had chills. I started taking my temperature every ten minutes. How did I do this again? Am I so bad at taking care of myself  that I can’t even drink enough water to stay alive? I burst into tears, terrified at the thought of having to go back into the hospital. If you read my one and only experience you’ll understand why but it brings up a lot of bad feelings for me.  Among them – shitting my hospital gown. So I was not ready for an encore performance. I drank 9 liters of water. I did not sleep that night because I was peeing every ten minutes.  The next morning I went immediately to my doctors office and had it confirmed. Kidney Infection – early stages.

This is no joke. This could have gone very badly  had I not contacted a friend who was a doctor. What a ding bat. How do I not know the value of water at 58 years old?  I am currently on anti-biotics and I’m drinking lots of water. I don’t like it but I know what’s on the other side of not drinking it – an IV and a lot of ass hanging out of my hospital gown.

I am definitely on the mend and  I’m currently drinking lots of water.  Not as much as I’d like yet because I’m too busy driving around LA collecting all my water bottles to fill.




I’m Vintage Bitch

Published March 5, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’m not sure at what age the chanting and ranting starts – but the words “I can’t wait until I’m old” have probably popped out of every child’s mouth in America at least once and most likely between the ages of 1-10. This is ironic of course because America seems to have the least amount of respect for it’s elderly, especially women, out of every other country. Now, I am of course as usual, making grand generalizations here, so please don’t send me facts disputing my remarkable and highly scientific theory. I will not check them, or read them or in fact pay any attention to them. I personally like to fact check my bold statements in my head where I hold all information to be true and valid. I am only reporting what my eyes and ears – see and hear. And what that is, is an ageist mother fucking country that would like to ship every woman over 60 to some sort of camp. Maybe not one where we get shoved into a people sized pizza oven or forced to take a lovely hot steamy death shower but maybe they are just slowly convincing us to all go away quietly somewhere to some sort of island or state like I don’t know, FLORIDA?

AS I CAREEN INTO 60 – I’m noticing the invisibility more. It’s way worse for women because if your power was tied to your sexuality you’re fucked – or actually not fucked. And for me – it’s become a kind of ‘Zero Fucks Given’ super power. If i know that no one is really looking at me or paying attention to me, well then I’ll just say whatever I want, wear whatever I want and do whatever I want. My friends are reading this saying “Uh, so like always?” But now the difference is – I REALLY DON’T CARE WHAT YOU THINK. I’m no longer saying it for effect , I’m saying it for FACT.  Rather than fading into the fabric of our older female hating culture – I’m going to get louder and put my shit on blast. I’m going to do the things that are totally taboo. And first up – I’m going grey.

I announced this to an old hairdresser friend of mine who said “why would you do that you will look so old?!” I could hear the horror in her text. But I didn’t listen. It’s been a difficult process quite frankly. I don’t even know what my real hair color is anymore. Currently it’s grey and red and pink and brown. It’s a skittle kaleidoscope of growing out the grey. It seems even my body’s DNA isn’t on my side either and it’s decided to make the growing out process – longer than a game of RISK.  But I’ll get there – even if it’s just to piss everyone off.  Even if I take one look at it and think – whoops – that was a bad idea. That’s my prerogative. That’s my choice. And the color shouldn’t come with a bunch of statements you think to be true of me based on that color. Just like my tattoos.

And so the question I’ve begun to ponder based on my going grey is  – what’s wrong with looking old? Why is OLD such a bad word with women and such a good word with everything else just by switching it to VINTAGE. Oh these shoes are vintage – they’re priceless. Oh this wine is a vintage blend and it’s priceless. So – how does an actual human being who racked up actual years of life and knowledge and love and lessons suddenly become less important than the patchwork jeans I bought from Crossroads? Why is a life lived longer less cool than a pair of wedge heels from 1960? I’m from 1960 too people.

What if – like most things in life – you were respected and loved and honored as you aged. What if we treated humans like a beautiful Valentino dress that was made in 1932. We protected it.  Went to a museum to visit it.  Why don’t we give older people permission to look back, take stock, make some tweaks, and get back out there for round two. Why do we define them by where they are now?

Getting older isn’t the end of things. It’s the next chapter. It’s a new beginning. Life isn’t – grow up – work – then die. At least – it shouldn’t be. And my grey hair shouldn’t define who I am. Neither should my age. I happen to be at the very beginning of a new career… and I’m ready to head into it with grey hair.

Life is a very long compilation reel. Let’s keep watching.

Luke Perry Lives Here?

Published March 4, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Everyone has their person – that famous someone that they adore from a distance and think – “one day – I’m going to meet him/her and they will be my best friend forever.”  For me, that person was Luke Perry – and I was a full grown adult when he became that 90210 heartthrob Dylan McKay.  But that’s not even why  he was my person.

In September of 1996 I was living in New York City and had just quit my job at a fairly new CBS Newsmagazine called “Day and Date.”  I had 5 thousand dollars in the bank – and no prospects for a new job.  Then I got a call from a friend of mine who was working at a new show called Access Hollywood.  They were the first show to attempt to take on the all mighty Entertainment Tonight and they  needed a writer.  I had no current intentions of ever moving to Los Angeles but it had been something I had flirted with in the past.  I thought – well why not accept a free weekend in LA.  I did have one friend who lived there.  So – off I went.

The show put me up at the Universal Hilton.  I felt very celebby.  I was also terrified. Hollywood was a whole other beast and Entertainment Tonight was the mother of all shows to try and take on. Did I know enough about celebrity culture for this job?  I mean – I was trained at A Current Affair – the biggest tabloid show in the world.  How hard could writing about a bunch of celebrities be?

The Executive Producer of the show interviewed me for an hour or so and I wasn’t convinced this was the right move for me.  In fact – there was no way I was leaving Manhattan for this weird sunshine filled place. But then he invited me to lunch in the NBC Cafeteria!!  OHMIGOD THERE’S A STUDIO CAFETERIA? !!  Were all those movie images of studios filled with stars milling about eating tuna sandwiches with regular people – real?  I wasn’t buying it and I certainly wasn’t going to move three thousand miles just for a nice cup of chili.

And then it happened. Out of the corner of my eye – in full on slow motion – Luke Perry glided into the Cafeteria like a totally normal breathing human – and sat down with someone right near me for lunch.  My heart exploded.  “Is that Luke Perry? Does he like – live here?”  “Yeah of course. Lots of celebrities do” said the Exec producer.  “And they just walk around with the rest of us?” I asked?  “Uh yeah.” I can’t believe he wanted to hire me after this exchange – but he did.

Now I’m a New Yorker and sure I saw a star here and there growing up – but it was never in this kind of situation.  They were never just – walking around. But Luke was right there – in my same space – breathing my same air – eating off of my same plastic tray.  And that was all I needed.  I reached across the table and shook that Exec Producers hand and never went back to New York City. If I could live in a place where giant stars were in my orbit – then maybe I could become a giant star or at least work with them. And that my friends is what the lure of Hollywood is all about.

In all my years here I have met hundreds of celebrities.  I never met Luke Perry. His career started and stalled a few times while I was busy trashing other celebrities for my job –  but I was so happy he was working steadily again.   My friend Dana had worked with him recently and when I told her my story and how much I loved him – she promised to introduce us.  Sadly that never happened.

When I heard the news today from my friend Jeremy – I was in Target – and I cried.

Thank you Luke Perry for giving me Los Angeles. You’ll never know how grateful I am.

My Dogue Tulip

Published February 11, 2019 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

She was 6 weeks old the day I brought her home, and feisty as fuck.  I’ll never forget how she sat at my feet screaming for days.  Peaches and I were perplexed. Lift me, Feed me, Love me. Yo dog, chill. I knew she was going to be a tough little thing. I didn’t know she was going to be the dog love of my life.

If you met her – and there were many who did – you instantly knew she was 105 pounds of pure sweetness – after she knocked you down for a greeting.  She shed the amount of a small dog each day, released death farts that would peel the paint off the walls, slobbered an entire bowl of water on whatever clean outfit you were wearing and always took the seat on the couch you were about to plop down on. She had a crusty nose, barely any bottom teeth, and in one lick could clean your whole face. She loved belly rubs – I’ve witnessed some very serious standoffs. She loved barking at every single person who walked by, she loved hugs, chewing bones, licking humans, and oh so many more things. She was the world’s best couch potato and a girl’s best listener.

But it is the way she died that continues to fuel the sobbing – because it was so perfect it feels like she orchestrated it herself – even making sure my best friend was here so her mom didn’t suffer too much. “I’m just going to lie down here by the couch in the sun and take a nap.” She was wrong, but man did she try. And I break down thinking about just how incredibly sweet and in tune with me she was.

Tulip was handpicked and named for me by my friends Nick and Brian. She had a brothr Lou who she loved. And a new sister she wasn’t quite sure what to do with. She bounded through life for 8 and a half glorious years – hair and slobber flying.

Yes – she was a dog and everyone’s dog is the best dog – and everyone has a very unique bond with their dog that others don’t and cant, but I wasn’t the only who really loved Tulip and yesterday I got to witness that first hand. My house is filled with love and tulips and beautiful cards and reminders of how much she will be missed. So  many friends stopped by. My friend Chelsea – who’s nickname is also Tulip – literally wrote her a card – promising to take care of me as Tulip 2.  It was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever read.   And then, after everyone left and the house was once again filled with the silence of a Tulipless world, Jean Luc – the young man who got to live with her during one of the most challenging times of his life looked at me and said  “She was my Tulip too.”  Cue the tears.

We’re gonna mss you Tu-Rip





Diaper Duty

Published August 31, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

This may lose me some friends, future husbands, and possibly a job or two but I’m going to say it anyway because I believe it’s an important revelation.  I pissed in a diaper yesterday – by choice – and I liked it.  Yes, you read right.  It may not be a Katy Perry song but it was music to my ears when it happened.

And here’s how that happened.  I’ve never been a huge fan of drinking water.  I’m kind of a camel and getting sixty plus ounces a day has always proven to be a challenge to me. In fact, every New Years my resolution is – to drink more water.  I am well aware of the benefits of it and I can see the results from drinking more water the second I do it. But when you’re not thirsty – you’re just not thirsty.  Appendectomy surgery however has changed that – as the doctor said to me – “your appendix – even though its no longer in you can – can reabscess and you’ll be back in the hospital if you’re not careful. You need to walk and you need to drink water.” That was all I needed to hear.  Hospitals and I are going to have a very long distance relationship from now on if I can help it.  So I’ve been drinking a lot of water. All day – non stop.  And that means I have to pee. All day – non stop. This is fine if I’m home on the couch recovering or walking around the block close to home.  But I had to pick my dog Tulip up from the vet yesterday by myself and that’s when I decided to make a radical decision.

Since I’m not on any pain killers any more – I’ve been give the green light to drive.  Now I wasn’t feeling great but I knew I needed to just get out there anyway.  But picking up Tulip in Century City at 4 pm on a weekday was going to be a tough pee holding assignment.  I knew I didn’t want to pull over with her in the car and leave her in the heat while I peed. And I really didn’t want to hold my pee in because what if that toxic piss just backs itself up and lands in my body somewhere.  No thank you.  So – I stopped at Ralph’s and made a first time ever purchase – adult diapers.  First of all,  I would just like to say that the Ralph’s in my neighborhood makes me hate America.  It is filled with people who stopped giving a shit years ago.  These people make me really sad.  You don’t need to be here guys.  You can save more money at Trader Joes and buy way healthier shit.  But I digress – it was diaper time.  I remembered that there was some kind that would actually make your piss gel up in the underwear. That sounded fun. Sadly I couldn’t find those.  All they had were regular underpants. You had to decide between light or moderate or maximum.  I went maximum.  Then I went home, pulled on my diaper panties and hit the road.  I was doing really well for awhile and it seemed like I could make it to the vet but then out of nowhere – it started.  That feeling when you have to go. Of course I was now only about ten minutes away from the hospital but I had to do it.  I was really scared of holding it in.  And here’s where it got interesting.  My bladder – simply did not want to compute the concept of peeing in my pants.  Like it took a real moment or two – to let go. And then,  there I was riding down the highway  – pissing into a diaper like you read about.  It was incredibly bizarre and truly satisfying.  My immediate thought was – wow road trips are about to get a lot more interesting.

Unfortunately I had to get gas before I got to the hospital and pulled in to a station and when I got out I decided I’d probably never piss a diaper again. There I stood at the pump with a full load of urine – acting casual – feeling humiliated – and thinking about all the poor old people who can’t use their bladders anymore and have to resort to this disgrace.  Man life is weird.

I did figure out that my incredibly healthy body had been sending me very early signs about my appendix.  Way before the whole stomach pain.  I had a terrible constant pain in my right forearm that made it impossible to lift anything.  It had gone on for two weeks.  I thought it was a workout injury.  I went to my acupuncturist who said “you know that’s your intestines. You should have that looked at.”  I didn’t.  I regret that.  So the moral of the appendectomy adventure today is – listen to your body and if you have to go in a diaper – get the gel kind – cause you can smell a full crotch of urine a mile away and it does not smell like teen spirit.


From Breadsticks to a Poisoned Appendix

Published August 29, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

While there may be no real connection between my very first trip to the Olive Garden and my very first trip to a hospital for an appendectomy –  I’m gonna go with the correlation  anyway – because it’s my blog.  It’s also a very astute finding from my friend Chelsea and I thought – scientifically – it needed to be noted.

On Tuesday of last week I felt an odd pain in my stomach on my right side and a flickering pain to my lower back right side.  If I think about it – that “just above the right hip” back pain spasm had been going on for quite some time.  But on Tuesday, I ignored it all.  I went out for dinner that night and while I complained about having a little odd pain and walked up a massive hill after eating a boat load of spicy thai food – it didn’t seem like anything that traumatic to go to a hospital and by traumatic I mean – gushing blood from an orifice because that’s the only thing that can get me to a doctor or a hospital.  I didn’t sleep very well on Tuesday night – but I carried on.  On Wednesday I helped my friend Jean Luc load his 800 pound motorcycle up a rickety ramp onto the back of his pickup – HIS BEAUTIFUL NEW PICKUP (he’s very proud) – and this should have been where my appendix exploded.  This also should have been the moment we both fully realized what an odd friendship we have.  It was like the worst episode of “Friends” meets the worst episode of “Golden Girls.”   My entire body was wracked with pain after that anyway so it was difficult to determine if some other new unusual pain was mixed in as well.  It was all a shit show.  Note to self – you’re not 23.  Stop doing things you can’t do anymore. Slow down. It’s okay. Take a minute. Breathe.

Anyway – I slept like garbage that night as well and the next day decided to start the great google search.  And as we know – I’m an excellent googler.  I typed in – LOWER RIGHT SIDE ABDOMINAL PAIN WITH A SHOOTING RANDOM LOWER BACK HIP PAIN.  Two things came up – Appendicitis.  Diverticulitis. Yeah, I’m not having either of those.  I texted Dr. Freddie – my smartest bestie – who is thankfully a doctor – who, unfortunately for me lives in NYC but fortunately for him as I would be (and already am) harassing him on the daily.   “I have a weird pain in my head.  Is it a tumor?”  This is how it typically goes.  Freddie said – “Judging from what you’re describing – I doubt its your appendix. Go to the doctor.” Sigh. Doctors are so annoying. They want you to get stuff checked all the time, but I feel like the minute you find out you have something – you die. Or at least you lean in to the suck of whatever that thing is you’ve just been told, and you feel like shit and then you die.  I really didn’t want to harsh my current life vibe. I mean – I’ve been chatting with a giant sized ex Marine on Bumble.  I was getting stuff done!!  But to my Doctor I went.  Now I use the term “My Doctor” pretty loosely.  He’s the lovely guy I see when something goes terribly wrong for the last 22 years.  I think I’ve seen him – 8 times total?  He always asks where I’ve been and I always say – healthy.  I don’t even like to step foot in a house of sickness.  He wasn’t available that morning and while usually I would have waited for him I said fuck it and just went to whomever was available.  SHE was his physicians assistant and SHE saved me.  She poked around a bit and said it didn’t feel like appendicitis but let’s take some blood and urine.  Taking blood from me is cause for an entire physical breakdown. I whine and complain about how much it’s going to hurt and please give me the most gentle person to stick the needle in I’m begging you I”m a giant pain baby and I’m not ready for this why Mommy why.  Inevitably they say – but look at all our tattoos.  Listen people – my tattoo artist is not shoving his needle directly into a vein and I get an art prize at the end.  There’s no prize at the end of giving blood.  Maybe if you people instituted that I’d be more game.  So blood and urine come back right away and everything looks fine.  She said “Lets go get a CT scan of your abdomen just in case. ” So I drove myself to the Imaging Center.  Now I haven’t eaten since 9 pm the night before and it’s now 12 and I’m super hungry but I can’t eat before the scan.  They give me the world’s most horrendous liquid to drink and then I have to wait an hour and a half for it to run through my system.  Why does this shit have to taste like an ass-erita? Can we not make medicine that tastes good? Give it to the flaming hot Taki or Twinkie people – they can figure it out.  I finally get the scan – and again – I start to freak out when he tells me what they have to do.  They have to give me an IV as well and shoot some liquid in me.  Again, I’m a pain baby.  Again, I get the tattoo statement.  Again, I remind them that its not the same thing.  Not even close. No prize.  They told me to wait in the reception area and the radiologist would come tell me what he found.  I was convinced that I had food poisoning or that diverticulitis thing or maybe a stone or something but there was no way I was having an appendix attack.  The whole time I had been texting with my Bumble Marine. It was a full day now of texting about all kinds of things and was a super pleasant conversation.  Finally a very handsome very timid guy came out and said:

“You need to call your doctor.”

“Why? What’s going on? Is it my appendix?”

“You need to call your doctor.”

“Dude, help a sister out. Is it my appendix?”

he timidly shook his head yes while he said

“You need to call your doctor.”

So I did.  And she said… drive yourself to the hospital – NOW.  Your appendix is going to have to come out.  Looks like I got that prize after all.   And that’s when I lost my shit. I burst into tears. A million thoughts rushed through my head.  This can’t be possible. What do I do with my dogs. I need an iphone charger. I have three tv pitches set up next week. I have contact lenses in.  I’ve never been overnight in a hospital.  I’m going to die. I should have gotten a husband years ago so I’d have help.  I texted the Marine “Hey this has been great but my appendix is about to blow and I have to go have it removed.” “Wait what? Now?” “Yeah, now. I’ll text you in a few days.”  I haven’t texted him back yet and I’m not gonna lie – I’m waiting a few days more to make it super dramatic and a good story for him to tell his friends.  “I was texting this cool chick and then she went into the hospital and I never heard from her again. Love hurts man.”

I had been texting with Jean Luc as well and updated him on my status.  He called me immediately.  I burst into tears. “Breathe deep it’s going to be fine.” This kid has great fucking timing by the way – as he owes me a loooooong ass playing nurse hospital stint from the time he had a hospital stay.  And here he was – just back in Canada.  Little Fucker.  I called my friend Brian and burst into tears again.  He knew what to do.  “I’ll meet you at the hospital.” I arranged for my dogs to be watched.  I called my friend Dan to pick up some essentials for me at the house.  The most important thing – the screwdriver for my Cartier bracelet because the one thing I did know was that they would cut it off of you before surgery if you didn’t take it off and no one was cutting a 6k bracelet off my wrist.  Dan had to dig through my granny panty draw.  He’ll never be the same.  I’m not kidding.  The light has gone out of his eyes.

In the hospital I had to put all of my stuff into plastic bags. The nurse asked me if I had lost a bunch of weight recently. “No I just gained five pounds actually.”  She was surprised.  “Are you saying weight loss gave me appendicitis?”  “No” she said. “You’re just really thin.” “Are you saying I look anorexic? Cause I”m fine if you are.”  “No , you’re just very fit and thin and don’t look your age and so I’m surprised you’re here.”  I asked her to marry me.  They told me that I would have surgery the next day – laparoscopy – and I’d probably be home by the following night. Okay! I can handle this.  My friend’s Nick and Kevin and Dan and Brian were now all there and standing around my bed and I felt very lucky and felt fine and safe and not in that much pain.  I did have a raging food headache as now I hadn’t eaten for a full 24 hours.  But yay for morphine.  I also realized I have really good looking friends.   Brian came at the end of the night to tuck me in and all was well.

The next morning my friend Chelsea came by and did what she does best – rubbed my arm and stroked my matted hair and made me feel loved and warm and protected and gave me great healing vibes before surgery.  The surgeon finally came in. His name is Dr. Quilici.  Pronounced like the Mother of Dragons.  He said it was a simple laparoscopic surgery and I’d be in and out. I asked him if his dragons did the laser cutting for him. He wasn’t amused.  He looked like an ex supermodel in his tight Italian suit.  I liked him.

They finally came to pick me up at 1:30 pm and that’s when it all went to hell in a hand basket.   I still hadn’t eaten since Wednesday night and my head was pounding. I was also terrified. The only surgery I’ve had was a breast reduction and that is in a fancy office where the O.R. looks just like it does on “Grey’s Anatomy” and all the Doctors are pretty and the equipment looks brand new.  At the hospital they wheeled me into pre op and I joined a very long line of very old very near death looking people on gurneys.  It was Dawn of The Dead.  It was terrifying.  I started crying.  There was stuff and sick people everywhere.  It looked like a storage facility for old hospital equipment.  The nurse came in. “How you feeling?” “Not great. I’m scared.”  “Okay good. You’ll be fine.” “I said not great!! NOT GREAT!”  “Oh well don’t worry, you’re surgeon is amazing.  Besides, you’re obviously fine with pain – look at all those tattoos.” Again people – not the same. I was wheeled into the OR and that was it. Don’t remember anything else except coming back to my room and being told my friend Melissa had dropped off Vegan treats.  Best mommy ever. My friends Victoria and MJ came and brought me flowers and took my jeep home from the hospital for me and picked up my couch cushions from the cleaners so I’d have somewhere to sit when I got home that night.  Ha!!!  As if I was going anywhere.  And that’s when the pain started. The post surgery gas pain.  Apparently they blow your tummy up with air so the cameras can look around in there and cut and move the right stuff.  I wanted to die. No joke. I really thought I would kill myself if it didn’t stop. They told me I needed to get up and walk.  And so I did.  Lap after lap around the hospital floor pulling my IV stand and crying my eyes out.  This one poor nurse kept trying to help me but I couldn’t even form words.  I thought – nothing has ever hurt this badly in my entire life.  Even now – when I think about ever having to go to a hospital again – I break out in hives.  This is a new PTSD moment for me.  I walked and walked and passed all the other patients on the floor also walking.  It was so “Walking Dead/One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest.”  Everyone was hooked up to machines and looked like various stages of death and sadness and pain.  Most people had other people walking with them.  I didn’t want any of my friends to come visit me.  If I had to speak – it would have hurt more.  I was the only person walking counter clockwise though.  That was weird. I eventually switched it up in a very “Midnight Express” move. Every few seconds a nurse would run up behind me and pull my robe shut because my ass was showing.  I thought – I will walk this floor naked.  I don’t give a fuck what I look like.  I just want the pain to end. If a few people have to see my white cheeks and a very poor choice in ass tattoos – so be it.  Plus,  I’m skinny by the way – haven’t you people been told by that night nurse? I have a terrific physique.  There was this one thing people really had down though – how to wear a second gown turned the opposite way as a robe.  It was a whole double gown system to protect your ass from hanging out.  I tried to figure it out but the whole snap situation was confusing to me.  This was not my fashion moment. They told me I couldn’t leave the hospital until I passed gas. This was Friday.  I didn’t fart until Saturday.  I sweat through the night and had to be changed at about 4 am on Saturday. A new nurse helped me get redressed and told me I had a very nice physique. I asked her if she was hitting on me. She didn’t think I was funny.

I was hooked up to a ton of bags and was poked and prodded a billion times.  I had to pee a million times an hour and had to unplug my machines – get my bloated belly out of that bed and sit on the toilet seat height extender.  It makes your pee splash really hard into the bowl and I pissed my hospital socks and my calves on the regular. There was piss everywhere.  I didn’t care.   They kept bringing me jello and I kept telling them I can’t eat it and that I needed vegan food. After about five cups of jello they finally clued in and sent me Cream of Wheat.  I sent all of my hideous food pictures to Chelsea who would eat industrial food every day of the week if she could.  It comforts her.  I didn’t want any visitors and so I just toughed it through that first day – Saturday –  doing my walking – waiting to fart.  And then it happened.  The Great Shart Incident of 2018.  I had just finished 20 of my 30 laps and I felt a rumbling in my stomach and the next thing I knew I was flying to the bathroom with poop pouring out of me down my legs and into my socks.  My red socks. (They come in three colors and I had peed on the brown and the blue ones.) I had poop everywhere and it was all over my bathroom as well.  Kind of like I had painted the floor and toilet with poop.  I actually found the whole thing hilarious but I’m pretty sure the two nurses who had to clean me up did not find it at all amusing.  They kept apologizing that they were going to see parts of me while doing said cleanup and again I reminded them that my ego was currently on the floor in a pile of poo and human wee pads and that I didn’t care if my vagina was out.  I don’t use it anyway.

After my cleanup – I asked for more red socks – they must be the key to sharting!!!  I was told the red socks are for crazy patients only.  That’s how they mark them and keep track of them.  Huh. So I’m still trying to figure out which nurse gave me the original red socks. Bitch.  I started doing a lot of laps – and finally found some entertainment – in the form of a crazy man screaming from his room. “Get the fuck away from me you fucking asshole” I heard emitting from inside a room and suddenly saw a male nurse come flying out.  “Fuck everyone and fuck you and you’re all assholes and I fucking don’t need this.” Boom. Crash. Yell. Rinse. Repeat.  I thought – yo, I hear you bro. This place is hell.  Up came the security guards and he had to be knocked out and then a nurse had to sit outside his room every second of every day.  He was super quiet until later that night when I was doing laps and a nurse sat outside his room doing a crossword puzzle.  “Stop clicking the fucking pen you fucking bitch.”  God that made me laugh. The rest of that day was fairly uneventful except for when my nurse Debra told me she was having a bad day because the old lady with cancer down the hall said “Don’t let that N WORD – (she used the word) –   touch me.  She meant Debra. And she didn’t want any lousy Filipinos touching her either. I wanted to race down the hall and murder her.  White people can be such assholes Donald Trump.

That night out of nowhere I spiked a 102 fever and while it went away quickly, it ruined everything.  Even though I felt great Sunday morning – I had to stay another full day.  Apparently my little appendicitis wasn’t caught so early.  It was perforated and abscessed and totally infected and its amazing it didn’t burst and they wanted to keep an eye on me.  I cried again.  I missed my dogs.  They were beautifully being cared for by my friend Nicole and The Pet Groupies and they were staying on their own every night.  I was so proud of them.  They’re like cats.

So I stayed the night and prayed that Monday morning would be the end of my prison life. Kevin and Brian brought me smoothies and I spent the day walking around trying to fart more.  One nurse said – “wow you are in good shape – I guess you’re really trying to get your steps in huh.”  I said “No , just trying to shit myself again.  I don’t work out that much.” Seriously, it was all these people could talk about.  I was finally unhooked from my machine and I finally figured out how to wear my second gown.  I was killing the game… and then…  I got my exit papers!!  All they had to do was pull my drain out. Uh oh. This sounded bad.  Does it hurt? “Well I won’t say it doesn’t hurt but most people just say it feels odd.” Turns out “odd” is just another way to say – it hurts like fucking hell.  She said – “breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out and…..” She yanked.  I screamed and burst into tears. It felt like I gave birth to an Alien through my stomach.  I could feel all the organs that had been moved to shove it in there – move back. It was hideous.  The crying and shaking and shuddering continued for a solid three minutes.  My friend Christian came to pick me up – wheeled me out of there – and took me shopping for food and drugs after he shot a video of me looking scary in my wheelchair.  I insisted.  Now  I pray every second of every day that this thing doesn’t abscess again – because even though it’s been removed – it still can.

In conclusion I realize that 1)  I need to let people do more for me.  2) The Olive Garden may be the super highway to appendicitis.

Thank you to my family – the real ones – my sisters and nieces and mom and dad for calling and checking on me constantly.  I miss them so.  And to my created family – everyone who gives a shit about me.  I know I make it hard.


Published July 1, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I was winding my way through the Oregon Coast last week when the song “Brick” by Ben Folds Five came bursting through my old downloaded music.  I had always heard that the song was about Ben taking his girlfriend at the time for an abortion, but I guess I sort of blocked that little side note. It’s a dark, beautiful and sad song but I realized that as many times as I’ve listened to it  – I’ve never really heard the lyrics – until this particular journey.  Within moments of the first few lines  – I was sobbing – a full body guttural release that was set free through the open air of my jeep as I whipped along the bendy roads of the Oregon Dunes.  I’m not sure I’ve ever cried like this.  I wondered what people thought as they passed me – this woman – sobbing while driving.  But most likely – like most people – they didn’t notice me.  There I was on the 101 North,  balling my body out for the baby I never had. Exploding with tears for whatever it was I  left in a perfectly legal clinic in New York City along with my heart.

I was 26 or 27 (1986/87) when I had an abortion.  I don’t even remember my exact age because I’ve blocked that time in my life.  It was filled with bad decisions., but I do remember this.  It was cold, it was unfeeling, and I was alone and shamed.  And to make matters worse – it was Yom Kippur.  Yes, the highest of jewish holidays and the day you atone for your sins.  Way to be on the nose Heidi.  The day I found out I was impregnated by a full blown abusive asshole was one of the most frightening days of my twenties – and trust me – I had some frightening times as I was well on my way to becoming a spectacular alcoholic.  His reaction? You need to get rid of it.  He offered no assistance, no support financially or emotionally and the best part – he refused to go with me to the clinic.  I went alone.  There I was – a young woman who thought she could handle anything – gritting her teeth through what will go down as a significant trauma in her life.  A trauma that only today am I beginning to fully remember.  I arrived alone.  Signed some waiting list alone.  Sat on a plastic chair alone.  Looked at all the other shamed women waiting to get abortions. Everyone but me had someone with them.  They put me in a gown, took me into a room, and laid me down on some cold table as they put what is basically a vacuum inside of me and sucked out whatever you want to believe it was that was in me – alone.  It was incredibly painful. It felt like they were scraping the roof of my mouth.  No drugs. No explanations.  Just lay back and let us do whatever we can to end what is clearly a terrible mistake on your part Miss Clements. I was very few weeks along and so I choose to believe that there was no soul inside that blob and that’s how I go on with my life.  But it is in fact a trauma I have buried so deeply that it is only now rearing it’s ugly head.  That night – I had to go to a Yom Kippur dinner at my parents house. I doubled down on the guilt and shame so hard – I don’t know how I even swallowed any food.

It is not an easy decision to have an abortion but it is my right to choose.  It is my body, my mistake, my whatever you want to call it,  it’s mine, all mine, and no one else’s. I have lived my life with this significant moment in the back of my head – many times throughout the years thinking – my child would be a teenager today.  My child would be 25 today.  I have laughed about it or joked about it in the past – but thanks to what is going on in our country right now – it is no longer funny.  I never had children.  Perhaps I was punished for what I did.  These are the real thoughts of someone who goes through an abortion.  If you enter this decision lightly – you’re a liar.

I remember the first time I watched a Girls episode on HBO that was about abortion.  It may have even been the first episode.  The girls were all at the clinic with champagne and balloons waiting for their friend who was coming to have a pregnancy terminated.  It was an abortion party I guess.  It enraged me.  It made me think that no one on that writing staff or any of the actors had had an abortion because celebrating it is the last thing you feel.

What’s the point of this story? Well thanks to the asshole in the White House -abortion could be illegal in 20 states by 2020. This is unacceptable.  America is not the Handmaid’s Tale but it’s starting to creep a little too closely to a fictional tv show.  Please think about who you elect in November. Please think about the fact that it should always be a woman’s right to choose.  Let’s not make Margaret Atwood’s gut wrenching book – a documentary.

Arrested Development

Published May 24, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’ll never forget the moment because it is seared into my memory the way his fingers seared into my upper arm – leaving a five point bruise mark almost immediately.  It was around 1997 and I had relocated to California to work for a popular entertainment show.  I was feisty – always have been – always will be, but on this day when I went to get my copy approved by the boss – my feistiness got me into a physical situation with a man who I thought was a respected producer.  He told me he hated what I wrote – every word – and he had been telling me this for weeks.  This was not how the job had started.  In the beginning I was practically a savior to him.  They had tried many writers and I was the first one that seemed to “get it.”  It was not an easy job.  We had a female host who was so incredibly mean and hurtful it was difficult to deal with.  I remember sitting in the conference room every morning going through what was basically a “table read” for the copy I had written that day.  This was entertainment news – there’s no need for a table read.  But there I sat every  morning – listening to this woman berate my words – if that’s possible.  She would say things like – this is terrible!!! – no one would say this!!! – and then scribble like a crazy person all the thoughts she thought should go in the show.  And she would scream… often.  Who wrote this???!!! – I’d hear on the regular.  Uhm I’m sitting right here.  She once took me to a set visit and said “don’t tell anyone you’re my writer I don’t want people to know that I don’t just make it up.”  She was fired pretty early on.  After a couple of weeks of this – my boss decided it was pointless and finally ended those meetings.  He was protecting me from this nightmare because he respected my work. That was amazing.  But it changed.

I’m not quite sure what happened or when it happened but he had somehow decided that I was no longer as perfect as he had told me I was over and over again.  He started destroying everything I wrote and yelled at me often.  I wasn’t used to this and I’m a very tough girl but the first time someone screams at you in an office its difficult to know what to do.  And so I did nothing.  And that was me telling him – you can do that anytime you want.  And he did. Over and over again.   But one day when I walked my copy into his office I fought back – with my words.  He said he hated my copy and I said “Well I’m pretty sure you just hate everything I write now.  In fact if someone else walked this in here with their name on it – I bet you’d approve it.”  Boom goes the dynamite.  He grabbed my arm and told me the way he wanted it written and then shook my arm and through clenched teeth yelled “now do you get it, now do you get it.”  I don’t remember exactly what I did but I turned and walked out and immediately the bruise started to pop up.  Why didn’t I report him?  I didn’t even think of that? It didn’t even cross my mind that this was wrong.  He went on to be replaced by another man – who never yelled at me. But I was well on the road to being an alcoholic and I chose to move on to a job with a woman who screamed at me on a daily basis.  Again – I allowed it.

I went on to many other jobs and many other people who have screamed at me and I accepted it over and over again.  Maybe I thought my big mouth deserved it for having an opinion?  I’m not sure actually but today reading about Arrested Development and Jessica Walter it actually reminded me of this incident and the others that followed and I just wanted to say two things – I forgive myself for not speaking out at the time – and I urge anyone out there to confront someone who screams at them in the workplace WHEN IT HAPPENS.  Be brave, what’s the worst that can happen? It’s not cool to be harassed in any way – verbally or sexually.  I’m sure since I’ve become a boss I’ve been far from perfect.  Sometimes you scream at someone right after you’ve been screamed at. We used to call it kicking the dog.  You got kicked and then you went and kicked the next dog in line.  It’s shameful really. We are only starting to realize and scratch the surface on what women have been through in the workplace but we really have to teach girls (and boys) that it is not okay to be treated that way.

An Ordinary Love Story

Published May 20, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t know if moms and dads are still doing it to their children, but the concept of growing up to be a princess is ingrained in our brains from birth.  Tiaras, twirly dresses, tulle, tea parties, and everything pink we can get our hands on.  We are called Princesses.  We have Princess themed parties.  We put on our glass slippers that came with our Barbie and her lookalike slippers, we crack open our easy bake ovens and we do some cute cooking for our hubbies.   Do I like pink because it’s a sweet lovely color or do I like it because it was presented to me with smiles and hugs every time it was around.  Is pink the hug I need everyday? If you don’t believe how ingrained the princess tale is – turn on the news – it’s now everywhere – and billions watched.

It’s difficult and yet thrilling to live in these current times where women are finally getting to use their voices and actually shift some conversations.  I watched a movie last night where the twenty something girls were all talking about dick, and sex, and fucking, and using their women power to grab a hold of shit and unapologetically run with it.  I realized – I’m still not comfortable with hearing this on my tv.  They were so BRASH about sex.  I realized – even I have a long way to go when it comes to how I feel about how women act.

I was born in 1960 and my rules for being raised were – don’t do drugs or drink, go to college, get a job (not a career), get married , have babies, be pretty,  find a rich jewish husband, don’t get tattoos.  Oh and pipe down a bit will you? Oh and don’t get fat. I am currently 3 out of 10. Don’t try and figure it out – it will hurt your brain.

I have a lot of friends in their twenties and they still share some feelings i had when I was their age.  I know getting married and having babies is still an important concept to them but they are doing it much later in life.  Part of that is choice because they know EVERYTHING will change the minute they marry and have babies.  Career on hold!  And so they wait because a career is important to them – because they too need to make useful contributions to their lives and others.  So they think – maybe thirty something is a better time to get married. They don’t necessarily kibash the idea of the white horse and the prince riding in to save them – because it never leaves your brain that a man will save you.   They also don’t have the time to go on the internet  and find their own horse and ride him around before figuring out if he’s the one.  Some of them have already found their prince – married him – realized he’s the devil – and then dumped him. And they beat themselves up for that.  Oh god I’m already divorced at 30!!!

And then the new Royal Wedding happened and I realized – Meghan Markle – The Duchess of Sussex or “Success” as my friend @kevinfrazier just coined her is going to change things for a lot of thirty something women in particular.  Meghan didn’t just open the door for young women to realize they can be anything – she kicked it in and did it with an extreme amount of elegance and grace.  Meghan is a 36 year old, biracial, once divorced, hollywood starlet. I’m quite certain that checks off zero boxes on that royal checklist.  She has also been a tireless advocate for those who can’t fight for themselves since she was 11 years old.  She has been a global ambassador for world vision and an advocate for the UN, standing up for inequality.

I don’t know if Meghan believed in marrying a prince but she is  now a more powerful voice in our global war against inhumanity and that alone is  how we should celebrate her as a woman.  The wedding, the duke, the jewels, the fairy tale – is the icing on a cake that she’s been baking for a very long time. She went into the world and did her thing and she met her Prince the normal way – on a blind date.

So, let’s all be Meghan’s today.  Let’s focus less on the MAN and more on the HUMAN.  Lets go out there today and stop worrying about things like – who’s going to complete us – because that person is sitting with you right now.  It’s you.   Let’s be the best versions of ourselves we can be and the rest will follow – whatever your personal dreams may be.



Royal Pig Fuck

Published May 16, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When the flag is up – the Queen is home.   I used to find this a sweet little tid bit of info but thanks to the ass tearing of 2011 – my love of all things royal – is no more.  In April of 2011  I spent about three weeks across the pond preparing to cover that other royal wedding – the one of William and Kate.  We had so many people and crews going to London – we were going to cover the fuck out of it.  Anything you ever wanted to know about that wedding – we had it.  We were launching an all out media war on London and I got to light the match on the first cannon ball fired.

Before we left town we had tons of war meetings in the conference room.  We wanted to make sure we had every angle covered. Who knows someone who knows someone who knows anyone who knows anything about anyone who may or may not be going to the royal wedding?  Who can we get to cover things for us over there? Who has a British accent? (that was all that was needed we figured) We were convinced Americans were gonna go bananas for this British shit and we were going to pull ourselves out of a ratings slump one royal wedding at a time.  We were going to start super early and get a jump on the other idiots not slobbering all over this elegant crap.

A few of us went ahead of the rest of the team and used local crews to shoot b roll to feed back and get Americans excited about the wedding.  Our first assignment was to ride around London in a double decker bus with giant ET banners on both sides of it.  I wanted to die.  I don’t know much about marketing but a two blondes a brunette and a red head on a bus screaming ROYAL WEDDING WOOOOO!!!!  doesn’t exactly make me think “royal insiders.”  On our third day there we got a big surprise! Hugh Jackman was going to get on our bus and do some stand ups for us.  All we had to do was pull up to his hotel and wait for him.  My boss was apoplectic about this “get” and wanted Hugh to say as much as possible.  If she could have had him voice the whole fucking show she would.  But we didn’t have a teleprompter and that meant he had to memorize everything.  It started raining and we were set up on top of the bus. That’s right – out in the open! Yay!  Then it decided to just switch to freezing cold weather.  We forced him to keep popping champagne bottles and saying dumb shit.  It was awful. But Hugh did something extraordinary – he read everything – he smiled – and he kissed me on both cheeks before saying thank you and floating away forever.  I love that man.  I still haven’t washed those cheeks.

Our next assignment was to go have tea and a hot air balloon ride at Jane Seymour’s house. That sounded fun!!!  It wasn’t.   Some asshole (probably me) decided that Jane should do her show wrap arounds from the hot air balloon.  But you can’t get teleprompter in a hot air balloon so that meant we had to tether the basket to the ground – high enough to look like it was in the sky with me in the basket holding copy pages for jane to read.  Unfortunately Jane was convinced I could be seen and made me  squish down within an inch of my life at the very bottom of the basket.  While I’m quite certain  a balloon ride around the British countryside is lovely – the view up jane seymour’s nostrils wasn’t. She also ordered me to get her french fries at a cafe later on that night.  Jane was kind of a bitch.  Jane was probably pissed she got caught up in our shit show bull shit.  I know I was.  So I forgive her. Ish.

Every day we would get another crazy assignment and every day our heads would hit the pillow just as los angeles would wake us up for the morning call.

Once we got closer to the actual wedding date – what felt like our entire staff descended on London.  We were happy we weren’t alone anymore. Maybe we’d finally get some sleep – ha! Then we all walked through the park over to our spot at Buckingham Palace and we knew – we were not in Kansas anymore.   We were in –  HOLY SHITVILLE.

IT WAS A SEA OF PRESS.  EVERYWHERE.  There was a two story scaffold city on eaach side of the main road into the palace housing press from around the world.  Each twelve foot space had it’s own walls and each box was decorated very specifically to the network.  We were right above Barbara Walters which terrified me because it would be bad if our host crushed Barbara Walters. Every one who’s anyone in the news world was there and within spitting distance of us. It was wild. It was an event to be sure – I just wasn’t sure why?  None of us were going to the wedding.  We weren’t going to see anything.  We weren’t getting interviews.  The only thing we were part of – was us.  But there we all were – waiting for the wedding and then the shot where they come out on the balcony and wave.  All this for a fucking wave.  It was nuts. It was banana nuts.  It was fucking banana nuts.

We were all working our asses off on no sleep and many many meetings.  We had a suite in the hotel for morning and evening meetings and we had a massive tent set up with monitors and computers out in the middle of the park where we could watch our own show back in the states.  We had this thing wired.  London was set up for press.  God knows how much money we spent but it was in the millions for sure.  We spared no expense getting nothing better than everyone else.  We could have stolen the BBC feed and re aired it and saved a fuck ton of money and no one would have cared.

I’ll never forget this one shot we just had to have.  There was this balcony somewhere in London that looked just like the Buckingham Palace balcony the couple was going to wave from. We decided it had to be in the show that day which meant it had to be shot that second.  So we all stopped what we were doing – and raced over there with talent and crew.  The talent raced up the steps and burst out onto the balcony just as the cameras rolled and the talent perfectly shouted their copy.  And cut!  The cameraman looked at me and quietly said – “I wasn’t rolling.” What. The. Actual. Fuck.  So I told him to just be quiet.  I told my boss that I wanted to do it again just in case.  She screamed at me for ten minutes solid and I thought that was the night I would get sent home but we did it again and got the shot and that cameraman got to live another day. It was in the show for about 1 second.

Every day we would march into that park and think up crazy new ways to cover a wedding no one had any access to.  I’m not sure I ever worked that hard. It should have been fun and exhilarating but it was bloody awful.  Today I watch the news and see that they are doing it all over again .  This time they have an American princess and they are not sparing a second trying to uncover every awful little detail they can about this poor girl.  All I know is – you HAVE to be madly in love or bat shit crazy to marry into the royal family because I’ve seen the press from the inside and we are not a pretty bunch.  Waking up to that kind of scruitny every day?  That’s love.  It’s also something an actress knows how to do better than anyone.

I never went back to that job after the wedding.  I remember we went out for dinner the night after it happened to Hakasaan and ate a billion dollars worth of food and charged it to the company.  It wasn’t enough.  But it was a start.




She Bangs

Published May 4, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t know about Samson’s strength coming from his hair but I can one-hundo-p guarantee you that it’s where a woman’s strength most definitely lies. Please excuse my grand generalizations – obviously not all women – maybe it’s just me – but who cares – it’s my brain thats exploding so just go with me.  So – back to hair – and women – and power.  A woman’s hair is extremely important.  It can make or break your day.  And if you were born with unchangeable shit hair – it can break your heart – forever.  Thank god for weaves and wigs and the magic that can be glued and taped and stapled to your head these days.  Staples are okay right?

If a girl is having a good hair day – she can and will rule the world.  Good hair day = super hero.  Bad hair day = anti depressants.  It’s probably why Hilary didn’t get elected.  She didn’t really have great hair.   I mean – it’s fine but it doesn’t have pizazz.  You know who’s hair does have pizazz?  Lets say it together – Donald Trump. It’s not good hair – but it’s a conversation starter for sure.  And that’s what women want.  When it comes to how you look as a woman – we all start in the same place – whatever supermodel is gracing whatever cover.  And then we compare.  So – lets say I just looked at Cindy Crawford.  Well – I don’t have her body.  I should have started working out at 20 and not 50.  I don’t have long legs… fuck.  I could go down the list of things that don’t make me Cindy Crawford but I could have one thing she has – her hair!!!  So that’s kinda how it works.  You  make your way down an imaginary made up list of things a beautiful woman is supposed to be and you check off the things you’re not and then you settle on making what you can make – perfect.  Your whole fucking life. Gosh it is so fun being a girl I can’t begin to tell you!!

So hair.  All I want is long – even length – (my) naturally curly – hair.  It’s what I want.  I’ve never had it…. at once… all one length.  It’s very specific.  And it’s what I may not be able to get back – at my age.  It’s just the truth.  And it’s sad.  Because I probably did most of the damage that won’t let it come back. I don’t know about other women but I’ve spent a fortune trying to fix my jew curls and now I want them to come home to momma.  They must be super pissed at me though.  Coloring and crimping and chemicalling and blah blah blahing.  The amount of money I’ve spent cutting and frying and ironing and whatevering.  The tools I have to straighten and then curl.  Yep, I blow out my curls, then straighten them, then re-curl them.  That’s right – I’m insane.

I look at Shiri Appleby’s hair and think – she’s the luckiest girl alive.  Same with Emmy Rossum.  I think I cried watching her rediscover her jew curls.  But it’s my friends Jonna and Daniella – whose hair I love the most.  Long – thick – perfect hair.  Seriously they should both be hair models.  Actually maybe they are? Clearly I should be a better friend.  Whenever they say they want to cut their hair – I scream.   I would kill to have their hair.  I may kill them and steal their hair.  That’s hair I’ll never have because I wasn’t born with it.  Wabam!  And there in lies the magical circle of women and their hair.  (fine… some women)   Should I cut it? Maybe some highlights? Oooo lowlights.  I’m gonna perm it.  Maybe just shave one side?  What about bangs?  Bangs in fact – are the shortcut for when you’re not brave enough to do some freaky shit to your hair – which is 99 percent of most women so we just cut bangs.  Five days after we cut them – we fucking hate them.  Maybe 6 days.  But we will keep doing it over and over.  Grow them out. Cut them. Grow them out. Cut them.  Again – it is our joy of being women.  Because if our hair is perfect – we are perfect.   The end.

I actually have so much more to say about me and my hair but I have to go apply one of three things I’m doing to make it grow longer and thicker and faster.  I’ll tell you men what the secret is when I make sure it works.





Published April 30, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The other night while watching a new documentary on Netflix with my friend Becky  – two things happened.  1) I fell asleep.  This is not surprising at all.  In fact – every time I turn on Netflix it tells me things I’ve watched that I most definitely have not.  At first I thought someone was breaking into my house and watching stuff… it could happen… but now I realize it’s me falling asleep in front of the tv and my system just scrolling through shit that later pops up on the “if you liked this you’ll love this” list in front of friends and sometimes strangers who are watching tv with me.  It can be embarrassing.  I don’t know what the scroll algorithm is but I’d like to change it.  And 2) I found out that my friend Becky in in on “the collective conversation.”  Actually, she’s not just part of it – she’s contributing to it – and she was doing it right on my couch.  What The Fuck?

The documentary was about Rachel Dolezal – the weird white woman who pretended to be African American.  She is strange.  Her story is strange.  What she goes through to do her hair is next level.  I wish it looked better for all the effort.  She’s  probably a lovely person when she’s not being completely irrational.  The second I woke up from not watching her documentary – it was put out of my brain.  I do this with a lot of things I watch.  Except Handmaids Tale.  That’ll stay with you forever.  On the other hand – Becky was in a deep dive on twitter or Facebook or somewhere other people were talking about Rachel – and she was talking back – with her fingers – to strangers.  Again – what the actual fuck.   And now that I think about it – Becky isn’t my only friend to do this.  I usually think people are being rude and staring at their phones while watching shit but it turns out they’re looking up what other people are saying or have said about what they’re watching.   I do not understand this behavior at all.  It contains two things I do not have time for 1) other peoples opinions 2) admitting that i’m watching the same shit show everyone else is watching.

Now don’t get me wrong – I am thirsty for information at all times – but usually on important television events I’m viewing – like – who is Scott Pruitt and why does he have two fancy desks?  Isn’t one upper left locked drawer enough to hide your secrets?  But I find that most people are getting together digitally and chatting about reality shows.  There are websites and blogs and after shows and all kinds of things you can dig up.  Especially on the Housewives.  They all have their own blogs which by the way are hugely popular and I would kill for half the audience.  But I don’t want to know anything about any of them after they leave the idiot box. (that’s what my dad called tv growing up)  I want to think that when I turn off my tv they cease to exist.  Like scripted shows – it’s not real – everyone calm down.  Reality TV is meant to be consumed on your television, usually alone so no one knows you’re consuming it.   For instance – you wont’ see me researching where Kyles new house is and how she got robbed.  Or what Dorinda’s hair actually looks like without all her extensions and weaves.  You will never catch me looking up if Britney and Jax are still together.  Actually, that ones a lie because I looked it up this morning and I  can’t find an answer.  If anyone knows please DM me.  It seems people are obsessed with this stuff and they’re all chatting and blogging and texting and tweeting and instagramming about it.  Everyone is talking to each other and yelling at each other and getting mad and glad and happy and sad… over television.  Yikes. Knowing me, I’ll finally tap into this vortex and I’ll end up at Starbucks every tuesday talking to a fat guy named Milton who just loves Southern Charm. Especially Patricia.  Hmmmm I wonder where she gets her money.

But once again it turns out – I may be the weird one.  Maybe reality television, or television in general, is bringing people together.  People are talking to each other and sharing opinions and maybe just maybe working some shit out.  Maybe I should care a little bit more what other people think.  Maybe I should join a conversation – any conversation other than the ones I have with my dogs – who are totally listening but pretending they don’t care.  You know what –  I may just start tweeting in the middle of Vanderpump Rules tonight.  Crazier things have happened.

The All of Laura

Published April 20, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I talk to myself so much lately that it’s really made me question my sanity.  Yes, I live alone but that’s not really an excuse for the massive amount of back and forth going on in my brain at all times of the day.  Its usually pretty mundane.  But maybe just maybe – I’m not actually talking to me. Maybe I’m talking to God.  I mean – I do get answers.  I know what you’re thinking – sure, of course, makes perfect sense. If God were to pick a conduit it would most certainly be you Heidi.  I mean – what spiritual being wouldn’t want to say “fuck off” a thousand times a day?  What higher power doesn’t know that saying “eat shit and die” to someone who cuts her off in traffic will fix them and make them whole? Well I’m not talking to God but I have a very dear friend who I truly believe is.  Feel free to hit the pass button and move on but I’m about to get spiritual and yes – smart potty mouthed people who say they hate everyone – can be spiritual.  There’s no box big enough to put all the things I am in – so move on.

This past couple of years have been interesting for sure.  And by interesting I mean – ass tearing-ly painful.  I lost two dogs, had to sell my house, and my job ended.  Party! What a success story!! Lets throw it all at the wall at once and see what happens!  You know what happened?  I got a great new house and I am living debt free – though if my addictions to all things don’t stop i’m gonna shop myself right out of debt.  I will say that I almost always only buy used clothing now and haven’t bought a designer bag or shoe in over a year.  What a fucking waste of time that shit is.  I also ALWAYS realized that my problems were NOTHING compared to what other people are going through and I am shown signs of this every time I start to feel sorry for myself.

At the end of 2017 I started to dig in a bit spiritually and as I wrote about – discovered Ayahuasca.  It is still the best thing that I ever did but it feels like it has opened some massive wounds I didn’t even know were there and now I need to figure out how to close them or at least heal them.  Most of my stuff deals with men – duh – and it’s pretty deep and I need some serious body work to get to a better place on that one.  I’m ready to do the work though – at 57.  Great timing heidi.

One of the things I am doing to get on the right path is read a book written by a dear friend – and – wait for it – IT’S A SELF HELP BOOK.  Now – I can count on one hand the amount of books I’ve read that come under this category – actually I don’t even need a hand because it’s zero.  I think I read The Secret once. Thats a great fucking book.  I try to practice what’s in that, but man it’s hard not to point out all the assholes and their assholiness.   I am constantly seeking answers and always trying to figure out why things are the way they are.

Why am I not losing weight?  Why won’t my hair grow? Why didn’t I get that job?   Why did someone else get that job? Why have I never found a real partner? Why am I so afraid of intimacy? Why Why Why Why Why Why Why?  I started to think a lot about manifestation and how to do it correctly. Then – the other day I decided to take Laura’s book with me to my workout class. Why? No idea. I’ve had it for weeks. I’m talented but I can’t lift weights and read at the same time. After class my friend Daniella took a picture of me and when she posted it I realized I was carrying Laura’s book.  I sent her the image.  Then I realized – what an asshole I am – I haven’t even read it and quite frankly – I had no intention of reading it.  It’s a self help book duh. (it’s not really)  I sat in my car and read a few pages and then I sent the photo to Laura and said “can you recommend a good book on manifestation.  What an asshole – that’s what her book is about!!!  We started texting back and forth and she lovingly sent me a few names and books and I told her that I knew I needed to LET GO – which has been a running theme for me the past year and a half.  Here’s what she said.


I burst into tears and basically haven’t stopped crying (happily) since.

The answers to all of my questions are the same – ME. I am the reason behind all of it – my ego that is.   We spend so much time wanting and needing and doing and not enough BEING.  Just be.  We also don’t pay attention to any of the signs that are out there for us.  Every day I get in my car and a song comes on from my own library that is odd and sometimes I don’t even know what it is or when I downloaded it.  I never listen to the song – I switch to the news.  And god knows nothing good or happy is happening there.  I tell myself it’s to be informed but I’m listening to CNN and theres no information there – just vitriol.   And I’m not gonna lie – sometimes i like vitriol.  Sometimes I love watching someone I hate not get something.  This is useless.  There’s enough for everyone.  And so now I begin focusing on me and my thoughts and just having one thought – to be happy. Someone posted something the other day about how there are so many hundreds of languages but we all share one – LOVE.  Yesterday I was really thinking about love and partnership and when I got in the car I paid attention to the song on the radio – it was Marvin Gaye’s “That’s The Way Love Is.”


And cue the tears. The him being all the hims… but that’s another story. Actually its a great tv script I’m going to sell!

I also need to forgive myself for the anger and guilt I feel about what I wrote in my own book about someone.  It was truly hateful – as that is how I felt.  I didn’t need to make it public but I can’t take that back now.  I wanted to hurt her. Now I just want to let it go.  Its of no use to me.  I have always believed that we choose the bodies we are born into and that we are physically here to learn lessons so that we don’t have to repeat them in the next lifetime. I’m not sure what lesson I was supposed to learn from that experience but I’d be thrilled not to repeat it.

And if you’re reading this thinking – this isn’t funny or sarcastic or what I expect from you Heidi – don’t worry – my asshole opinions will never die  – they just tend to be more about me lately.  And if you want to start working on a better you and surround yourself with all that you desire – read Laura’s book.  I’ve know her a very long time and I know – it is TRUTH.

THE ALL OF EVERYTHING – A spiritual guide to inner world domination by Laura Saltman.



Free The Nipple

Published February 13, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t know who started this campaign and or why but I’m ready to join! Put me in coach – my new nipples are ready to play!  Well almost. Thats right – new nipples who dis? While other women are out there shoving plastic body parts into their torsos to make it look like Barbie moved in up under her tank top – i was taking a knife to the nip and making them the perfect fit to my smaller G cup to B cup boobies.  I’ll never understand getting your breasts enlarged.  Lifted maybe – but enlarged?  Why add a shelf to a perfectly lovely wall?  You can’t hang anything on a shelf. Duh. Unfortunately my left boob settled in kind of a wacky way and while ‘One Wonky Boob’ would have been a good name for a second book – I had been waiting years to fix mine.  My plastic surgeon however had been waiting years to trim my nips.  She said they were way too big now and I had to agree – they were starting to point down and quite frankly the nether region is another body part that could use less pointing to and so I agreed to slice and dice.

My surgery was scheduled for thursday.  I decided to quit smoking pot for a couple of weeks before the surgery as I don’t think anyone understands how it mixes with anesthesia and if I recalled correctly – the last time I had surgery I wound up puking into a target bag in a strip mall in front of a really handsome man.  I wasn’t taking any chances this time.  The night before the surgery the anesthesiologist called to go over my medical history.  When I proudly proclaimed I was weed free he said “well that was dumb.”  Perfect. Thanks. But still I abstained.  I took an uber to the surgery because you have to be picked up and wheeled out when you’re done. It was an outpatient surgery. You can heal at home or in one of those swanky LA recovery places.  I’ve been in one of those.  It’s like heavens waiting room for the people who spent a little extra money getting pretty for God.  I would heal at home with my friend Chelsea providing nursing duties. She can’t boil water but she loves looking at weird scars and popping other peoples zits so i thought she was the perfect choice.  She also volunteered.  Because she’s an angel sent from heaven.

Right before I went into the operating room – I changed into my robe and shower cap and booties and immediately took a selfie. Then I deleted it because I didn’t want that to be the last picture of me on my phone when I woke up dead because I decided to undergo the all important nipple trim wonky boob fix surgery.  My doctor came in and drew on my boobs and nipples and said something about taking fat from one and stitching the other and blah blah blah “I”m going to give you ballerina boobs” and that was all I needed to hear. She could have said – in order to do his I need to pull your anus up through your throat and so you’ll be shitting out of your mouth for the rest of your life but I didn’t care.  I was going to have ballerina boobs.  Then the hot anesthesiologist came in.  Ladies – find a hot man who can legally knock you out and make him your own.  This is a life goal.  He asked me if I wanted to “walk into the OR like a champ.”  I didn’t know what this meant – but we walked in and I immediately freaked out.  Instruments and lights and knives and this is not how patients on Grey’s Anatomy do shit – please knock me out.  The next thing  I remember was Chelsea standing next to my bed and her beautiful smiling face – videotaping me – with my permission – because thats what good friends to do each other.  I tried to argue the wheelchair exit away but they weren’t hearing it and in fact I was so drugged when I left that I could have been strapped to an alpaca for all I knew.  Was I chelsea?

Once home – Chelsea made dinner. I have the video to prove it – and I proceeded to ignore all the home care instructions despite nurse not so ratchet reminding me.  Don’t eat salt. Eat super mild. Relax.  I got super high and ate everything in sight and had an amazing night on the couch.  I paid the price the next day with 24 hours of vomiting and a distended stomach that could rival a poor starving child.  For three days I’ve been stopped up more than a pinata at a blind kids birthday party but I”m officially now on the mend after taking all the gas x and unfortunately finding out the hard way you don’t need TWO little dulcolax pills.  My boob area looks like I was rammed by a car head on – and god knows whats happened to my poor nipples but I sure hope we got it right this time because I don’t think I”ll be doing more elective surgery anytime soon. Well maybe my neck.  It looks so much older than my nipples now.


Published February 7, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The truth is – I was never really surprised by the fucked up things men did to me. Confused, disgusted, horrified, annoyed – yes – but never surprised.  I think I read the instruction booklet they come with at a very early age and committed it to memory – and so when I played with them – it was my own fault for opening the box that wasn’t meant for girls over the age of 13 anyway.  I’m not saying I forgive men for their sometimes dastardly deeds – I’m saying I was raised at a time when you were taught that they suck and are dangerous and are not meant to be trusted with your heart and emotions.  Sorry dudes – but when I was born in 1960 – girls were raised to believe we were the lesser creatures and taught how to deal with it.  I chose to be loud and fight. Others chose to marry them – have their children – divorce them – and are now struggling for their independence without them.  The problem is – I never got those global warnings about my relationships with women – and these are the people who have hurt me the most.  The surprise i feel has been reserved for the women who have fucked me over and over and over again – and almost always in the name of men.

Watch two young women meet each other on the street or in a bar or anywhere actually and follow their eye lines.  They immediately look each other up and down from head to toe.  They are literally sizing up their competition – because somehow it’s been ingrained in our brains that we are competing with each other – for jobs, for men, for anything and everything.  They immediately start talking to each other about how they respectively look and it’s all done through a series of lies they will then take back to another female friend and gossip about horrifically.  You know you do it.  And it’s not just how we look – it’s how we live our lives that can spark an intense jealousy.

In the workplace I have had male bosses who grabbed me, pinched me, showed me pics of their dicks, and generally made me feel like I wasn’t worthy to be a part of the big picture of whatever show I was working on.  I got louder, prouder, and eventually became a part of the conversation – shoving myself where I wasn’t supposed to be.  But its the female bosses who have left their indelible marks on me.  The one who told me I was stupid.  The one who told me I was a terrible writer.  The one who tried to steal my boyfriend.  The one who physically threatened me.  The one who tried to sue me.  I could go on but I won’t.  I’ve even done it myself. I once told a female writer in my room to start acting like a dude because all of her female empowerment speeches were shutting the men down and they weren’t pitching.  I should have told them to sack up and act like women.  Over the years I realized that I seem to bring out the worst in women bosses – and so I stayed away.  I’m not so much of a threat anymore and so its becoming easier – but when i walk into a meeting with a new woman – they still size me up and down.  They stare at my tattoos and to see if they can find some deep inner meaning to them.  It’s easier with men now because I”m sexually invisible.  But its the women I crave to know and understand because I know we speak the same language.  We have the same history.

Ladies – we never have each others backs. We are the first to slut shame, fat shame, or just plain shame shame each other.  I do it all the time. I’m not proud of it.  It’s like when you see a celebrity and her boyfriend breakup and you’re filled with joy – like he’s actually available now and he’s actually going to date you next. He’s not.  We say – well she’s probably crazy so he dumped her.  We never think it’s him.  It probably is.

I never got married or had kids.  It just didn’t happen for me.  I have many reasons I believe why but it doesn’t matter.  I now crave the company of good women.  Part of it is that I’m now  fifty seven and as I’ve said I’ve become completely invisible to the opposite sex.  But its a shame its taken male abandonment to realize just how much I  need women.  It’s a shame we don’t realize that we are on the same team and while I know its not us versus them – it fucking is.

I’m sure someone smart has written a ton of books on this subject but who has time for that.  I do have time for some lady hugs – so lets do that.  Lets not wait until we hit our fifties to realize that we truly need each other.  That we are all sisters in this family called life.

I hope the #metoo movement continues to bring women together because if we don’t have each others backs – we’re doomed.

I’m Dying Up Here

Published January 29, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have always been the kind of person who would never tell someone NOT to pursue their dreams – until last night.  Now I feel like if I don’t tell the people I watched attempt to perform comedy last night to please find something else to do in life – I will be doing a great disservice to not just them but to anyone else who is forced to sit through what they called “their acts.”  Now I’m not saying this because they weren’t funny – and god knows they weren’t – I’m saying this because they were lazy and unfocused and  obviously didn’t give a shit about what they were doing and my time.  And let me tell you right now – my time is precious.  Real Housewives of Atlanta was on last night and I chose to see you rather than tune in to that.  That my friends is what we call SACRIFICE.

Now, Stand Up comedy is not for the faint of heart.  Making a stranger laugh is one of the most difficult things to do.  I may write funny things for a living but thankfully – other people have to put themselves on the line to make my words SOUND funny. I could never do it.  I could never stand up in front of a crowd of people waiting for me to fail and tell jokes about my life – or lack thereof.  I’d rather be one of the plants Harvey Weinstein jacked off into – in fact – I bet thats exactly what performing Stand Up feels like.  So yeah, no, not doing that, thanks, gonna hide right over here and point fingers at the unfunny thank you very much.

So – last night I went to see a very small comedy show featuring some up and comers trying to make it in this very difficult world.  I knew it was going to be a raw show I just didn’t know raw meant it would feel like someone was pulling my own skin up over my head while pulling my fingernails off and salt poured into the open crevices.  There were a few laughs here and there but quite frankly the cavalier attitude of the people attempting to perform what they thought was comedy was the most insulting of all.

The emcee of the night was funny enough. He had some good stories to tell – no jokes but goodish stories – the ones he remembered at least.  He seemed kinda high – but that may have been his act.  In fact maybe everyone was fucking with me and that was all of their acts – not remembering their jokes and looking at bits of paper or their phones while doing stand up – yes one “standup” checked her phone every three seconds to see what her next joke was.  She’d tell a joke and then – take out phone pause pause pause, scroll scroll scroll and then oh here it is my next joke. It didn’t help.  Its four minutes people – not an hour – pull it the fuck together.  Everyone who took the stage last night was highly unprepared to do comedy. Hey, there were highly unprepared to do anything.  And quite frankly – it was rude.  Now I’m not going to judge someones brand of comedy because it takes all kind of things to make all kinds of people laugh but if you’re going to get up on a stage and ask me to come see you, then you better have the decency to give a fuck about the words coming out of your mouth.   At least remember your jokes.  Is that too much to ask?  Have a fucking routine and practice it until its perfect.  I don’t go to work every day and say – hey – I’m just gonna write 8 pages of this script today.  And I probably didn’t use the right format.  In fact, I’m not sure if the characters are even the ones I was supposed to use. If comedy is your career of choice than have a tight fucking four minutes and practice it until it sings… not stumbles out of your mouth. It doesn’t matter if people laugh then, at least you know – you did the best you can do. Care about what you’re doing.

My favorite part of the night were the two improv  troupes.  The first was a group of three people who asked for a suggestion for a word from the audience. The word given was OCTOPUS. Then one of the girls just started talking about nothing. About two sentences in she was tapped out by one of the guys who also uttered about two sentences before he was cut off by the third guy who uttered two sentences.  Now I studied improv for two years and while i wont be going on stage anytime soon – i have no idea what they were doing.  They then did a few routines that were so painful and so pointless and had nothing at all whatsoever to do with comedy or Octopus that i just sat there with my head in my hands wondering – what the fuck is happening.  Wheres the octopus?  Why ask for a suggestion from the audience?  The second improv troupe was actually worse because they just sat on stage after being given the word “LIBRARY” and talked as three high school kids in a library…. the entire time.  No jokes.  Just sitting around talking about books or something. Now,  there are actual rules to improv.  These rules have clearly never been taught to these people.  My hair hurt it was so painful to watch. My eyeballs wanted to bleed.  I was embarrassed for all of them and their lack of skills and caring.  Kudos to the girl who told a holocaust joke that was funny.  I laughed once.  Then she yelled pussy over and over again and I kinda lost interest. She at least knew her act.

I want to support you and your new venture. I want to be the warm hug that helps comfort you into this dark terrible business – but quite frankly you’ve got to give a shit first.

“An Octopus walked into a library… ”


Yeah, I saw that.

Published January 15, 2018 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Two friends meet for dinner.

“Ohmigod I went to the most amazing…

“…restaurant. Yeah, I saw that.”

“Oh right.  But after dinner we went to…”

“…that new play downtown. Yeah, I saw that.”

“I don’t know if I told you but…”

“…your mom is in the hospital.  Yeah, I saw that.”

“Okay. Well, see you next week.”

This is the new dinner, or coffee, or workout meeting, or sidewalk meeting or any gathering thanks to social media and our pubic billboarding of our lives.  No one needs to be told anything in person because everyone already knows everything.  It turns out social media is the most unsocial creation ever.  And its really putting a crimp in my social life and by crimp i mean no one has anything to talk about face to face anymore.

I am in constant turmoil about social media.  On the one hand – I am my photographer fathers daughter and love to take pictures.  On the other hand I don’t really know how many pictures of my dog in hats people need to see.  Is a shot of me flinging a kettle bell around a gym that fascinating?  Me thinks not.  Did everyone need to know that my new shoes arrived? Gonna have to go with a no on that one.  But. It seems we have this desire to have our photos and thoughts and lives broadcast to the world but when the world comes knocking live we don’t really want to answer the door or for that matter even know how to anymore.  We’re creating the most anti social group of humans under the guise of social media.  Sure you know what I’m doing for the five seconds you stare at my photo but what about the rest of the time?  Everyone talks about the spectacular FOMO (mom  – that means Fear Of Missing Out) that comes with looking at other peoples photos but what about the lack of connection with your actual friends that is happening thanks to this one second snapshot we’ve released to the masses.  Sure you posted a shot of yourself having an amazing vegan meal but there were 23 other hours unaccounted for and because everyone is only posting happy pics of themselves we assume everyone is okay.  I could have had my head shoved in a bucket of hot oil after that beet ahi and no one would know because i certainly didn’t post that.  (It’s hard to get a good shot while your heads in hot oil)

So, call your friends and tell them a really fucking boring story that you didn’t put on social media.  Or catch them up on your life – your real life – not the picture perfect one. Or ask them to tell you something that happened that you may not know about.  They might care.  I know I do. Sort of.  If we’re super close. If not please don’t tell me because I’m busy posting a photo of my smoothie.  It has dates in it!!

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.



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.


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.



Published May 21, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If you told me years ago that one night I’d be deep in the desert sitting on a blanket surrounded by 39 strangers drinking Ayahuasca and barfing my pain into a bucket – I’d say you were crazy – I’d never wear my j crew pajamas in public. Rim Shot Please! And THAT may be the only joke I tell in this story – a story about 52 years in the making. A story that I’ve been looking for the ending to for years – and this morning I got – thanks in part – to my very brave  mother.

I started doing Transcendental Meditation about a month ago – and during a couple of my meditations some very scary and creepy thoughts came up from my childhood. I got the distinct feeling that something happened to me – some sexual trauma – but I couldn’t quite put my finger on it. This is not the first time I’ve had these thoughts – I’ve had them throughout my life. I could just never really figure out what it was and I chose to ignore it. Screw it. Fuck it. It doesn’t matter. It happened a long time ago so no big deal there’s nothing I can do about it now who cares move on blah blah blah build a wall and hide behind it. Leave the past in the past. It won’t change your future. You’re fine and happy and strong and okay. But on Friday night – the past started to reveal itself – and this morning it came full circle – and now I know what I guess I didn’t really WANT to know.

My medicinal journey with Ayahuasca began Friday night. I drove to a secret location with a friend who was going to produce my story for the local news. Why would I choose such a public forum for such a story?  Well – it’s the same reason I write this blog – so that even one person may be able to read it and relate to it and maybe feel better about their own story.  My friend was going to just sit by my side and observe my “trip.” If you don’t know what Ayahuasca is – please look it up because it’s too long to explain. All I know is that I was told it’s like 100 years of therapy in one day. I was told it was life changing. I needed that. I was on a strict fast for days and so I arrived with a terrible headache and backache. I was told to wear all white and to bring a pillow and some blankets. We entered the giant rec room and for the first time I realized just how big my group of fellow journeymen would be – about 40 – and I freaked out a little inside. Who are these people? Am I going to trip my brains out in front of strangers? Do I want all these people to know my story? I also realized I did not bring the right bedding or the right snacks. This was going to be a long journey and my chic Pendleton blanket and cute outfit was not going to be the support I needed to be comfortable. People were bringing out serious bedding and blankets. They had bags of snacks and water and little things they needed for comfort. I was clearly in a group of professional trippers and I was a novice. I was terrified but I told myself I was ready to face the demons. I was ready to see what happened to me as a child and release it to the Ayahuasca gods. I was not ready.

My friend who was producing the piece was told that she couldn’t stay in the room with all of us unless she too drank the medicine. She couldn’t be part of the circle.  I really needed her there.  Ruh Roh. I told her it was a great idea. Do it! We’ll be in this together. And she was just crazy enough to listen to me. We were told not to side talk to each other because it would ruin the experience. We didn’t listen. I drank the first cup of medicine at about 9:40. I immediately felt nauseated but did what they said and sat on my blanket and tried to keep the barf at bay. I remember thinking – please don’t let me be the first person to puke. After about an hour or so – hard to tell in the dark candle lit room – people started wretching… violently … into their barf buckets – which were small plastic mixing containers from a hardware store.   I immediately wanted to flee. How am I supposed to listen to people puking and more importantly – there’s no way I can puke in front of someone. So me and my friend ran to the bathroom and started barfing in there. I was high – like a mushroom high – so I was just giggling my ass off. I didn’t feel like I was tripping though. I sat on the floor of the bathroom puking and farting. The farting made us laugh even harder. But I wasn’t tripping. I didn’t see my life’s pain in front of me like a story. And so we went back to our blankets in the circle and waited. And then I started freaking out. What if I’m the one person who doesn’t hallucinate and we came all the way here and we did all the interviews about this and its scheduled to air as a sweeps story and now I won’t be able to complete the story. I got so freaked out in my head and was terrified that I was going to let everyone down. And so when they announced it was time to take the second cup of medicine – something I didn’t think I’d take – I ran to the front of the circle and opened my gullet at the altar. I knew I was going to get violently ill again but I didn’t care. I had to give my friend a good story. People were barfing all around us. There was amazing music being played and guardians walking around saying prayers over us. I waited another twenty to thirty minutes for it to kick in but it didn’t. In fact – it killed the high that I did have. And now I was in a full on panic. I went to one of the guardians who was there to take care of us and said – what do I do? – is it possible I’ll never get the full experience? Am I too in my head to even let this happen? He said I probably was. And i full on freaked out. He said I should drink more. Oh fuck me. Drink more? I’m 103 pounds how can I possibly drink more? But I was truly terrified that I would disappoint my friend and not give her a good story . And so I went to the front of the circle – and knelt at the altar – and drank again. After about thirty minutes I felt really really sick. I ran to the bathroom again and shoved my head in the toilet – but nothing would come up. And suddenly – I remembered the instructions from earlier – don’t run away – don’t leave the circle – sit in your pain and discomfort and listen to the music and let it all take you where you need to go. Let the ayahuasca guide you to what you need to see. And so I did. I have NEVER been so nauseated in my life. I wanted to puke so badly but couldn’t. I kept trying but it wouldn’t come. My body was writhing around trying to get comfortable. I was hallucinating like crazy but I can’t really tell you what I was seeing. It was all very jumbled together and the second something would flash in front of me – I tried to overanalyze it. Was that it? Was that the picture? Was that what I’m trying to remember? I asked the ayahuasca guides to show me my past.  Show me my pain. Show me what happened to me as a child. But they didn’t.  And then my mind would move on to something else and in my head I would scream – what is that?  Is that it? I remember my legs kicking violently. I remember hearing whispered voices around me saying – you’re doing great – keep going – this is what you need. I was afraid to open my eyes and so I kept them shut. The music was amazing and totally taking me to crazy places. The lyrics were telling the exact story of what I was thinking about as it was happening. But I can’t exactly pin point what I saw. Towards the end I had to pee a lot and every time I came back to the giant circle it looked like all the people in the middle were having sex. Which they weren’t. It was like I was watching a scene from that movie Eyes Wide Shut. After what felt like quite a few hours –  I lied down finally because I didn’t feel nauseated anymore. But I was curled up in the fetal position – like a teeny tiny ball.   It was now about 3:30 and the Shaman said – he was bringing us back to a state of consciousness. And all of a sudden I burst into tears. Deep deep tears and shuddering. I couldn’t stop crying. My body was convulsing as if I was cold but I wasn’t. There were massive convulsions like I was shedding trauma. It went on for two hours. I had the distinct vision that I was holding on to my trauma like a security blanket. Like it was my story. A story I didn’t want to let go of. But I still didn’t know or see what that trauma was.  I remember very distinctly realizing – oh my god I don’t trust men. I don’t feel safe with them. I don’t trust them with my heart and I never have. I saw one friends face that I have had a long and wonderful if not at times confusing friendship with. I realized exactly what this friendship meant and why one thing we went through many years ago hurt me so badly. And that I had never allowed myself to truly feel the hurt from this friendship. I saw every sexual relationship I had ever had and realized that I chose all the wrong people – that they could never take care of me – that no one has ever taken care of me. I also saw another friendship I was in the middle of dealing with some hurt from but it didn’t give me any answers to that. I finally came down from my Ayahuasca journey and thought – wow what a basic bitch – I don’t trust men? Duh.  I’ve been single for 17 years. Anyone could have told you that. We closed the circle that morning – listening to stories from the other people there of what they went through and we quietly drove home. I met some really cool warm loving people and I think I will try to stay in touch with a few of them. I could not wait to get home. I could not wait to get on my couch. I thought to myself – I will never do that again. How could anyone do that more than once? This morning I thought – that was not life changing. That was just a painful barf in the desert. What a waste.

This morning I woke up and meditated – which by the way is one of the best things I’ve ever done. I highly recommend TM. During my meditation – I once again saw what I think happened to me as a child. But this time it wasn’t a pleasant memory. (By the way I think I enjoyed what happened to me. I think it felt good. And I think that’s part of the guilt i carry. )  This time I saw a face. And I saw myself trying to get away from this face and from his hands pulling me back to where we were.  I sobbed throughout my meditation.  Moments later – after it was over – my mom called and I told her about the Ayahuasca. I didn’t want to tell her before because she worries about me and all the crazy shit I’ve been doing over the years. She asked me why I do all these things and I said – I just felt I had to do it because I really think there is some childhood trauma I’m holding on to. And just like it was nothing she said – “well don’t you remember you told me Uncle Marty molested you when you were a little girl? Do you think that’s true?” Immediately the floodgates opened. I wailed into the phone. Wailed. I have never cried like that in my life. Every part of my flesh and bones were sobbing and shuddering. As terrible as it was – it was the greatest release I have ever felt. I finally had an answer. She said that I told her about Uncle Marty (not his real name) many years ago – in my twenties maybe – and she said – I just said it so very matter-of-factly and moved on. She said I seemed to be fine and resigned that it happened and I didn’t want to talk about it and so she never mentioned it again. I have zero memory of ever telling her this.  Suddenly my memory gates opened and it all came back to me. Suddenly I realized my history with men is all rooted in this one or two or ten moments from my childhood- when I was so very young – maybe 4. Now I know why I stopped dating when I got sober. Now I realized why having sex drunk was the only way I could have any sex. Now I know why I chose all the wrong men – the ones who would leave me – or the ones I could leave – because it was easier – it was what I was taught – that I wasn’t good enough to be loved for longer. That I was there to be used and left.  That I didn’t deserve anything more.  And I realized how deeply I look for acceptance in the eyes of men.  And why I have chosen to ignore them rather than feel this lack of acceptance and this extreme judgement.  And it wasn’t just men I dated that I set up for this failure – it happened with male friendships too. Most recently – one of my best friends – who I have been through quite a bit with – and who I felt had abandoned our friendship like it didn’t matter, like it didn’t happen, and like it meant nothing. (He didn’t by the way) And I realized that I picked him to be my best friend because at the time he filled a perfect void, a non sexual friendship marriage of sorts that I poured my heart and soul into.  And when he had to go on with his life – I felt abandoned.  And I blamed him. And I held onto it like it was a death in my life.  This morning I apologized to him for that and I know in my heart that this friendship will be fine… and is right where it should be.

I now have the knowledge I need to move on with my life.  I realize that every person I have ever dated, my alcoholism, my addiction to everything, why I don’t remember a thing about my childhood – all comes down to this moment of my young life – ruined by someone who felt it was okay to touch a little girl – under the age of 4 or perhaps – even  younger.  I realize that this is the voice I’ve been trying to drown out in my head for years.  And now that I’ve said it – I actually feel guilty for saying it out loud.  What if I’m wrong? What if I made the whole thing up.  But the truth is – there are now too many pieces fitting together in the puzzle that is me.

People often don’t understand why I write the things I write about my life. Why I so openly share what I share with total strangers. In part – I do it so that someone who may be going through what I am going through won’t feel so alone about it.  But  I mostly do it as a release.  To set the pain or embarrassment or whatever it is –  free into the wind.  So today I set my childhood free. I set free the little me I left behind.  I think she’s going to be okay.  Thank you Mom. I love you.


Published May 16, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


Hi my name is Heidi and I’m a Comedy Writer. (say it together: Hi Heidi) It’s been 90 days since I wrote my last TV joke. If I don’t get a job soon I fear I’ll go off the comedy wagon and do something drastic – like go back to news – or worse – start posting my own videos on my own YouTube channel.   I will tell you now – they will heavily involve my dog Tulip sleeping, eating, shitting or farting and they will not garner any big ratings. This has been my first official staffing season as a scripted writer – and for those of you who don’t know what that is – it’s basically 9000 writers looking to nab about 150 jobs and when you’re basically a new writer that no one’s ever heard of – good luck. I’d get more shots if I were a hooker – a 56 year old jewish hooker with a penchant for not having sex. That’s saying a lot. I feel like I’m trapped in a really bad game show and by the time they get to me – the prize package is going to be a trip to Monrovia to try out the latest fast food chain called Margherita Mary’s Rib Town and I don’t drink or eat meat. I may soon though. I may work there soon actually. From what I can tell – here’s how staffing season works. The networks make a gabillion pilots. Then they pick ten. Then all the writers swarm the writer shark infested waters looking to get hired on one of these shows but these shows are made by writers who have tons of writer friends and all of those friends have been hired before the show was even officially picked up. See where I’m going here? It makes sense.  That’s what I would do. I mean – that’s how I got my first job. But now it’s like the worst school yard pick I’ve never been involved in. I’m the fat kid with the wedgie and the glasses and the snot dripping from her nose. I’m not popular!!! I don’t even care what I write. You want comedy I’ll give you jokes. You want drama – I’ll make you ball your eyes out. The great thing about the show I was on, was it was both comedy and drama so I feel like I have some skills. I’m tap dancing as fast as I can but nobody likes my tap shoes. I’ve never walked in to more rooms and told more people how amazing I am and I love talking about how amazing I am, but even I’m sick of hearing about me. Every executive you meet is different – every show you talk about is different – and you have to be well versed in all of it. I’ve never watched so much TV as homework and I actually used to like TV.   I PICKED UP A BOOK LAST NIGHT because I’m so sick of watching  writing and acting and camera blocking and jokes and words and tears and laughter and Jesus Christ somebody give me a fucking job – I swear I’ll be your best employee ever!!!! Breathe. I’ve basically been on a three month long talent show audition and I’m hoping I get my costume and audition piece right within the next few weeks. This is the toughest business I’ve ever been in and I’ve never loved anything more. There is nothing better than knowing someone is sitting at home watching your work on their television, or computer, or phone, or robot dog with screen and laughing or crying or just writing you a note about it. It’s the most special thing I’ve ever done in my life and I can’t wait for my next adventure. Now somebody give me a 90 day cake and let me blow out my comedy candle. I’m trying to do it the AA way – not get depressed and take things – One Day At A Time. Hey, that’s a Netflix show. I wonder if they’re hiring?


Published May 5, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


So, for the past few months, I’ve been feeling really good about myself. I spent my last hiatus working on my outsides – and this hiatus working on my insides. The later is a much harder job. My insides (brain) look like a map of all of LA’s highways at rush hour – some movement but mostly a lot of congestion and honking and yelling and someone’s flipping a bird and all the music and all the talk from all of the cars is playing all at once. What I’m trying to say is – I may be a mental patient. That said – a few girlfriends (yay I have girlfriends and it only took me till I was 56) suggested that it was “time” for me to start looking for a partner. I don’t know what time that is but apparently the clock was running out and my time was now. So – two of them came to my house to help me set up my profile page on a popular dating app.  I won’t say the name but it rhymes with Bumble. They wanted to make sure that I didn’t say something stupid and that I picked the right pictures. This is understandable because I would just use pictures of my dog and my profile would say – THIS IS STUPID. I DON’T KNOW WHY ANYONE WOULD DO THIS. So we set up my page – Bumble is linked to Facebook so it automatically put in my age – 56. I said I was a writer and my profile said something fucking retarded like – I love trying new things but I also love just lying on my couch. Emmy Award Winning!!! Pick me!! Aren’t I amazing!!! How have you lived your tired old life this long without me??!! I used some pictures that actually showed my age – not my old Jewish Community Center Cheerleading shots from when I was 13.   And boom – I was live! Bumble is called an app for women because you have to swipe on them before you can become a match and you have to write them first. Ugh. Sounded like way too much work for me. Ten seconds later I swiped on a hot bald guy with a goatee. I like this look. Boom goes the dynamite – it’s a match!  Ohmigod, my friends said – that was fast. I was nauseated.  Not exactly the right feeling to have. Now what. They said I had to write to him first. I spent almost 24 hours coming up with this – based on the fact that his profile said he was punctual. “You had me at punctual.” I know what you’re thinking – that’s the best you could do you fucking writer? I regretted it the second I wrote it. Seconds later he wrote back – “you had me at writer. I’m a Sapiophile.” (I had to look it up too. Go ahead. I’ll be right here. (BEAT) Okay? Let’s continue) Then he said – “Plus, you’re hot AF.” Okay, for those of you not fluent in AF – that means “as fuck” and is a common term with the kids these days. My girlfriend said – this was not good.  Anyone who starts that way is just fishing.  I was like – really?  Cause I’m down to be AF.  I’m not usually AF anything to anyone. She said – it has to be more than just a sexual thing.  Got it.  But, we continued to chat. I told him I wasn’t really into this whole dating thing and was kinda nervous about meeting anyone who I only talked to online. He said – “we should meet. “ So I did what one of my online experts told me to do. “Send me a picture of you holding a sign that says you are who you are.” He wouldn’t. He said “why would you need that?” I said – “because if I don’t have that – the only place we’re meeting for a drink is the police station and I’m pretty sure they don’t serve cocktails in the drunk tank.”   He said – “maybe this dating isn’t for you if you think everyone is an abject liar.” I said “if you think I’m going to meet anyone without knowing their last name and googling the fuck out of you – you’re mentally ill.” And then I deleted him. I then spent the next two days thinking about what he actually looked like. Who this liar on the other end of my phone was.   And just how fat was he?  Like, did he have a barf bucket next to his chair and a beer hole in his lazy boy?  I suspected it was someone from high school that I ignored who was now getting even. Or my old boss. She’s fucked up enough to mess with me. I decided not to quit. IDIOT. I swiped on guys left and right. I picked men who were older, younger, bigger, smaller, hotter, fatter, thinner, whateverer. AND NOT ONE PERSON MATCHED BACK. I thought – well I’m probably not in any of these stupid jerks age range which I assume is 24-25 no matter how old they are. And so I decided to change my age. I went on Facebook and changed my birthday to make me 50. Then I logged back in to Bumble. Look at me being all clever and pulling bees in to my honey!! Woot!! Woot!!  I wasn’t dishonest though – the only thing my profile said was “I’m actually 56 but nobody swipes on that.” There was a very sexy African American man who was 48 and I said – fuck it – and swiped. Boom – it’s a match. I said hi. He said “just looking at your sexy pics.” Ugh.  Here we go again. I didn’t respond.  But he wrote more, realizing this wasn’t a good way in for me. We started chatting. He was nice enough but I instantly felt uneasy. Who the fuck am I really talking to? Where are these people? Are they even people? Why is this a good idea? Why would anyone do this to find love? And by the way – I don’t even want to fucking date anyone!! He said – “Lets just have a conversation. It’s all part of the getting to know you process.” I said “I’m a sitcom writer for a tv show called baby daddy. Google me. It’s all there.” What a dick I am. He said he was willing to Facetime with me and show me that he was who he says he is. I almost vomited at the idea.  I said I wasn’t sure this was a good idea. He said “Well, what do you want from this?” And I said – “Honestly, I have no fucking idea.” And that’s when I realized – I don’t want this. This is not my idea of meet cute. I liked it better when I just got wasted and dragged someone home from a bar. This online stuff makes it all so impersonal. It’s like a business meeting or an interview only this time both of you can get fucked. Which by the way – is the last thing on my mind right now. I’ve written before about my lack of desire to be mated – and my lack of understanding of why that is. I’m sure having a partner in life is amazing. But for now – this hive is closed. My honey is staying in my jar. And the only buzzing I’ll be doing – is around a fresh joint.

The Curious Incident of The Dog Fuckers at Midnight

Published April 17, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

So… I finished my Transcendental Meditation class. I am cured. I am healed. I am a new person who has transcended above all of my problems. I am a better person than you.

Okay the last one might be true but while I am still the same dick head I was on Wednesday – I cannot recommend TM highly enough. Sure I still yelled at the woman in the Whole Foods 365 parking lot for being a moron who can’t drive and a selfish fuck for stealing my parking space – but I just yelled at her once.  See – improvement. So, if you are like me – with a brain that functions so fast and so furiously that talking to yourself in your head is considered a “conversation” then you will benefit from this type of meditation. All meditations are different – this one seems to be THE REAL DEAL. That said – I’m not supposed to talk about the experience too much – but one day I will write about the people in my class. It will be the funniest blog I have ever written. My classmates will see themselves in my words and they will be better people for it. Yes, I will make them better people.

They say that one of the side effects of practicing TM – is an active brain while sleeping – and more intense dreams. Well last night I had the single most fucked up dream I have ever had. It felt like it went on for two hours. Buckle your seat belts – this is one fucked up ride.

DREAM:  I woke up to the sound of voices outside, in particular, a man yelling at someone. He was saying “You know what I’m going to do to you don’t you!” It sounded terrifying. It sounded like someone was about to get murdered. It sounded like it was in my bedroom. My heart instantly started racing. It was pounding. I could feel it popping out of my chest. I instantly grabbed my phone and called my neighbor Kiki who lives across the street to see if she was hearing anything. She didn’t pick up. I called 911 and told them that someone was being murdered next door to me. They seemed interested but then just put the phone down as if I was that weird person who called them everyday. “Oh it’s that freak in Silver Lake who thinks someone’s being murdered every night.” I peaked out my window and saw someone run by. I was literally jumping out of my skin. Clearly this was a Manson Murder type situation and I was next. I had to get out of the house. I grabbed Tulip and tried to sneak down the street to my other neighbors Kelly and Wade.   As I’m trying to sneak past the house where the alleged murder is happening I see an older witchy looking woman with a few dogs standing guard in front. “Want to babysit my dogs?” she says to me. “Yeah, no, sorry, my husband would kill me if I bring home another dog.” Quickly I dart to Kelly and Wades who immediately let me in. They are having a party that is only populated by really handsome Australian men. Its as if some kind of crazy rugby team bus just broke down in front of their house and they invited them all in. I tell them what is happening and they seem completely nonplussed. But they do call the police. Nothing happens. No cops come. I’m losing my mind. They are having cocktails and partying as if it’s just another Sunday night in Silver Lake. I peer out the window of their house, which looks directly into the murder house across the street, which has a giant front window that has no blinds and I see exactly what is going on. The guy who was yelling is talking to a dog – who he is fucking. What the what? Yes, there are what seems like dozens of dogs inside this house – and they are making doggie people porn. This to me is actually worse than murder but I realize – oh they won’t kill me – and so my heart suddenly stops pounding and is replaced with the overwhelming feeling of barfing my brains out and murdering the people who are doing this to the dogs. I decide its safe to go home – after all – a bunch of dog fuckers aren’t going to kill me – they may just try to steal Tulip. She’s pretty fuckable. As I’m heading to my house I see that the cops have finally showed up and are handcuffing and putting all of the dog fuckers – into the car. They look at me – I say – “Wow bummer guys. It’s not like you killed anyone.” Perfect cover I think – and I head into my house – which by the way – is gorgeous. It’s massive and sort of modern and seems to go on for days. Once inside I hear a noise out back. I go outside and seem to be surprised to find my friend Mimi and all of her girlfriends by my pool. There is a giant brass bed set up and her boyfriend Brett is sleeping in it. The girls are hanging out and drinking and chatting and having the best time and talk to me as if they are there every Sunday night and this is normal and I try to act as if I’m not surprised. Suddenly I’m thinking to myself – wow – my house is everything I’ve ever dreamed of. So I leave them and go inside where the creepy ring leader of the doggie sex chain is standing by my front door – but inside my house. I freak but try to act like we’re besties. “Oh hey, I have to get to bed can you come back later?” I shoo him out and when doing so, see dozens of dogs in my yard. Dogs of all shapes and sizes. I start walking around the grounds because now I have lost Tulip. There are six or seven mastiffs that look just like her and as I search for her I pass a guy with long hair sitting in a beach chair. I hear him say “Okay, all done now” and as I turn to him I see that he is breastfeeding a ferret that he has just pulled off his nipple. What the fuck? Again, I act nonchalant. I can’t find Tulip and so I go inside through my bathroom which is filled with so much product you can barely move. I pass a moisturizing warming station that has a baby oil and a regular moisturizer in it – warming. I put some oil on my arms and rub it in. It’s magical.  I see Tulip asleep on her doggie bed by my bed and I get back in bed and my friends start emailing me, texting me, and posting videos of the dog fuckers as if it’s the single funniest moment they have ever seen. And I wake up.


  1. The male voices I heard were the sounds coming from the man who lives behind me who insists on living his entire fucking life on his terrace. His voice travels through my house and into my bedroom at night. When I woke up I heard him having some inane conversation with someone like he does all the time.
  1. I called Kiki because I had just seen her that day and had had a long conversation with her about moving and maybe selling my house.
  1. The Australian party  is because I work out with a bunch of beautiful Australian men at Training Mate every day. They are warm and inviting and make me feel safe.
  1. I had been at my friend Brian and Nicks house earlier that day. They have five dogs and with Tulip added its always a nut house. At one point during our Easter dinner I looked over and two of the french bull dogs were fucking each other like mad. We laughed.
  1. Having people at my house to come and go as they please is something that I both crave and struggle with. I enjoy having people around but am so type A that sometimes it becomes overwhelming. Its one of the things that weed has helped me through.
  1. My big beautiful house with a pool. I have been dreaming about having to move out of a house with a pool for years. Over and over again I have the dream that I’m moving away from the house with the pool that I love so much. I have zero idea what this means as I’ve never had a house with a pool – ever – in my entire life. Maybe I’m moving to one? We shall see. In general I have been struggling with the idea of selling my house. If the writers strike happens – it’s hasta la vista baby to this home I have called home. I am torn.
  1. Earlier that day I had been to the supermarket and saw an exact replica of Tulip in someone’s back seat. I was convinced someone stole Tulip and even went up to the dog to see if I could see it’s collar. The only reason I realized it wasn’t Tulip was that the dog moved away from me and went to the other side of the car window.
  1. The idea of everyone posting videos of this dog fucking horror show at my neighbor’s house is a pretty easy one – I turned off my social media so I didn’t have to look at everyones inane posts about about their Coachella outfits.  In general I am struggling with social media.  I enjoy being able to catch up with friends on Facebook but other than that – I’m out. It makes me anxious. I have enough anxious in my life.
  2. And now for the really important part. I have tried for years to moisturize my body on a daily basis. I hate it. I’m always freezing standing there naked in the morning and at night and all I want is a moisturizer warmer like babies have. I have been thinking of getting one. Clearly this dream was a sign.
  3. I forgot the husband part and why I used the excuse that I couldn’t babysit the weird witchy ladies dogs because my husband would get mad.  This ones pretty obvious guys.

In conclusion – it seems that TM does open up your dreams. Lets hope its not always a dog fucking nightmare.

The End.

Shoe The Hell Am I?

Published April 9, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

For a solid twenty years, I would not be caught dead in a pair of flats. Ew. No. Gross. Dumpy. Fattie. Blah. Boring. Midget (calm down everyone) Low heeled loser. Way to look invisible. Yeah, I think that covers it. I wore high heels the way most women wear a comfy pair of walking shoes, which, if you love me you’ll never let me wear these and immediately knock me down in the street and steal them if I’m wearing them, and then burn them and hide all the evidence.  I could walk around in high heels for hours. In fact, I could and have raced people in high heels to prove my agility. I would spend an entire work day in my heels and never take them off – but that’s mostly because if I did my feet would swell up like pot bellied pigs and I’d never be able to stuff the porky little toes back into their cramping torture chambers. And trust me – some of my shoes were just that. In fact – Christian Louboutin – who makes shoes that look like art – is a mother fucking sado-masochist. I’m convinced he’s trying to wipe out women one D’orsay pump at a time. My love affair with shoes really started in los angeles because you can’t wear high heels in New York City. Well you can, but by the end of one block they look like a dog chewed the heels and you have been stuck in a crack so many times cab drivers and construction workers think you’re wasted because you keep falling out of your shoes. I can’t tell you how many times a sidewalk crack ripped the shoe right off my foot at the most inopportune time. I guess there really is no opportune time to take a header in Manhattan. Now, it’s not unusual for a woman to admit that she loves high heels – in fact it pretty much makes me the most basic bitch around. I once had to make a Sophie’s choice in a Saks Fifth Avenue between five pairs of shoes because I could only afford four of them and I know it’s not cool to compare picking shoes to dead babies but for me at that time – it was pretty painful. I look at beautiful shoes and drool immediately starts pooling at the corners of my mouth. I must have them. I have to have them. I will die if I don’t have them. Well – I fucking have them ALL now folks and about thirty thousand dollars later – I’m over them. Now what!? Resell – which is leading to shame… extreme shame – for what I have wasted. And I’m not talking about the ones I wore – I’m talking about the ones I HAD TO HAVE – that have spent more time on a dusty shelf in my closet than on my feet.   And you know what’s truly frightening? As I try to unload these leathery suedy sparkly little pieces of real estate – I’m finding out that the jokes on me – because the only true designer pieces that appreciate over the years are the ones that were worn by famous people – like Madonna – and in the words of Joan Cusack in the greatest (only) movie ever made about Staten Island, “Working Girl” – “sometimes I sing and dance around the house in my underwear. Doesn’t make me Madonna. Never will.” So unless you’re a famous person, who probably got them for free because celebrities pay for nothing and then resell everything at a much higher price, you can kiss a profit good bye. If you ever see a famous person physically hand over a credit card for a piece of fashion you should take a picture of it because it is more rare than a big foot sighting unless it’s a famous Trans person shopping and then it actually could BE a big foot sighting. Calm down folks some Men who Become women still have big feet. But what is unusual for me – is the end of my love affair with shoes. I didn’t stop wearing them because I couldn’t walk in them – I stopped wearing them because I got fit – I got leaner – and I feel just a little bit taller in my body. In fact – I feel great in my flats – until I stand next to my tall girlfriends and then I feel like their old feeble friend or a lesbian – because  I also have tattoos and I guess short and tatted makes you a lesbian based on the amount of ladies who hit on me – but for the most part – I enjoy a nice flat. Now don’t get me wrong – I am keeping plenty of my high heels and I’m purring over kitten heels the way any 56 year old careening into the senior citizen home would – but flat is where it’s at for me right now. Take note though – when you see me in a business setting surrounded by men – I’ll be wearing those sky high shoes – because nothing says don’t listen to her – like a 5’4” jewish chick – no matter how loud I am. Sometimes you just gotta be eye to eye – to be heard like a guy.

How To Lose A Thigh In Ten Days

Published April 7, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have finally unlocked the secret to weight loss for me and before you start rolling your eyes and banging your coffee cup on the table and bitching about what a liar I am and how I’m naturally thin and why do I care what I weigh when I obviously don’t gain weight ever – trust me when I say – EVERYONE STRUGGLES WITH WEIGHT IN THEIR OWN WAY – and if they’re not struggling with it they are sitting in a big fat leather barka lounger that has two of those cup holder thingys and they’re eating a deep fried chocolate covered cheeto out of one and sipping a chocolate milk shake from the other right now. They’re also probably watching Fox News. Yes I just called all right wingers fat. It’s not the worst thing I’ve called them. Losing weight is hard – if it wasn’t – America wouldn’t be obese. And we are. Just look at our president. That man hasn’t seen his penis in years. If he has one that is. Its obviously WAY smaller than mine. Now I love food. Correction – I love “good” food. And sometimes that food isn’t good for me but I love it anyway. I talk about food the way men talk about sexy women or the way women talk about sexy shoes. Sitting down for a great meal with friends is one of my most favorite things to do. I think cooking for friends is also an important part of showing them just how much you love them and I don’t cook for just anyone. (So yeah, if you haven’t been to my house for a meal – I hate you. There I said it. I’ve been looking for a way to tell you for years now and I’m masking it within the pages of this blog in hopes that you’ll get it.) I also love going to a great restaurant and I will spend hours on my computer looking up and researching the best places to go. That used to take about ten minutes in Los Angeles but now we are exploding with good food of all shapes and sizes. If you mention a neighborhood to me – I will tell you the best restaurants there before I tell you what its even like as a hood. I talk about food while I’m eating food – in fact I’m usually planning my next meal as I’m eating my current meal. Chefs are rock stars to me and now that I’ve been eating vegan for a few months again – people who can turn plants into amazing things are well… amazing. Has everyone stopped rolling their eyes from me saying Vegan yet? Okay – lets say I’m a Pescavegan because I think I may start eating fish again – that is – as soon as I can unhear the sound of the fishies tiny ocean filled tears thanks to a story someone told me about how they suffer on the fishing line.  But I will eat a fucking tuna goddammit.

My biggest problem with food is – I eat it when I shouldn’t. Which is in bed – late at night. I’ve written about it before – the horror of waking up with a melted chocolate in my bed and once figuring out its chocolate – realizing I have once again eaten pretty much while sleeping. I have woken up with so many food remnants in my bed it looks like someone threw a dinner party on me. I have had gum in my hair or glued to my sheets more times than I care to tell.   So – what’s the secret to weight loss for me?

It’s a little thing called SLEEP. It is something that has evaded me for years. Its’ one of the things that led me to marijuana which is one of the things that lead me to eating sour patch kids at two am. Well sour patch kids with a side of everything on the left side of my fridge and the lower shelf of my pantry. But when my meditation teacher daddy took away my weed toys he also took away my ability to sleep. And so I have tried the horrible, terrible, don’t try this at home kids method of going to sleep – I took a sleeping pill.   AHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHHH. Oh mystery of life at last I found you. I dropped six pounds in ten days just by sleeping and not eating a garbage truck of garbage.

So there you have it folks. Take drugs. Lose weight. THIS MESSAGE HAS BEEN SPONSORED BY NO ONE WITH A FUCKING BRAIN IN THEIR HEAD.

Good night.

Inner Peace Outer Freak

Published March 31, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

For the past 25 days I’ve been getting up every morning and meditating. Stop fucking laughing it’s true. Which is proof that anyone can do it. Granted my meditation is done for ten minutes lying down in my bed while listening to an app that usually ends in me falling right back to sleep but I’m trying people, I’m fucking trying and you should all be grateful when you do something stupid like ask me why I’m vegan every time I try to order a fucking meal or ask me any other multitude of dumb unanswerable questions that won’t change your life one iota once you get the answer. Clearly, the path to meditation was a good choice. That said – I’m pretty sure after 25 days, the only thing that’s really happened is I’ve fallen hopelessly in love with Head Space Andy. He’s british and bald and calming and I think he really is helping me hit the big giant pause button every time I spin off into some weird awful my life sucks status. (This happens on the regular because I am a human being.) But something good is coming from my ten minutes of almost total concentration minus Tulip licking my face, Tulip farting, or the garbage men coming to remove all of the garbage from all of the land at 6am. I am feeling calmer, and I think I’m handling a few situations better. Certainly not the situation where I yelled at a man at a traffic light to go you stupid fucker it’s green what are you looking at you loser – as if he could magically hear inside his car – but I didn’t get out of my car and punch him and so we see…. IMPROVEMENT! So I decided to take it to the next step. I’ve been doing something called Mindful Meditation which is about controlling the mind to stop going places that won’t help you but I really wanted to learn TM. I’ve heard a lot about Transcendental Meditation and found a free lecture at a certified place near my house. I’m doing this dammit. And so off I went to my class with hope in my heart and three bong hits in my chest. If I’m gonna listen to some weird lecture – I’m gonna be high. The class filled up pretty quickly with about 7 or 8 other people. We went around the room and everyone was asked why they are here. STRESS DUH. And then everyone was asked how they heard about TM. I had no idea that Katie Perry and Ellen Degeneres were so influential but damn every one in the class said that’s how they found out – except me – I said my friend Lorna – because her facebook feed was what convinced me. If you don’t know Lorna then I’m sorry because she’s amazing. The power of celebrity however was palpable and I understand why they get all the free shit in the world because they convince ordinary ding dongs like me to do stuff. The man who led the lecture was so kind and sweet and his voice was so sominiferous and lovely and I found myself yelling quietly in my head – shut up already I’m in!! Probably not the best response to the concept of chilling out. He explained the course – the fees (I’m gonna be selling a lot of shit on Tradesy folks so keep an eye out) and the simplicity of just taking four days to learn something that may very well change your life. Many years ago I studied the ancient Jewish practice of Kaballah. At it’s core – it’s about learning to stop the chaos in your life and finding your pause button and hitting it before lashing out. My pause button has been hit more than a sombrero piñata at a Cinco de Mayo festival. That said – it did help me quit drinking and smoking pretty easily and so TM could be the next step on my road to inner peace. And what I mean by inner peace is – simply not getting bogged down in silly thoughts that I can’t change. My brilliant business manager just sent me this quote yesterday about life – “worrying is like praying for what you don’t want to have happen.” Anna is fucking smart. And hot.

And so – pen in hand I started to fill out my paper work to take the four day class where I will be assigned my own mantra. Everyone gets assigned a meditation mantra that you are not allowed to tell anyone else ever. My friend Alex told me she and her sister told each other their mantras twenty years ago when they first learned TM. They found out it was the same one and so now I’m convinced we will all have the same one but that’s okay because I’m in and I’ll never tell a soul what mine is. I’m hoping it’s similar to Jambi’s on Pee Wee’s playhouse – Meka Leka Hi Meka Hiney Ho!!! It probably won’t be though. Once I filled in my paper work I had a small private conversation with the teacher where he told me the one thing I have to do to prepare for my class. NO SMOKING POT FOR 15 DAYS.

I’m out.

No really.

I can’t do that.

Are you retarded?

Weed is the only thing keeping me from killing people.

Huh, I may be addicted again.



But I want to calm the voices in my head. Not fully – as they are the basis for my writing – but I just want to stop marinating in the bullshit of life. And so – here I go. Yesterday was day one of my weed free status. Pray for me.

On a side note – isn’t it weird that the same way you hold your hands for meditation is the same way you grasp a joint?  Just saying.

No! I’m not his Mother!

Published March 22, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Dressed in a marijuana baseball cap, a camouflage bomber jacket, ripped jeans and Vans hi top sneakers, it was just a typical trip to the supermarket. Or so I thought. “Why don’t you grab the vegetables and I’ll get the toilet paper”, I said to my 26 year old roommate. The second he walked off the woman standing next to me said – “Is that your son?” OHMIGOD BREATHE DON’T PUNCH HER IN THE FACE THIS IS A NICE PLACE AND THE VEGETABLES ARE CHEAP AND THEY ALWAYS HAVE YOUR FAVORITE KOMBUCHA DON’T GO BANANAS NOW HEIDI JUST BREATHE AND SMILE AND KEEP MOVING FOR THE LOVE OF GOD KEEP MOVING. I take a deep breath. “No, he’s not.” And I walk away. I’m not telling you shit bitch. You can wonder the whole fucking day what you just saw and I’ll never give you the satisfaction of telling you the truth. Again, deep breaths. But, this is not the first time this has happened. This is the 7,546th time it’s happened. And it hasn’t just happened with my roommate. It’s happened with another male friend who’s 35 and a female friend who’s 42. How the fuck old do I look to you people? More importantly, what am I not seeing? People have always told me that age is just a number but it doesn’t matter how young I feel if you keep reminding me of how young I’m not by asking me if I’m everyone’s mother. Everyone’s!!! Is no one old enough to be my mom? Are those people all dead? And why the fuck do you need to know that anyway? How is that going to make this two second meeting in the frozen food section any better? Will you go home and yell at your kid who won’t go to the super market with you because you saw some cool mom with her kid shopping for toilet paper together and isn’t that cute you need to love me more son don’t’ you know that?!

Right now you can probably tell that my daily meditation is not quite working but not only do I not want to be someone’s mother – I don’t want to look like someone’s mother. I realized that people are looking at my outfits like I look at BaddieWinkle – that weird instagranny who’s always dressed really  inappropriately – i.e. exactly like me – and now I have to start asking my young friends if they’re embarrassed to be out with me. Here’s the thing… I have a lot of friends in their twenties and thirties. One might say – I collect them – and perhaps I do – but I do it for a very good reason – because I like being around people who like being alive and young people unlike people my age – are not yet dead inside. I’m trying to skip the dead inside portion of my life because I feel like I already did that – and left that – at the bottom of a bottle of wine. Fuck mature. I’m not ready for that. I like people who say yes to the idea of things that are scary or maybe stupid or just plain old retarded. I like people who like new things. Or perhaps I’m just grasping at my disappearing youth and I’m about to start drinking and drugging again. It’s a theory.

I’ve come to realize that I really had no idea how old I looked to other people.  I thought I just looked really shitty for a 35 or 40 year old – I didn’t realize that I looked exactly how old I am.  Fuck. I’m 56. And instead of feeling really great about that – I’m feeling like I’m a weirdo – because instead of just being out with friends – I’m out with my kids – according to your questions, or glares, or whispers. And I’m not fishing for compliments folks.  I’m good. Ish. I’m okay. No need to tell me otherwise.

I write about age a lot and I think it’s because it’s been the hardest thing for me to wrap my head around because my number just doesn’t match the number I feel and you people keep reminding me of it every time you ask me if I’m someones  mother. So please stop it. I’m trying to have a nice day and you keep ruining it. Also – just because I wear flat shoes and have tattoos doesn’t mean I’m a lesbian. I mean, I might be one day – but I’m not today. So please stop making me tell you I’m not someones mother and I’m not gay. If either of those two things change – you’ll be the first to know.


Published February 28, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

vegetable oil, chives, agave… vegetable oil, chives, agave… vegetable oil, chives, agave. I said the three items to myself over and over again as I pulled into the Gelsons parking lot. I usually send myself emails or write slips of paper listing ingredients I need and then completely forget that I emailed them or where I put them, but I was ADMITTEDLY in a rush. I had a hair appointment in twenty minutes and a dinner party immediately following and I had forgotten a few key things I needed. In I pulled to the Gelsons parking lot – which is so fancy it now has live Jazz music on the weekends. It has become a source of deep embarrassment to me and I try to shop when I know the weird man with the guitar in the fruit section playing to a crowd of weirdos who choose to actually sit and have wine and cheese at a bar in the middle of a supermarket – wont be there. I could point them to ten solid cool bars within spitting distance. The snacks may not be so easily accessible but the music is probably better. Anywhooooo… I pulled in to the parking lot just as a man with a small girl started walking from their car to the front of the supermarket. I WAS NO WHERE NEAR THEM.   “Excuse me. You almost hit us. Did you not see us?” I was not in the mood for this and so I simply said – “I did not. Terribly sorry.” But this was not enough for him. “Were you even looking? Were you on your phone? I bet you were on your phone.” Now normally I wouldn’t have taken that bet because I could have been on my phone but I wasn’t. “You’re going to kill someone because of the way you drive.” Me: “Sir, I’m not quite sure what you want from me but I already apologized.” He continued…. He would not stop. “I have a child with me and you need to watch where you’re going.” I kept walking into the store. He kept berating me. I wanted so badly to shred him with my tongue but couldn’t because I was at least cognizant that he had a child with him. “We’re going to pull the parking lot tapes and report you.” Oh for the love of god please pull the parking lot tapes. I’m sure they tape all the stupid shit that doesn’t happen in the parking lot. Maybe you can track down where that guy goes that says he’s taking my money for some orphanage. I know he’s not. See if you can follow him? Maybe you can solve the Girl Scout Cookie crisis that’s happening. I mean – they’re out there every day. Maybe you could show the tapes to those GreenPeace and Peta people and prove that I have donated every fucking day and to leave me the fuck alone. And then he said “We almost had to stop walking to avoid you.” And I turned… “You ALMOST” had to stop walking? ALMOST!!??? Ohmigoodness are you okay? Have I thrown off your entire shopping trip because you had to ALMOST stop walking in a parking lot. IT’S A PARKING LOT NOT A WALKING LOT. But what I really wanted to say I didn’t and so I shall say it now. FUCK YOU MAN WHO’S TOO OLD TO HAVE THE CHILD YOU HAVE. YOU’LL BE DEAD WHEN SHE’S TWENTY. BUT YOU’RE SO FUCKING SELFISH YOU JUST HAD TO HAVE A CARBON COPY OF YOURSELF EVEN THOUGH YOU’RE TOO OLD TO EVEN GET IT UP ANYMORE. DO YOU THINK IT’S A GOOD IDEA TO TEACH YOUR CHILD THAT BERATING SOMEONE IN THE MIDDLE OF A PARKING LOT IS A GOOD LESSON? PERHAPS WE COULD HAVE HAD A DISCUSSION AND YOU COULD HAVE TAUGHT HER SOMETHING ABOUT WORKING OUT YOUR PROBLEMS AND NOT YELLING AT TOTAL STRANGERS. YOU DON’T KNOW WHO I AM OR WHAT MY DAY WAS LIKE OR WHAT I’M GOING THROUGH AT THIS MOMENT. I SAID I’M SORRY. YOU ARE A BELIGERENT ASSHOLE WHO SHOULDN’T BE ALLOWED TO RAISE A CHILD. YOU’RE SO LUCKY I DIDN’T DESTROY YOU WITH MY MOUTH. BECAUSE I COULD HAVE. AND ANOTHER THING – YOU SUCK.

I feel better.

Hey people with kids – I get it – they’re precious. So am I.

Saying Goodbye to Mrs. Tingle

Published January 19, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


Nothing funny will be said here tonight. I thought you should know that right up front, because tonight I went to say goodbye to someone who is losing her battle with cancer. Texts were pinged. Emails were sent. Calls were made. Come say goodbye. It’s time. I had no idea she was even dying. See. No chance of being funny.

Her name is Bonnie Tiegel and if you’re a celebrity – you’ve probably met her. She is almost always – the only person smiling at you when you walk up to Mary Hart or Mark Steines or a host of other hosts as you make your way down that blood red sea of media folk. She is the bubbly smile and warm hug that greets everyone everyday no matter her mood – no matter where she is – no matter who you are. Everyone loves Bonnie and Bonnie loves everyone. She is a mother figure to so many people it’s impossible to keep count. But WE didn’t always have the best of relationships – in fact we barely spoke – and that is why this news – has hit me like a ton of bricks – because the second I got the terrible text – I knew I had to see her.  I suddenly felt drawn to “right” what now felt like such a “wrong.” How do you say goodbye to someone when you have so much more to say than that one oh so definite word?

The hospital was packed with friends and family and the tears instantly poured down my face. I wasn’t going to be able to keep it together. No way. No how. I couldn’t even look at the people who were there because I thought I was going to lose it completely. The last time I saw Bonnie was at her office at Entertainment Tonight. It’s right down the lot from where we shoot Baby Daddy and yet – I never go there. Many know why – but mostly – it’s the scene of so many crimes I just can’t go in there without feeling doomy and awful. But I went specifically to go see Bonnie who I had heard was sick but had kicked cancers ass. I wanted to go see that she was okay. Bonnie and I had been through a lot together at ET and quite frankly NONE of it was good. I was the new guard arguing with the older guard and we were always pitted against each other and I was too stupid to realize that none of it fucking mattered. She was just trying to do her job. She just didn’t want to be fired. I remember when we were in London together covering the Alice In Wonderland premiere. It was Bonnies job to get Mary on the greeting line to shake Prince Charles and Camillas hands. We would have a camera crew cover it. It was a huge deal because we had already shot the wrap arounds that said Mary met them – it had to happen or we were screwed. This was a big fucking deal – like life threatening. Long story short – we got Mary on that line – and although we were quite battered for it –  for the first time Bonnie and I realized – we were actually on the same team. We weren’t the enemy. We knew who it was – but it wasn’t either of us. We stayed up all night in our bathrobes and ate room service that cost way more than we were allowed on our per diem. But we didn’t care.  We had won.  Victory was ours.  Sadly, once back home, our new found friendship went by the way side. I’m sure it was my pig headed stupidity.  I have to have everything my way at work. We were back to being scared people at a crazy job – fighting to stay sane and keep our bank accounts in the black. Bonnie has given her life to that job and that job has taken it. Thats what the news business does.  But she gave it gladly – with a smile on her face and hugs from her heart.

And so tonight I went to be there with her and hope that somehow she would get this message from me – that hearing what she was going through made me realize that none of it mattered – none of it. That’s right – I got hit with a big fat cliche.

I walked into her room, her eyes barely open, and said “Really Bonnie? You know they don’t let me in nice places like this.” For the first time in my life I think I really understood the expression – her face lit up. It did.  Mark Steines had come into the room with me as the three of us have shared some amazingly awful times together. He said – look who I brought Bonnie. She just kept saying “oh my god, oh my god, oh my god.” I knew then that coming was a good idea. But to me it seemed like the only thing TO do. Mark told some stories and she laughed. I sat by her side and held her hand. After a bit Mark had to leave but I couldn’t get up. I literally could not get up out of the chair. I couldn’t let go of her hand. Her eyes were closed. I didn’t even think she could hear me. Her breathing was so soft and deep and peaceful and again I just burst into tears. I kept wanting to ask her – where she was – how she felt – what was she thinking about. I was desperately looking for some clarity as to what it all means and for some reason I was convinced she would give it to me if I could just ask. There were so many people waiting to say goodbye and so I said “I have to go Bonnie.” Suddenly her eyes popped open and she spoke with such clarity as she said over and over again – “I love you so much.  I miss you every day. I think about you all the time. You are always in my heart. I never stop thinking about you.” It was like she HAD to tell me. I said all the same things back to Bonnie, because I HAD to tell her too. I told her that I would always keep her in my heart and my mind. I also told her I was going to write about her. She said – “please.”  I will never forget that moment. The tears were literally pouring down my face onto her skin. We never stopped holding hands.  I know I’m not the first person to face losing someone and realizing that it’s important not to sweat the small stuff when the big thing is right out there looming every day. But I feel the clarity now.  I will definitely think differently about the way I war with people. Sometimes it’s so damn silly. And while this may seem like making someones death all about me – this is just what i do – I write about things to set my mind straight.  So, just deal with it.

I used to call Bonnie – Mrs. Tingle – it’s so long ago that I don’t even remember why – but I do know this – she is loved and I’m so happy I got to say goodbye.


I’m Freezing

Published January 4, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It’s been in the 40’s temperature wise here in Los Angeles and I’m cold. Actually, I’m more than cold. I’m chilled to the bone wearing every sweater I own at once, house heat turned on full blast 24/7 and a constant fire, cold. Like – I’m totally fucking freezing and I can’t get warm – cold. Now I’m from New York so I know what it’s like to freeze. The last time I lived in the Big Icy Apple that only has four good days of weather – we had 28 snowstorms in one winter and I ended up in California. No one needs to take three hours to get to an office building three blocks away. I also went to school in a place where the wind chill took the temps down to 50 below and you had to use a tow rope to get to class which granted I needed anyway based on my alcohol consumption most nights before – but it was cold. And I was fine. I could run around outside in a bikini with a beer bong and a pair of Uggs and laugh in the face of winter. Ha Ha winter you mother fucker. I got you beat. But I’m not fine right now and I’m not kidding. I wore three sweatshirts to work out in the other day and kept them on for the first fifteen minutes of class. Not normal. Also, not cute. All that extra material made me look fat and I haven’t reached the point of anorexia where I’m willing to wear one of those garbage bag sweat suits that make you pour off the pounds. No one wants to look fat at the gym. I’m also not a gal who wears make up to class.  What the fuck is that ladies?  Seriously – if you have eye lashes on you’re not fooling anyone as to why you’re there. You’re looking to lift about a two pound weight – of a diamond – onto your engagement finger.

Now there are two quite popular theories on why I’m freezing. #1 – that I am such a Californian now that I can no longer take the cold and my blood is thinner than when I lived in New York. Uh,  I haven’t asked a medical professional about this theory but I call bullshit. Last winter I went to Whistler BC and I was fine. I was more than fine. I played in the snow. I sat in a Jacuzzi in the middle of an outdoor deck. And there was no alcohol involved. But I wasn’t freezing – I was perfect. So – it’s not that. The other theory is #2 – that I’m so skinny now that I no longer have body fat. God I love this theory. I want to embrace this theory more than George Clooney while eating a box of Krispy Kremes, but let me tell you guys a couple two three things – this is not true – and I know – because I’ve seen me naked and I have plenty of body fat. In fact – I have your body fat. I may have everyone’s body fat. I am a skinny bag of cellulite. So it’s not that.  And then, last night in a haze of Gorilla Glue and sugar free vegan lemon cookies, I got a flash of what the real reason is and it sent a second chill down my spine colder than the chill I was already in. I’m cold because I’m old. Boom. Holy fucking shit balls when did this happen? I’m a frail old woman with thin skin and I’m freezing to death. What’s next? Soup only meals? Actually I’m on that now because my teeth keep cracking. Wait – is that another sign? Fuck. And now I realize – there have been numerous signs to me becoming an elderly human. I’m constantly afraid of falling, and not off of anything substantial – just my high heels.  They are dead to me. Also – I’m tired. A lot. On the outside I want to go to bars and concerts and dance clubs – but on the inside I’m exhausted by midnight. And I used to know how to shut shit down.  Like next level. But the true sign may be the phrases that keep wanting to pop out of my mouth that up until recently only came out of my mothers. The biggest being aimed at my 26 year old roommate. Every night – every single night – I want to yell from my bedroom down to his – two floors below – STOP SLAMMING THE DOORS. But I don’t. Because I don’t want to admit that this is a thought in my head.  And, he’s not slamming anything. My inner volume knob has apparently been turned up to Social Security level. My mother used to say this to me on the daily. I have no idea what it is about the noise level of a door closing but apparently it’s the true test of how old you are. If I lick my finger and wipe dirt off of his face – it’s over. Now, I know people say age is just a number but my number is getting higher.  So I’m gonna buy me another parka because I’m only getting older and it’s only getting colder.

Oh, The Horror!

Published January 1, 2017 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am a giant fan of horror movies and the scarier the better. The more I have to scream, fling myself from my theater seat or look through tiny slits in my fingers smashed heavily against my face – the happier I am. A really good horror film will send me home from the movies with a new found terror of my own house. I will search every closet, under every bed, inside every cabinet before concluding that whatever ate whomever in the movie – did not come home with me. I will then say a silent speech to all monsters and freak shows that are possibly still hiding in my house preparing to pounce on me as soon as I turn the lights off and convince them that a better candidate to see them and be scared of them would be a house down the street or better yet – down the country. I usually only watch horror movies at the theater so that I don’t invite Stick Figure Man or Snake Face Girl or Clown Face Boy or Whatever Faced Whatever into my home. But last week – when I should have just enjoyed a day on the couch with nothing to do but watch Ren & Stimpy – I made the mistake of hitting play on a horror movie I may never get out of my head. A movie so terrifying that it has changed me – perhaps forever. The movie was called – “Minimalism” –about people who have chosen to live their lives – wait for it – WITHOUT STUFF.   Now the movie was filed under documentary but let’s be very clear here – if a flick about people choosing to live with two pairs of pants,  a teapot made from a soup can, a bed that closes into the wall, and shoes made out of cereal boxes isn’t a horror film than I don’t know the genre at all. It seems however, that there is a new movement in this country about how your life might be better – with less. Now I don’t know about you guys but I was taught that less is never a good thing. More is good. More is what we want more of. Nobody wants less of anything – except maybe cancer – and that we have more of than we most definitely need.

The documentary featured a bunch of incredibly interesting people who have made major changes in their lives to live with less and have greatly improved those lives they were living.  They had less stuff and connected to life – more.  Now, I’ve definitely thought about this where my phone is concerned.  I’m far to connected to it for all the wrong reasons and have recently decided to ween myself off of this social media madness I can get wrapped up in.  WHY DIDN’T YOU LIKE MY PICTURE OF MY DOG EATING A BONE? WHY ISN’T MY LIFE AS INTERESTING AS HERS? WHY DON’T YOU UNDERSTAND THAT YOU NEED TO SEE A PICTURE OF ME IN A CAT ONESIE?  But this one woman in the documentary really freaked me out because she decided to live for an entire month with just thirty three items of clothing. Now that includes – shoes, bags and jewelry. No, I’m not fucking kidding you. She managed to rotate these items for an entire month and said “no one noticed.” Well I say – NO ONE CARES ABOUT YOU CRAZY LADY! She’s clearly A) not a very popular person to begin with or B) Everyone noticed but chose not to say anything you dirty little piglet. And so she took this experiment and extended it to one year. SHE WORE THE SAME 33 ITEMS FOR ONE YEAR!!  An icy cold chill just swept up my spine now even thinking about it again and typing the terrible words on the page. What if I had to pick just thirty three items from my wardrobe to wear for one year? I’m wearing nine items right now and I just got out of bed. Plus, I’m already annoyed by these 9 items and don’t plan on wearing them again until next week or maybe – never again. Am I supposed to decide between my pair of below the ankle black leather boots, ankle high black leather boots, knee high black leather boots or thigh high black leather boots? Thats not even possible.  I have at least 15 pairs of jeans that I can not live without.  Seriously, I hyperventilate whenever i try to thin the herd.  And what about my dresses? I mean – I could outfit every single solitary personality that lives within me – three times – and that is quite a number.  What if I had to live my life without stuff. I mean – I like my stuff. No – I NEED my stuff. I have made it my lifes mission to become a Maximalist! I’ve worked hard for all the things I don’t even know I have. Yesterday I was in a store desperately searching for some new sweatpants that had a particular kind of bottom. To my extreme sadness – I couldn’t find any anywhere. Then I cleaned out my dresser – and found four pairs. Huh – this less is better situation may be something to look into. My head was spinning like Regan’s in The Exorcist. I mean – I start every single day of my life searching for new stuff on the internet. Every. Single. Day. What can I add to my Amazon wish list now? That pepper shaker shaped like a bulldog is adorbs isn’t it? Those slippers made of yoga mats are an absolute must have – am I wrong? I GOTTA HAVE IT! I GOTTA HAVE EVERYTHING. But what if the stuff we want more of – is what’s giving us cancer? What if all the stress of chasing and finding and getting and buying is what’s making us sick? Now that’s something to ponder in 2017.

For now – I’m just going to clean out my closets and get rid of some things I haven’t worn – or had no idea I even owned – and pare down the STUFF in my life.  But I’m not going to do anything crazy.  In fact – if you see me in the same pair of pants more than two days in a row – please call someone.  I mean – I have standards.

Dear Santa

Published December 25, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I know it’s a little late but if the fat guy is still up there flying around handing shit out – I have a list and a chimney and I’m willing to bake cookies if that helps get a visit from the Commander in Chief of Christmas. I feel that since Hanukah fell on Christmas Eve this year,  I can poach a couple of elves to handle my stuff. I’m sure if the people who ran Chanukah could figure out one spelling for that holiday for all of us to use – we’d finally get a couple of gift and wish elves of our own, but until that happens I’m hoping for a crossover episode. Now I realize some of my requests are a little global but hey – you’re Santa and you have a shit ton of reindeer to help – so get to it fat man – you still have the whole day. I don’t need new stuff. Just some help with the old.


#1 – Can you please help me find my slippers. They were last seen on my feet.


#2 – Can you please help me find my favorite bracelet. It was last seen on my wrist.


#3 – Can you help me find everything I’ve ever lost in my own home.   Socks, shoes, shirts, glasses, rings, my mind, etc. This one in particular is going to be on the list every year so deal with it. I have to.


#4 – Can you please erase the memories from the brains of all the people I was in exercise class with the morning I almost shit myself and had to hide in the workout bathroom for twenty minutes with disaster pants listening to the instructor yell – “thirty seconds left people, lets really push it!” Trust me… I was pushing.


#5 – Can you make sugar the greatest diet secret known to mankind and every time we eat something sweet we drop another pound? I’d be invisible right now. And not the kind of invisible I already am.


#6 – Can you straighten my hair permanently. I feel like this is a fair trade off for a Jew turning to Santa for help.


#7 – Can you please get people to stop reminding me of my past. People do change. People who remind us of what assholes we used to be – don’t. Lets knock that crap out immediately.


#8 – Can you get Zara to stop using Syrian Refugee children to make my favorite clothing. How am I supposed to buy sparkle pants for NYE if they’re tainted with child sweat.


#9 – Can you put an age limit on dieting and award a bonus to everyone who stays skinny until they’re 55?   YOU DON’T KNOW HOW HARD IT IS SANTA!!


#10 – Can you end war and famine and all that shitty stuff so I feel better about wanting the new Time Slippers that look like sneakers but feel like heaven.


#11 – Can anyone who ever abuses a child or an animal, immediately vanish from the planet the second it happens right after they get a punch to the face that lasts an eternity.


#12 – Can good things stop happening to bad people.


#13 – Can bad people stop ruining good things.


#14 – Can the Karma police get a time limit. Thirty seconds tops is good for me.


#15 – Can you erase the life tapes of me doing embarrassing stuff like falling down drunk, eating things out of the garbage, having sex with horrible people and maybe barfing on them, wearing stirrup pants, getting a perm, leaving that horrendous fuck you message that one time on that guys answering machine and the time I bought a pet rock. I don’t want to have to watch those tapes when I get to heavens waiting room. I feel like I’m already going to be too busy crying about all the time I wasted caring about all the things on my lists.


Thanks Santa.

The Big Break Up

Published December 24, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Well, I’ve gone and done it now.  I’ve completely misjudged an entire gender and now I think – I’m really going to pay for it.  It turns out that the straight white american man – is a big fat liar.

The straight white American man has always been my friend.  He was always predictable to an embarrassing degree and I was always cool with knowing exactly what’s in the box before I rip off the “you’re cute when you think you’re right” bow and throw away the “i know i can change you” wrapping.  The straight white American man and I got each other. That is – until now.

It’s taken me years to discover true friendships with women, the gays and I have managed to find some common yet shaky ground, but I never questioned my relationship with the white American man. I could always depend on his love. I believed that at the end of the day – my power as a woman – could overcome anything he didn’t intentionally put in my way (because you know they never do anything intentionally) and laugh quietly to myself knowing that in the grand scheme of life – I had won. We always win. We’re women. They love us. Ruh Roh.

We go way back – the straight white American man and I.  We worked in television and told dick jokes together, we drank beers and talked about ugly chicks at the bar and I even banged a couple of them here and there along the way when I was super duper drunk and didn’t care.  I got them and they didn’t get me.  It was a beautiful relationship. No surprises. Everyone keep making out and moving – and we’ll all be fine. They won’t do anything too stupid. They’re straight white American men for goodness sakes. They’ve even figured out how to do some good stuff right? Again, Ruh Roh

Now I’m not sure how it happened but it seems that all these years of me thinking that I was winning as a woman, has been a lie. It seems that behind our backs – we’ve been put into some kind of chick coma – hypnotized to believe we are loved … and heard. Yes, in 2016 I found out something that I really didn’t think was possible – is very very real.  The straight white American man HATES ME. (And by the way so do a lot of his women folk) Yes, the young man I grew up thinking I could count on – wants nothing to do with me. In fact – you’re running in the opposite direction of me and I’m starting to believe that all the horrible things people have said about you for all these years are true. I defended you – and now you’ve abandoned me. And the worst part is – it didn’t just start in 2016. You’ve hated me all along and hid it. You’ve laid in wait all these years and pounced on me when I least expected it. You may be the voice I’ve been battling the loudest all these years and you may have even used me to talk about my own kind and hate them and be jealous of them. You have lulled me into a false sense of security, plotting and scheming against me for years – and now the worst thing that could happens has… you’ve picked a leader more hideous than anyone could have imagined. You’ve made the doofus of all straight white American men – your KING. And you gave him the keys to my castle.

And so I’m breaking up with you straight white American man. You can have your records back but I’m keeping the I’M WITH STUPID t-shirt. I will not be quiet. I will not be polite. I will not be your bitch any more.

For all anger about grand generalizations… please see the management.


Party Pooped

Published December 19, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“No wonder you don’t have a man”, were the horrific words said to me through an actual smile this past Saturday night. I had just entered a holiday party and had been there for less than three minutes before I was fully frontally assaulted by a hug and these seven words. My coat had barely left my shoulders when WHABAM! shot to the girly heart. Apparently I hadn’t hugged him fast enough or well enough.  Whatever it was – it was an epic hug fail that somehow suggested I did not like men.  I do like men. Now you may or may not know me but I’m still sure you’ll be shocked to hear – I did not immediately punch this person square in the “shut the fuck up you moron” face. But it was a beautiful elegant party and so I let it slide. I also liked this person. But quite frankly, I was flabbergasted. That’s kind of a big thought bomb to just drop on a person before they’ve even had a Swedish meatball or a slice of freshly cooked spiral ham.

Now anything can happen at a pre Christmas party because when the holiday drinks are flowing the assholes are showing. Now I’m not saying this person is an asshole but lets keep it real – that’s a fucking horrible thing to say to a woman. It’s also something you NEVER hear said to a man. I don’t even understand the sentiment. And don’t tell me you were kidding because those words should be outlawed. The words “I’m kidding” said together at once actually mean – I’m telling you the gods honest truth as I believe it. Also what’s going to be so much better in my life if I do have a man? Will I be smarter? Will I be prettier? Will my career take off in a whole new direction? Will I never have to diet again? Will I own my own home? (I DO!!) What exactly am I going to gain from this hookup that I just have to have? Now maybe I’m wrong and everything will be better with penis and as soon as it happens I’m gonna call all y’all. But until then, I’m going to tell you for the last time why I’m single. BECAUSE I WANT TO BE. I may be 56 years old but I can still walk this vagina outside – yell FREE PUSSY and manage to scrounge up a dick or two willing to take me out for pizza and a cold brew. I’m pretty sure if I expressed interest in someone and attempted to start a dating life – it wouldn’t be that difficult. I’m a goddamn fucking delight. So, why have I chosen to be single? I’m not completely sure. Perhaps I like not fighting with someone or not sharing my bed or not watching sports. Not a clue. But how about we let me deal with that.

The holiday party can be a tricky thing to maneuver when you’re me. I don’t drink and I’m a bitch. Well – I call it honesty – but everyone else calls it bitch. I’ve learned to be fine with that. I’m going to accept the word bitch because no one can think of anything else to call me when I blast a little honesty their way. Fuck it. I’m a bitch. But if you try to take me down again over a bacon wrapped bite sized quiche – you’re going to lose – because I’m not lubed up with liquor and I have a tongue that will slice you to ribbons. Just because you got a bug in your egg nog about something you’ve decided you want to tell me right now – doesn’t mean you should say it and it certainly doesn’t mean I should hear it.

As for the party – I had an amazing time. It was the best party of the year filled with friends and family and wondrous food and conversation. But I wouldn’t mind if the rest of you found your pause buttons before 2017. How about you do you – and I’ll do me.

YOU’RE WHY I’M SINGLE: The Model Asshole.

Published September 5, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I guess I should start with the worst. The one who ripped my soul out, swirled it around in his mouth, chewed it like a dog toy, spit it out, shit on it, then showed it to me and laughed in my face. “Gotcha. I win. I crushed you. You’re not better than me.” This was his actual thought process.

It was 1985. I was twenty five years old. I had just come back from the greatest trip of my life. Two months of tooling around Europe. I drank wine for breakfast and ate boys for lunch and dinner. I was swimming in ego and confidence. I had the world by the balls. Then I came back to America and the balls swung right into my face, gave me two permanent black eyes and the rest as they say is history.

His name was Michael Mayo. Full name. Real name. If he’s still out there actually alive and breathing it’s a fucking miracle anyway based on the amount of cocaine he shoved up his nose, down his throat, or anywhere else he could shove it. He was an aspiring model. Which is the same as saying – he was a waiter but he was too lazy even to do that. I think most of his “model” work can be found in old hair salons around the country. He posed for a picture once and sort of became the poster boy for hair cuts. Makes sense. His personality was akin to razor burn – smooth at first then leaves a nasty rash.  But it was awful after we broke up because I would see his giant head all over the city – a bloated daily reminder of what a dumb dumb I was to fall for his manicured perfection. Even to this day – all these years later – I can pass by a salon in a shitty neighborhood – and see an old worn out faded reminder of his assholeness – sitting in a window – staring at me.

We met at the China Club back in NYC and I remember thinking – that guy is way to good looking for me. I should have cut bait and run then. But I liked a challenge and so in I went and I guess all of my pheromones and confidence aligned in the correct fashion that night because I GOT HIM!! YAY ME!! THE HOT GUY WANTS TO GO HOME WITH ME!!! Worst mistake ever. Two years later I woke up out of my coma and sadly – was really never the same since – when it came to men.

I wasn’t thin enough. My hair wasn’t short enough. I didn’t make enough money. I didn’t do enough drugs. I wasn’t understanding of his lifestyle. Translation: I became anorexic. Chopped off my hair. Worked two jobs. Tried to like cocaine. And accepted when he cheated on me. YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE HEIDI. But you guys, he was a MODEL!   Everyday this man broke me down – bit by bit by bit – until eventually I changed from the strong confident woman I was – to a tiny shell of my former self – putting up with anything and making excuses for everything. I also lost all of my friends who were too disgusted by what I was doing to watch it happen. Of course I didn’t realize this was actually happening to me.

There are 1000 stories of what he did to me and how he did it to me but the one I shall tell now is WHY he did it to me. Because I let him.

I had to work one of my two jobs the day a mutual friend got married and so I told him to go on his own. He seemed to have a good time. I don’t think he even came home that night. (Oh yeah he lived with me rent free) About a week later – my friend asked me to edit together her wedding video and there it was. Right on the tape – right infront of my eyes – my boyfriend making out with some other girl. And it went on and on and on. I immediately went home – packed up his shit – and changed the locks. But that wasn’t the end.

Eventually he came to me and asked if he could just tell me what happened. Sure. What the fuck. Why not. I’m so damaged now anyway what more could you possibly do. Wait for it.

He told me that he literally set about destroying me. That I was so strong and confident and he was so weak that it physically hurt him to watch me go about my day with a smile on my face. So he set out to wipe it off. And he did. He cried. He apologized. And then – he moved back in. YOU’RE AN ASSHOLE HEIDI!! I wouldn’t let him tell any of my friends that he was back because I had just got them all back in my life and I knew they’d leave me again if they found out. And then one day it happened. I knew where it was all heading and I just looked and him and said – “If you are any kind of a decent human being – and have ever had any kind of love for me at all – you will pack up and get out of my life before I completely lose who I am forever.” And you know what he did – he listened – and left. So I guess I should thank him for that.

Eventually I got my shit together and dated a whole other bunch of giant energy sucking assholes. So really , I didn’t get it together at all.  I guess what I still need to learn is that you can’t let other people control how you feel about yourself and the minute you notice someone zapping your confidence – and you will – leave.  I’ve decided to start writing about them all because they are literally the road map to my romantic misery and maybe if I write about them I’ll find the key that unlocks the door to where all the good love memories are waiting.  So if you dated me – look out – it’s about to get real one sided.

“Snap” out of it.

Published August 24, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


That’s it. I’m done. Stick a fork in me. It’s over. Finito. Caput. Finished. Donesky. Over. Buh Bye. See ya later. Sayonara. So long suckers. I can’t take it anymore and I’m ready to officially say – after Snapchat… I’m out.   Yes – any new social media can go socially fuck itself because my brain is out of space to fit any more instructions to any more things I have to shoot, write, snap, or insta-barf into the universe. And I know something’s coming down the pike because that’s the way these things always work – the kids grab it – use it – the old people like me find it – use it – it becomes uncool – and some 23 year old savant develops something else to make sure that everyone I know – knows everything I’m doing every second of the day and I’m just not sure I know why.

Now don’t get me wrong – I have loved things like Facebook and Instagram – for the most part – because they have helped me keep in touch with people I’ve lost touch with or see what other people I used to be in contact with are up to – or feel massive FOMO every time I see a friend doing something I should be doing or they shouldn’t be doing. For the most part I can figure out how things work and have a fairly simple time posting a shot of my dog tulip sleeping which until recently I didn’t think was an important event but now it seems like the most dire of situations if I don’t post a pic of her all splayed out on my bed because if I don’t – how will people know that’s what she does – or what she looks like – or what my sheets look like – or the massive pile of weed on my bed stand shit I should have edited that photo better.   I enjoy seeing what people are up to and it’s okay that ten seconds after that perfect shot was taken – it was a total shit show at the gym, or in the car wash, or at some restaurant.  Mostly some restaurant because god knows people love posting food.  Look I’m eating!!  We all do it. We have to share it. We don’t even know why.  Everyone knows that if it didn’t happen on snapchat or facebook or instagram – IT DIDN’T HAPPEN.

The problem is – I now talk to people on so many different forms of social media that I can’t keep up. I post a pic of my status to Facebook then have a conversation with a friend on Snapchat then DM someone on Insta then live walkie someone on Voxer and on and on and on.  My status: I’m hungry. Here’s where I went to feed my face. My insta: Here’s a shot of my new dress. I’m so pretty. My snap chat: Look and listen to my dog farting while I’m in cat face, no dog face, no pigtails, no a frog.  My voxer: Hey here’s a message about my dinner and a picture of it and my dog is farting in the background. My brain is full of apps and filters and edits and crap I can’t take it anymore. I once talked to one friend on four different social media platforms all in the span of one hour in one day. Maybe we should just meet and have lunch? Just a thought.

And how the fuck are people dating these days through social media? Back when I was a teenager in the 1800’s if you liked someone you had to wait for them to pull their wagon into your field – now you have to try and figure out what they’re saying to you in 140 characters or some emoji or something else. Remember when a boy had to CALL YOU to ask you out? Now you can stalk him on countless social media platforms and see who else he’s fucking while waiting for him to call you. Times have changed.

So while I will continue to use social media to inform people of important events in my life like Tulips new toy or this blog – I need everyone to understand that after Snapchat – I’m out. I’m exhausted and I don’t’ want to feel badly anymore because someone is doing something better than me. No one is. Everyone’s doing the same thing and I’m getting a little sick of it. We’re emailing, texting, shooting, snapping, and checking in. Well you know what I’m not sick of? Life. I’m checking in to that.

p.s. I have shared this blog on fourteen different social media platforms. You’re welcome.

The Bill Bitches

Published August 16, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

After years of struggling and suffering in silence – I have finally done what millions of women around the world have been doing for years. Something I previously thought I’d never succumb to. I got myself a husband. No, not the good kind that tells you you look pretty when you have a new dress on or the kind you have sex with – but the bad kind – the kind that questions you every time you open your wallet. I got myself the kind of partner that makes you hide your shopping bags, think twice before you hit the “add to cart button” and move money around like a mobster with a secret Swiss Bank account. I got myself the kind of husband that rides you like a show pony on it’s last race trying to squeeze that final amount of sweat out of you before you hit the glue factory. Yes, I got myself a business manager.


Earlier this year I decided that I didn’t want to die broke and realized that I needed to stop the hemorrhaging that is my spending – and finally bite the bullet that’s already in the chamber of the gun pointed at my head.  Now this manager – aka my husband – is primarily a group of brilliant women – but make no mistake about it – they are doing the hard work only an asshole husband can do – saying no every time I want something pretty. If I buy anything – a dress, a yogurt, a thumb tack – they call, send an email, a text, or a fucking smoke signal if they have to – to get me to return it if it wasn’t a necessary purchase. You try to explain why a gold tube top from Zara is a necessary purchase.


Now, my job as a television writer means I make a very decent amount of money – but it also means there are times when I make zero amounts of money – like the last four months of my life when my tv job went on what network people like to call “hiatus” but what I call “poor decision making and planning of the network budget and running out of cash before all your shows are picked.” So here I was thinking I was going back to work after just a couple of months of “vacation” which has suddenly stretched into many months of vacation – which means my “savings nut” was less “nut” more “crumb” – and the lockdown on my accounts has been fast and furious. They took it all the motherfuckers. They took it all. Then they put me on an allowance. Now I don’t know about you people but you can’t buy shit on an allowance. The last time I had one I had to make the Sophies choice of gum cigarettes or lollipop and I’m not capable of making that kind of decision again. I finally had the entire summer off and I had nothing to make that summer – enjoyable. This budget was no bullshit. I had to fire my dog walker and actually walk my own dog. Can you fucking imagine? And I had to stop buying luxuries like 7 dollar yogurt. And the worst – I had to stop shopping for clothing I already owned that was actually in my over crowded closet but I couldn’t see it. It was almost too much for one woman to handle. This was like a death blow to me. And that’s not the worst of it – because the business managers could also actually see every penny I spent because they had access to all my accounts. THEY CAN SEE WHAT I SPEND MY MONEY ON. “What’s Perrennial Holistic?” they asked. “It’s medicine” I said. “It’s weed” one of the smart women said. IF YOU TAKE WEED OFF MY BUDGET WE’RE ALL GOING TO DIE. It was going to get ugly and it was getting there fast. I needed a cash flow they couldn’t see or monitor. And so I started selling things. It was small at first – an old shoe here – a pair of too big pants there – but then it got ugly – the first time I sold a piece of Louis Vuitton.   Bells rang. Alarms went off. Signals were sent to other buyers on the website I was selling on – “There’s a small desperate woman online folks and she’s dropping Louis at low prices!!!” Boom! Sold a wallet! Boom! Sold a handbag! Boom! Sold a suitcase! Holy shit I’m making money hand over fist. I probably only made 1000 dollars over the whole summer but the secret joy I felt hiding this money from those bastards trying to clean up my financial life was thrilling. I was winning this shit show – so there!!! Sadly the Louis ran out before I got to do anything exciting with my secret cash flow but it was fun while it lasted.

All of this has made me realize one very important thing. I have too much shit. Duh.  I now have three weeks before I head back to work and I’m currently trying to figure out how to make 145 dollars last. If you see me in Bali dancing around in a sari with a henna tattoo – please know that I haven’t figured it out – but my Louboutins have finally hit the resale rack.

The Summer of Letting Go

Published August 1, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Lately, I’ve spent more time than I care to admit, talking about plastic surgery. What could I do? What would I do? What should I do? Now I do live in the land of nip tuck pull something somewhere it doesn’t belong – but I have a feeling the “Under The Knife State” isn’t the only state this conversation is taking place. I do know one thing – it seems to be a conversation only happening with women and maybe a handful or two of gay men. Okay – three handfuls.  Just the other night – my drop dead gorgeous stunningly beautiful truly magnificent looking friend  and I discussed who in Hollywood has had something done. The answer? Who hasn’t. She said everyone is doing the new mini ponytail. I thought it was a hairstyle. It’s not. Well it is but it’s also this other thing that pulls your flesh up like a ponytail. Put a bow on that shit. She thinks it’s a wonderful thing. I think – it’s not for me. And here’s why: If you can show me one human being “live and in person” that looks normal after having their skin pulled somewhere it wasn’t – I’m in. Now I’m not talking about how they look on film where they’ve been lit hotter than the surface of the sun or on a press line through your television set where their makeup has been applied with a spatula and they’ve been iced like a cake. I’m talking about seeing them in the flesh without looking like their flesh has been physically pulled back and I just can’t see where it’s tucked in or clipped or rubber banded or taped. I’m talking about no weird creepy eyelids that are clearly new flesh. Or lips you could stick to a wall with. Or a face that’s smooth as glass paired with hands that have seen some bumpy roads. I understand why women who are on camera are trying to maintain their youth. They have to. They’ll be fired if they don’t. Or made to play a grandmother when they hit the ripe old age of 38. But I’m not on camera and I don’t make a living based on what I look like and so this summer I have spent trying to learn to embrace my lines, wrinkles, age spots, etc. and work on the one thing I can change – my outside to be more healthy and my inside to care less about what my outside looks like. Now all this may change next week when I look at the picture of myself I posted proudly boasting that I earned all of the lines in my face but for now, that’s how I feel. I want to feel pride in the way I look because the life I’ve led is in my face. I want to embrace the deep furrows and wrinkles and age spots – maybe not the annoying grey fucking hair – but you know – the things that say how far I’ve come because so far – it’s been an amazing life. Do I want to look older? Fuck no. Do I want to feel younger. Fuck yes. Do I want to be considered beautiful at my age? Of course. If a woman says no – she’s lying – or she lives somewhere really cold where she can stay bundled up.

And so I’ve dubbed this summer – the summer of letting go. Let go of the things you cannot change and embrace the things you can. Let go of the hatred you have for yourself and find something to love because it may be cliché but love really is the answer. This goes for people to. It’s hard enough trying to love yourself especially if you’re surrounded by people telling you why you shouldn’t. Fill your enemies with love and maybe they won’t want you dead. I found out recently that someone I used to know – wants me dead. I tickled a tiger and now that tiger is using some powerful stuff to try and stop me – physically. I used my words to try and stop her – and it has unleashed a wrath I didn’t know was possible. I suppose it’s my own fault. I said some pretty harmful stuff. But what I said was the truth and I didn’t just say it for me – I said it for many people who had been wronged – and I hoped somehow – the verbal slap like the physical one she tried to give me – would change her – and it hasn’t. Now it looks like I need to try another tactic. And so – I forgive you. I forgive you for physically trying to hurt me, for mentally trying to crush me, for making me believe I wasn’t talented, for hating me so much that you wanted to make me feel smaller than you and mostly – I forgive you for wanting me to be physically harmed now – despite that most people would find this – unforgiveable.   Your hatred of me will not change the lack of love you have for yourself. Go find some of that. I am.

So, I’m going to spend the rest of my summer trying to bitch less about my cellulite and boast more about my qualities as a friend. I’m going to complain less about my weight and crow more about my talents as a writer. I’m going to whine less about my wrinkles and stop counting my years – i’m going to embrace it all… the bumps bruises scars marks holes and I’m going to love the fuck out of all of them because I’m so grateful to be alive and live the very privileged life I do.

And I’m going to pray for your soul – and you know who you are.

Skinny Shamed

Published July 18, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


“You need to eat a cheeseburger” is the “hi how are you” of 2016. Or at least the hello I’ve been getting lately and nothing makes me happier. I used to believe that the nicest thing you could say to me is “you look anorexic” but since that has become totally yet hideously unfairly un-pc – I’ll have to learn to live with the greeting – “you need to eat something.” It’s like music to my ears – and not just any music – but the greatest music there is. It’s a song that plays over and over in my head and says – you’re amazing – you did it – you look so thin that people are actually concerned about you. It’s like a lullaby that floats me into the happiest place on earth – a place where all of my skinny clothes fit and all of my fat clothes hang on me like I’m walking the runway at a Chanel show only I’m wearing a 28 dollar T shirt dress from Aritzia. Now, there is popular opinion that when you get to be my age – 163 – that you need a little meat on your bones and I say – that popular opinion was formed by someone who can’t get down to a size 2 once they’ve hit 50. People say that you look older when you’re too thin and I say – if my neck looked any older I’d be forced into a retirement living situation and that has nothing to do with my weight loss and has everything to do with my mom. I blame you for my neck mom. I’m okay that you didn’t let me wear slip on shoes until I was 16 – but a little warning and perhaps a couple of prevention tips on the old Clements head holder upper would have been super helpful. I have never hated a body part more than my neck and that includes a super wonky left boob that didn’t quite enjoy the breast reduction surgery as much as the right boob did. But the one thing I can control – or at least attempt to – is my weight. And so – finding myself with a few months of unexpected time off – I started working out – a lot – daily – sometimes twice a day – and the result has been – a tinier me. Yay! Sound the horns! Fire the fireworks! Shoot the canons! Tell the world I’m winning the weight loss game. And what do I get? A trophy? A congratulatory note? A parade thrown by all the people in all the land who know how hard it is to lose weight? No. I get “You’re too thin” – “You’re wasting away” and the favorite “You need to eat a cheeseburger” which is apparently the one food that is going to put weight on me the minute I shove it down my gullet. I’ve suddenly come to realize that there is a very real thing happening. It’s called Skinny Shaming – and while I look forward to it on a daily basis – it’s starting to become annoying.  I am being cursed for the hard work I do to maintain the weight I like to maintain to be happy in my life. Am I too thin? Perhaps. Could I use a corned beef sandwich and a coke? I’m not going to say no. But I’m not unhealthy and I’m not anorexic and I’m not puking my brains out on the side of the road after I polished off a large bag of Sour Patch kids or finished a bucket of buttered pop corn in the ladies room at the Arclight theater. I’m not saying I haven’t done either of those things in the past but I’m not doing that now. I am eating a very healthy diet of one salad a day mixed with two pints of halo top ice cream and if that’s not healthy I don’t know what is. I also eat a nectarine or two a day when I’m feeling frisky. Come on people – that’s a TON of food. I also still have a boatload of cellulite and bye bye arms and if you don’t know what those are it’s the underarm that keeps waving bye bye after you’ve stopped.  So I say to you – if I look too thin to you – I’m terribly sorry – but maybe you could look at it this way. I’m trying to get healthy so that I don’t break a hip because if I fall down no one is there to pick me up because I don’t’ have a husband or a boyfriend or a child because unlike you I’m all alone in the world and no one is around to take care of me if I’m fat and can’t wipe my own ass. And if that isn’t enough for you to understand why it’s important for me to be healthy and thin then look at it this way – I’ll be fat again any minute because as they say on GOT – winter is coming.

So Long Liquor Pig

Published June 20, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I remember it like it was yesterday. The icy taste of cold white wine at 5 a.m. and the familiar deep breath that followed. “Okay, I’m safe. Voices in head, officially shut off.” It wasn’t an unusual taste. I had had it before – many times at this time – but today was different – today was a school day – that’s what I called “going to work.” I cracked open the fridge, pulled out the cork, poured a glass of chardonnay and sucked it down like it was OJ – the juice – not The Juice. I WAS still drinking out of glasses so I guess that was a bonus back then. I had not deteriorated to full on drinking out of the bottle. I’m not a savage. But it was a workday and I immediately started to panic. I had NEVER had a glass of wine before work. I had drank before other awkward situations – parties, dates, temple – but never before work. I knew instantly that the party was over. The music was about to get turned off inside the multi year long rave I was attending. The dance floor was closing. The lights were being turned on and I was taking the ugly chick home at the end of the night and that ugly chick was me. I immediately called my bosses assistant and left a message that I was sick as a dog. Then I drank about three more bottles of wine. I drank all day long. It was a Thursday. I knew I had to quit drinking but I decided to go out with a bang. I got hammered and it kept on into the night. And that’s when I started rolling calls. Like an agent at the end of a long day when he wants to dump bad news on his clients – I started calling people – hammered – to tell them what I was the last to know – that I was an alcoholic. It was the best drunk decision I had ever made which is easy if you know some of the drunk decisions I have made. Some tiny part in my wasted brain knew that if I told people I was an alcoholic – they’d hold me to quitting drinking. I called my best friends and my family. I cried. I sipped. I cried more. I called a few more people. I cried. I drank more. Then I decided to take Friday off too because that would seem more believable at work – and then I drank all the way through Friday too. I mean – come on – I needed some kind of cushion for this momentous kind of occasion. I don’t know if anyone believed I would hold myself to this since I was wasted when I informed everyone I had a drinking problem. Kind of hard to take anyone very seriously. People always ask me what “my moment” was and this was it. Nothing big. Nothing earth shattering. I had simply had a glass of wine before work and that was it. Party over. If it was going to seep into my professional life – there was no going back. And I didn’t. Sixteen years ago today.

Quitting drinking remains the single hardest thing I’ve ever done. It was many months of anger and sadness and it’s been years of struggling with those annoying questions like – why couldn’t I keep it together? Why couldn’t I handle something so simple as drinking? Why did I have to be all or nothing? But that’s the thing about booze. It’s not simple. It fucks with your brain and then it takes your memories and leaves you with guilt and sadness and huge voids of time you can no longer remember how you filled. The only good thing that comes from drinking too much is it makes the dull more fun. It makes an annoying person at a party easier to deal with. It makes being too fat or too thin or too ugly or too shy – a distant foggy memory. It makes all of your problems disappear until you can’t remember them anymore and then when you do remember them you drink again. But they never do fully disappear. They just hide and then smack you in the face when you least expect it.

Quitting drinking was a terrifying experience for me on a very different level too. I remember thinking – I can’t give up alcohol – isn’t my funny going to disappear? It didn’t. How will I ever write another piece of comedy? I did. How will I ever be the life of the party? I wasn’t. But I could be now if I wanted to because I’d actually speak clearly and not slur my words and not fall down face first in your artichoke dip or fuck your boyfriend in your guest room closet.  It happens.

When it comes to giving up the booze – I was one of the lucky ones -because my life instantly became better and I immediately knew I had made the right decision. It didn’t make it easier but it made me see that there was a pot of gold at the end of the rainbow and it was filled with great jobs, great friends, and memories that I get to keep forever or at least until the old timers kicks in which seems to be about a week away. I don’t regret any of my drinking days because they are amazing memories filled with inappropriate goodness that I believe everyone should have. But at some point – you have to let your life be lived with full clarity – because nothing is better than that. I can tell you that fully from being on the other side.  Now a few people have told me that I can no longer say that I’m sober because I started smoking pot about two years ago and I say go fuck your righteous selves because smoking pot is totally different. I would never do the things I did with booze – with weed. I am conscious of everything I do while high and remember everything that takes place. I never wake up with regrets in the morning after a night of smoking pot. Well I usually regret the amount of food I’ve taken down at about four a.m. but that’s a whole other Oprah. I never wake up to a stranger in my bed. I never have someone tell me we met and not remember. I don’t’ have friends no longer speaking to me for reasons I don’t remember. And I don’t have the fifteen pounds of liquor pig weight that came with drinking. I never ever ever wake up in the morning and think – fuck what did I do and why did I say that. Every decision I make is mine. Everything I do – I own. It is quite difficult to live your life like a giant open wound of pain and regret filled with people carrying salt so if me smoking pot upsets your balance of what I consider to be sober well – I’m sorry – but you do you and I’ll continue to do me.

Me not drinking may be more difficult for my friends because now I have to talk about EVERYTHING that’s upsetting me.  I have to get it out or I can’t move on. It’s probably why I write the way I write – like a bat out of hell spewing words with abandon. It’s also made me a less tolerant person.  I hate small talk. I hate bull shit. I hate liars.  I won’t judge you if you’re wasted but keep your distance or shits going to get real with me. Trust me – if I could drink I would. Don’t remind me why I don’t.

June 20th is summer solstice. It is known as the longest and shortest day of the year. Solstice actually means “sun stopping” and after today the sun reverses it’s direction.  The irony of this being the day I quit drinking is not lost on me.  It was the longest and shortest day of my life.  Today I celebrate my sobriety with a lot of joy – and a few tears for what could have been if I did things a little differently. I’ll never know what life path I could have taken if I’d given up the booze earlier. But I’ll try not to look back – and continue to look forward and keep striving to make some amazing future memories. Thanks for being on the ride with me. We don’t have to strap in anymore but I expect there will still be a few bumps.

Twenty Seven & Counting

Published June 10, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


“And then I looked over and the dog was licking my dick pump.”

So began one of the best conversations I’ve ever had with a friend – but for all the wrong reasons.

Twenty seven years ago I was living aka drinking my way through New York City. I was 28 years old. My prime party years. It was a glorious time filled with booze, booze, and a lot of boys. Oh and booze. Don’t forget the booze. One of those boys was my favorite bartender – see how I combined the two – and while we never had anything romantic – actually I don’t remember if we ever made out but I doubt it – we had a friendship based on nothing other than – “can I have another shitty stomach tearing ass ripping rot gut glass of your house chardonnay.”

When I was 36 I moved to Los Angeles. After a couple of years here – he too moved to Los Angeles and moved in with me. It would be the first in a long line of guests staying at Heidi’s Wayward House for Young Men. He was broke and I was just starting out at Access Hollywood. He ate a lot of black beans and tuna. I was still drinking so I don’t remember a lot of what happened while we lived together. I’m sure he could tell you but I’m kind of afraid to ask what level of asshole I was. We both wanted to be script writers but he was the one truly working at his craft every day while I went to work in the shit dump of entertainment news – you know – where we tell stories no one should know, could know, or needs to know. He never stopped writing. He never took a shitty job. He just figured it out.   And years later he is a real honest to god writer and director – of movies – the real deal. And the truth is – I wouldn’t actually be a writer if it weren’t for him – because like a good friend – he always pushed me to keep writing. He went on to get married to a gorgeous kind talented woman, have a spectacularly amazing baby, and have a beautiful life. Then reality checked in. Prostate Cancer.

So there we were – 27 years later – sitting around his yard – smoking a doobie – and looking at what a long strange trip of friendship it’s been. We went from screaming in bars to talking about the C word. We went from hoping and dreaming about our futures – to having our future smack us in the face with uncertainty. We went from fucking everything in sight – to realizing one person is better – well he did. But most of all we went from friends – to deeper friends over the years and while I don’t get to see him often enough – he is one person who definitely knows the real me. Hence the dick pump story.

So, I guess you gotta keep your shit moving while you’re going through a little prostate cancer and so after he put down the pump and picked up his wife’s vagina (it was attached to her) they looked over to see the dog licking the dick pump. They kept fucking anyway.  Whats a little dog slobber on your pump?  Amazing how after 27 years – this was the most fucked up story he’s ever told me. And he’s told me a lot.

It was a great night as always and as I left I asked him one simple thing – “Please don’t die on me.” Fuck – I hate that I have to start saying that to people now but that’s the thing about getting older and having certain friends with you along the way. It’s such a blessing to grow old together – but such a curse to know that one day we will say – The End. I love you Pumpkin.

Packing It In

Published May 24, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


There is one thing that terrifies me more than anything – one thing that can send me over the edge into a cold sweat mixed with a hot headache – one thing that can literally stop me dead in my tracks and cause a full on panic attack so mind numbingly strong that I fear I may have to crawl under my bed until its all over and hope that I come out the other side unscathed and still capable of living breathing and communicating with the outside world.   And no – it’s not the idea that marijuana will become illegal or that cake will be linked to cancer or that my boobs will grow back to the size they remember most – although all of those things could happen and I would not be fine with any of it at all but this is so much worse that even the idea of cancer cake is more deal-able. What is it?



Have you ever noticed that the simple idea of planning for a trip and dressing your future self is one of the most difficult tasks known to womankind? My question: What will I want to wear in Bali? My answer: Probably this taffeta ball gown. Are you someone who shows up at your vacation destination with one pair of granny panties, no socks, tons or workout wear and an empty bottle of conditioner that you remembered to zip lock in so it doesn’t leak? Welcome to Heidi. I have never, ever, not once, not even close to once shown up on a trip with clothing that I actually wanted to wear or for that matter – even knew I owned. Opening my suitcase when I get to wherever I’m going is like cracking open King Tut’s tomb only with less usable things found inside. Even a chariot weapon would be a bonus over what I always decide to pack.

It takes me at least four or five times before I even get the suitcase together. I pack, unpack, pace, smoke, pack, unpack, panic, cry, pack, unpack, have a near beer, pack and then spend the last 24 hours shoving things into nooks and crannies the suitcase didn’t even know it had. Then I get to my destination and boom – nothing I need. Wow, thank God I decided to bring those pants that haven’t fit me in three years and the most uncomfortable shoes I own. I once went to Prague and packed as if it was going to be California weather only to realize it was winter there and I almost froze my ass off.

There is something so finite about a suitcase. You only have so much room and you have to know what you’ll feel like wearing when you get to a place you’ve never been. I’m not one of the Real Housewives so I don’t theme pack the way they do. Hey we’re going to Dubai so lets only bring Caftans so we stick out like sore thumbs. I mean do you wear a sombrero in mexico with chips and dip in the brim? Do you have to wear cowboy hats in Texas? I wouldn’t wear a wig in Israel.  I’m just not that on the nose. But I also don’t have a particular style so I never know what mood I’m going to be in and tend to pack my entire closet and that’s the other problem – I really want to pack light. All I want is a teensy suitcase with magical things packed in little balls that turn out to be wondrous outfits. My friend Chelsea is an excellent packer. She’ll roll up to the airport with a Barbie sized suitcase that when opened holds at least 23 different outfits. Chelsea says the secret is only bringing one pair of shoes. WHAT? ONE PAIR OF SHOES? ARE YOU INSANE? WHAT KIND OF TERRIBLE SUGGESTION IS THAT? WHY DON’T I JUST KILL MYSELF. WHAT IF SOMEONE SEES ME MORE THAN ONE DAY WHILE I’M THERE AND NOTICES I HAVE THE SAME SHOES ON? Obviously I can’t do the one shoe thing. It’s just not right.

The funny thing is – whenever I’m on vacation – I don’t give a shit what I’m wearing – but I can’t seem to remember that while I’m packing. For once I’d like to be a boy so I can pack underwear, t shirts, jeans, sneakers, and a zero fucks given attitude. I’ll try to shove that next to my blow dryer, curling iron, eyelash glue, old prom dress, and all of the jewelry I own.   Inevitably – the second I get on the plane I say – Oh shit I forgot “insert incredibly important thing here.” Now if I can just teach Tulip to pack and ship – all will be right with the world. Until then – I’ll be the girl on a hike in a tutu and a bra-let from when I had my old boobs.

The Secret Life of Boys

Published May 15, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’ve never been one to call God an asshole but I think he really fucked up in the whole boy girl department and I have quite a few bones to pick with him when it comes to the fact that he made us way too different to ever come together. Yes, I believe in God. Yes, I believe he’s a dude – though he’s more of just a cloud in a robe – possibly wearing a leafy crown and possibly mandals – which I hate but it’s God – so I kind of have to give him a pass. And finally, yes, I believe I’m still a girl. I like being called a girl and if that’s a problem for you well then I guess you can go sit on a spike.  Sorry to be such a stickler on this one but there are so few battlefields left for me to conquer. Apparently I’m about to start smelling like pee all the time and despite the fact that I no longer have to shove a cotton baton inside my vagina once a month – some company wants me to wear a tinkle tampon everyday because I may laugh so hard that I’ll spill urine in my undies. This is not very sexy. I’m sorry – I have once again become sidetracked by the horror of the future.

My current knowledge of boy and how the sexes are far too different to live in peace without the aid of alcohol comes from the fact that I now live with a 25 year old young man. Stop your gasping, heavy breathing and finger wagging (or rounds of applause) – he’s just my friend and let me tell you that the knowledge he is secretly delivering to me on a daily basis could change your life. You should pay him. Actually you should pay me. I could rent him out but I’m quite certain that the average female would destroy him before she could use his knowledge for good and not evil. Living with a twenty five year old male who is not your child is not as dumb an idea as one would think. I mean – I happened to get a good one – but if you look hard enough you could probably find one like mine or at least close to it. They’re all over the place. I saw two at the mall yesterday doing absolutely nothing but talking about cars and creatine powder.

The bonuses of the quarter life male are this – I always have someone to smoke pot with and he always has someone’s phone to explain to them how it works. Unfortunately, all of the magical and wondrous things I’ve learned are basically of no use to me now. But oh how they would have helped my twenty five year old self!!! The heartache that I could have saved knowing the things I now know like – he wasn’t ignoring my text messages – they just didn’t have a tit shot attached so the level of importance went down to code pink at best.   So now I have all this incredible knowledge and nothing to do with it because men my age are too busy cleaning up a shit storm of a first second or third marriage and men his age want nothing to do with me unless it’s to load them a fresh bong hit or fold their underpants after I’ve done a load of laundry. But knowledge like this must not go to waste and while there are so many things I can’t share with you – because I’ve taken a vow of roommate silence – here are a few of the most important things you need to know about young men and dating.

#1 If you stop asking them questions they will tell you everything you need to know. And I mean – everything.

#2 They aren’t thinking anything ever and if they are – see #1

#3 They will never tell you how they feel about you as much as you want them to. If they say it once – that counts for life.

#4 If he’s not calling you – it’s not because he’s busy.

#5 When he says he doesn’t want a girlfriend – he’s not kidding.

#6 When they make a plan with you it is absolutely one hundred percent NOT a plan until you physically see them face to face. “Lets get together this week” means nothing.

#7 Let them tell you how to do stuff or fix stuff even if you know how to do it. It makes them feel important and quite frankly i don’t need to know how to change a tire or add an emoji to a picture or what kind of protein powder is good after a workout.  But keep the questions to a minimum or you’ll head into head explosion territory.

Honestly the thing I learned most is the thing I’ve always known. Women have got to start coming into relationships with the opposite sex as whole human beings and not base everything you feel on how someone else feels about you. The main person who’s feelings count when it comes to you – is you.

I’m sure I’ve said all of this before so in conclusion I’d just like to add – NO – you cannot borrow my dude.  I’m training him. I get to keep him.


My Big Bang Theory

Published May 8, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have pink hair, nine tattoos (including one that says “Shut the Fuck Up” on my ass) smoke a lot of weed, and can often be found dressed in something most fifty something’s, and a few twelve year old boys and a handful of twenty year old hooker cheerleaders, would consider inappropropriate. In other words – I’m a walking pile of judgment for others to peruse, point fingers at, and discuss. And I’m super cool with that. Because here’s the deal – I put all of that out there. It’s right in front of you for you to see – and shred – or enjoy – or be jealous of – or hate – or curse – or love. I am fully aware that if I don’t want to be judged for how I look I should just leave the house everyday in two brown paper bags – one on top for the hair and one big one to cover the clothes. The shoes can stay in the clear – everyone loves my shoes. But I don’t really care about what people think when it comes to how I look. Lets be honest – I’m already judging myself enough in that department so I can’t really hear your hatred above the deep dark “you’re fat and old” voices in my head – which are terrifically loud – and unlike most things about aging – actually seem to get stronger. Fuck. Stop. Someday I’m sure my judgement bubble will pop and you should all leave town when that happens because there are going to be some amazing choices made when I officially give zero fucks. Its going to be a fucking river of inappropriate. Think motorcycle with side car and large mastiff with helmet. Just a thought.

But the other day I had a really interesting conversation with a woman who does some work at my house – and she told me how upset she was that her daughter sent her a text telling her that she was a lesbian. She hadn’t answered the text in two days and was clearly very upset. Her daughter is single, but the mother of two children, and she was terrified that these children would now be gay because they’d be raised by two women. She actually fully deeply believes that’s how it happens. So obviously there are a few problems with her way of thinking and we had a very long discussion about all of it ending in me telling her to text her immediately and say she loved her no matter what but it made me realize just how ridiculous it is that in 2016 people are still being judged for their sexuality and I’m just saying – shut up already everyone!! I mean – if sexuality is all that defines me than I’m fucked because I don’t fuck. And I’m sorry but I currently don’t want to bang around with either sex. How does that make me who I am? When do we get to officially take sex off the list of reasons to hate people? There are so many other things to hate them for — like their hatred of gay people.

I have a friend whose entire career has been about other people trying to figure out if he’s gay or not. Many people who know of his true sexuality want him to publically define who he bangs. He is not one of those people. I am not one of those people. It’s none of your business. Who he puts his penis in will never change how he is as an actor, unless he fucks someone who gives him a job. And that does happen on the regular here in Hollywood.  And quite frankly I say kudos to that.  If getting a great job happens by me having sex with someone than bring it cause I’m on hiatus and my shopping budget has been drastically cut and while I’m not interested in fucking I’d do it for a pair of Chloe boots I’ve had my eye on for awhile. I’ll learn how to live with my shame.

Let’s stop defining people by who they choose to love and just be grateful that they love at all, because that is the only thing stopping us from completely shitting the bed on this whole life thing. Please. I’m exhausted.

I didn’t have children but if I did they’d be showered with love and pot and shoes and great food. I wouldn’t care which sex they were sleeping with as long as they were happy and I’d hug them at the end of every day and say – now go light mommy a joint and get her a kombucha and hug her good night.  Life is short. Finding someone to love isn’t easy. Knock it off everyone.


Published May 2, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


“Wearing a condom is like eating ice cream with a sock over my tongue” – said the 30 year old young man standing in my kitchen – as the subject of having sex with condoms came up. Now, I’m old but I believe what he was saying was – when one wears a condom you can’t feel a thing – and the simple pleasure of say – eating ice cream – or something that definitely does not taste like ice cream – is gone. Well here’s something else that will be gone if you don’t wear a condom – the taste of freedom when some chick you don’t even like spits out a little gelato flavor I like to call – BABY.


It’s fascinating how many young men don’t like to wear condoms these days. Perhaps it’s always been this way.  You didn’t need to wear condoms when I was younger because the government hadn’t invented a disease that kills gay people and the drug companies hadn’t banded together to make sure we never find a cure. But I digress. I also – much to the disagreement of many – do NOT have a penis so I don’t know what it feels like to sheath it in a plastic wrap much like my grandma used to have on her couches. But no matter how many young man I talk to – and much younger than this 30 year old – I’m stunned by how many of them don’t wear condoms and are having sex with people they barely know. Why are so many young men walking around with a loaded gun in their pants and shooting it willy nilly into vaginas around the world!? I mean eating birthday cake naked in a jacuzzi with a gas mask pot bong on my face would feel great to – but I don’t do it because it has consequences – consequences like my neighbors seeing me and reporting me to someone who handles old women too stoned in their hot tubs to get out and realize what an embarrassment they are being. But again – I digress.


A young man I know is convinced that he has the pull out method down to a science. Well herpes doesn’t care if you pull out. That little bugger will bite you on your entrance into the great vagina gateway and you’re screwed right after you’re screwed. What’s even funnier is this comes from someone who doesn’t even like to share a spoon with someone over a yogurt but shockingly is willing to put Mr. Pee Pee into a dark cave he’s never spelunked before. This is not smart. Caves are dangerous. They hide things… like semen… and use it later… after you’ve packed up your climbing gear and left.

Another twenty something told me that he just can’t do it. That sex is just not enjoyable with a condom. He can’t, won’t, isn’t going to , never gonna happen, no thanks, no way, no how. Perfect. Call me when your dick falls off while you’re babysitting your fifteenth no condom kid. Party. Woot woot.

I remember the day I got pregnant. Lucky for the young man who used the “pull out” method with me – I didn’t want to keep the baby. The day the doctor said “you’re pregnant” remains one of the worst days of my life. Sure – I can get an abortion – thank god – but that shouldn’t be the option. It’s not like vomiting after a party when you’ve had too much to drink and just want to get rid of the sick in your stomach. (I mean it kind of is but lets not dwell on that.) I don’t want to get into a discussion about when life begins – cause I’m still waiting for mine to start. : )

What it IS like is a terrible terrible time in a chair with a hose shoved up your ying yang and awful guilt for the rest of your life – and that’s a girls perspective who actually wanted the abortion.  What happens when the girl decides she wants to keep your devil spawn? Well I know at least three young men who are going to find out if they don’t start enjoying sex just a little bit less.  Next time you want to bang a babe for a night of what you think is no consequences –  shove your tongues in some ice cream first.  Once your head unfreezes maybe you’ll think a little more clearly.

Wrap it up boys. You’ll thank me later.


The Girls in the Tipi’s

Published April 25, 2016 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


It started out as a simple enough idea between a few female friends. Lets invite a group of amazing women who don’t all know each other to camp out in the desert and see what happens. We’ll call it a Moon Goddess weekend because there’s a new moon and it’s earth day and blah blah blah let’s all hang out together. The women behind the idea approached me with more trepidation than a bomb diffusion but I guess I have been known to be a bit snarky. I mean, to call me cynical is like calling Mother Teresa kind. It’s accurate, it’s just a bit of an understatement. It’s not that I’m not spiritual – I just hate almost anything organized – which is kind of random since I guess I’m a bit type A. I only realized this recently when I asked my friend Kat if she thought I was type A. She said –”HAHAHAHAHAHAHHAHAHAHA.” So I think that was a yes. I mean – sure I organize my yogurt by flavor in my fridge but so what – doesn’t everyone? Anyway – the emails and texts to me regarding the trip all had the same tone – “Ohmigod, I can’t believe YOU’RE coming.” They seemed generally worried about me and shocked that I would partake in a chic fest. Uhm – okay – why is it so unbelievable? What is actually going to happen on this weekend of women? Are we going to braid our hair into crowns and spill blood in the name of Venus? Or just shave our pubes in the shapes of peace signs? So I started asking questions – a lot of questions. Mostly about just how “organized and womany” this was going to be. I enjoy both women and spirituality a lot but I really don’t like things shoved down my throat. “Is someone going to sit around a fire and tell me how to be a better woman and to find my inner chakra and third eye and harvest my moon cycle in my anal cavity cause that shit can go fuck itself right now that’s not happening. (You can see why they were worried about me.) Here’s the thing – I love myself – a lot – not all of me – but a lot of me – and I’m thrilled with figuring out how to love all of me but it’s not going to happen by force. But hey, the opportunity to camp out in the middle of the desert with a bunch of weed and good music and some costumes and some cool chicks sounds like a blast.   And so off we went – to the Mojave. I drove one of the girls I didn’t know – Arielle – possibly named after a mermaid – and just as lovely. Three and a half hours later we arrived at Cynthia’s in the Badlands – an oasis tipi campsite filled with date trees in the middle of what looked like Mars. There was an outdoor bar/kitchen, three tipi’s, and a house to take showers etc. The girls had dressed it up beautifully, there was music playing, and within ten minutes I was smoking a joint and drinking an O’douls and life was about to be really great. “This is perfect” I thought. One hour later – everything changed.


“Ohmigod the energy here is amazing! Can you feel the power of women?” And SPRITZZZZZZZZZZZ!!! I took a Lavender mist to the face that got right up in my mouth and nostrils and I thought – I’ve been ambushed by an atomizer and now I’m going to die in the desert while choking on a floral bouquet of some shit that’s supposed to calm me. Someone was more excited about this weekend than I was when I got my first Easy Bake Oven. And trust me – that’s a fuck ton of excited. There were oils and herbs and atomizers spritzing and spraying and clearing and unblocking and I didn’t know what the fuck was happening but I was already level 10 annoyed. (It doesn’t take much) Keep it together Heidi, I keep telling myself. It’s fine. It’s going to be fine. Two minutes later I heard – “Lets open the circle.” Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck. How about we open my car – I get in it – and drive the hell out of here.” This my friends – is not my scene. It’s not that I’m afraid of getting all moon goddessy and shit – I just hate it when people tell me what to do and what to feel before I’ve even entered my vacation chill zone which right now was about ten hours away. I knew we were in a setting where I was going to feel a whole bunch of shit naturally and I was ready for that to happen. I had a lot of stuff I needed to let go of. I just wanted it to happen on its own. I think I went and hid by the bar and opened my fourteenth O’douls. The circle never did officially open – so yay – I guess I won that round.

The entire weekend was catered by these three adorable young women and so we sat down for our first dinner. It was awesome. So many wonderful women all chatting and eating and drinking and smoking and at least that’s the way I’m choosing to remember it but quite frankly some people shared a lot more than others and I officially tuned out after a while.

Once it got dark we decided to go on a moon hike. That sounds fun I thought. I love the moon and I love hiking. “Let’s take the cauldron” I hear behind me somewhere. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. A cauldron? Are you shitting me? What the fuck is happening. When did we get a cauldron? Fine. Lets just go. So off we went into the night – into one of the most beautiful rock formations I’d ever seen. It was insanely windy but we managed to hike up a what we thought was a huge mountain. (We went back the next day and realized it was a hump of a hill possibly formed by some really strong ants.) We all sat around and someone decided we should finally officially introduce ourselves and share. (I now hate the word share by the way unless it’s used to introduce Cher) A few women told their stories and then it was my turn. Dammit where’s my filter? Nope. Not here. “My name is Heidi and I’m here because I love my friends Kat and Chelsea and they promised me there would be no organized spirituality and they fucking lied to me.” Okay, that was fun. But I did actually fully realize right in that minute why I had come on this weekend. And I’ll tell you that shortly. We finished going around the circle and it was actually a beautiful lovely moment and then I heard – “I have to pee.” I looked up to see one woman peeing off the side of the mountain. Then another. Then another. Chelsea and I were suddenly surrounded by about eight women in a pee circle spritzing off the side of the mountain. Chelsea: “Ohmigod I smell it.” This beautiful moment was broken by the sound – and smell of urine flying down the side of this rock. Perfect. And scene.

Back we went to camp for drinks and smokes and laughs and eventually bed. There were four women to a tipi. I was in tipi Gold. I know others will say differently but our tipi was the best. Especially when Kat decided it was time for bed. Nicole, myself and Kat got in our beds but Jen was still around the Candle Fire chatting with the young-ins. Kat and Jen are incredibly close and haven’t seen each other in five years. That is something Kat seemed to forget the second she wanted to sleep. “Where the fuck is Jen? Why is she still fucking partying? It’s night one! Do we have to leave the lights on for her? Fuck I’m exhausted. I need the lights off. Just turn them off. She’ll find her fucking way. And she better close the fucking flap.” Two seconds later – we burst out laughing. Nice Goddess chat. “Fuck you Jen you cunt and your flap opening bullshit I love you you goddess you’re my best friend fuck it the lights are on and fuck her you’re beautiful and my favorite person I love you goodnight.” We laughed our way to sleep. Jen made it in fine. Someone farted in the middle of the night. We don’t know who. But this was the kind of female fun I wanted to have. I like to go Full Retard with the girls.

We slept in our full beds in tipi’s and all was right with the world.

The next morning we were lucky enough to have Jo teach us yoga. It was hot and sunny and we were barely up and there was a lot of chakra moon cycling aromatherapy peace sharing love heart centering happening and I was already totally fucking baked on weed. I’m not sure how long we were doing yoga but it felt like fourteen days so I was super happy when Kat said “I need food.” Spirituality please hold. Yoga over. Sweet!!!!

After breakfast we headed to the natural hot springs. We rolled up to this long pond in the middle of dry cracked earth and took a look see. It was dark and cloudy and filled with poop like algae and the whole thing looked like where the sickness started when the entire population died. There was a foreign family at one end of this pond scum thing – the cool end – and so we decided to climb in to the hot side. It smelled like human waste. Have you ever seen the remake of Vacation when the family bathed in what they thought was a hot spring but in actuality was a fecal dump site? That’s how I felt. We were given pots to fill with oils and then mud from the hot springs and mix ourselves up a mud mask. A big poo mud mask. Yummy. I was in and out of that hot springs pretty quickly but all the girls were delighting in making mud pots and smearing themselves with what had to be human waste. Eventually Kat convinced me to put some on. I did. If I die this year from a strange virus – this is where I caught it. Suddenly I looked around and thought – how many people have passed through this poo bath and where is it circulating in and out of? It’s just here – like stagnant water. Chelsea told me I wasn’t allowed to think about that because she already did and it was freaking her out. Suddenly I hear – “wow, I’ve never seen this many women here together.” I look up and it’s a Naked dude – dick out – dick hard – dick annoying the fuck out of me. Of course you’ve never seen this many women before. Look at you you fucking naked weirdo. Perfect. Ever notice how the first people to get naked are the only people you never want to see naked. We left pretty soon after that. I am convinced this whole tourist attraction is a joke and the locals are laughing at every person who drops themselves into that shit hole.


Back at camp we ate dinner and then it was costume time. Now this is something I can get behind. Kat brought amazing things for us to wear and Nicole let us borrow her beautiful mothers belly dancing belts and necklaces and we took some music out into the hills and danced and the amazing true hippie soul Kelly took photos and we had a blast. We sat around the Candle Fire that night but it was too cold for me to stay up and off to bed I went. The next morning I packed up so fast my car mate barely had time for coffee and a tinkle. It was time to leave the ladies behind. It was time to go home.  And I was going home a little bit lighter than when I arrived. I was leaving something behind. Because despite all my sarcasm and snarkiness and hatred off all things I don’t understand – I did indeed have something to let go of this weekend. And so I did sit up on that mountain that first night and I did tell everyone how I felt about organized spirituality but I also lost my shit. There we were, in a circle, on a rock in the wind, and as the first woman spoke to tell her story – my eyes filled with tears and I started to have trouble breathing. Not because of her story – because of mine. Shit, what the hell is happening. I tried to keep it together and finally after a few more women spoke – I pulled it together long enough to talk. Breathe.  You see, I am filled with the pain of an incident that happened this past year in a way that I’m afraid will never leave my system. Every time I think about it – I sob – or hyperventilate – or both. Six months ago – I watched someone I love so very much – catch on fire – and in my mind – die. I saw it happen. I was convinced of his death in that split second that he ran by me engulfed head to toe in flames – and I truly believed I would never see him again. I believed he was already dead. I can’t explain what came over me, because it’s a feeling I never knew even lived in my body. It’s a feeling that still lives with me to this very day and will probably be the thing that bonds us together for life. It’s a bond I’m so grateful for and a friendship that has truly changed me. But I needed to let the fear of losing him – go.   And there, on that mountain in the desert, I started to let it go and let it blow away. And perhaps it was in that moment that I realized how things grow in the desert – from all the tears we leave behind from all of the amazing moments that occur in such a haunting place.

Spending the weekend with twelve very different women was amazing. But I still think the same thing about my sex mates now that I thought before the Goddess Weekend. We need to listen to each other more. We all have something to say and something to teach. We need to stop competing with each other. We all kind of need to Shut The Fuck Up once in awhile. Mostly myself.  There is magic in the silence of what we all know as women. We share it by simply being together. We need to stop putting how we feel about things on to everyone else. Mostly myself.  Every one has the right to be exactly who they are.  Everyone has the right to feel exactly how they feel.  Every woman who came to this Goddess Weekend brought something wonderful to share with each other, from baubles, to rocks, to necklaces, to just magical pieces of themselves they openly gave to strangers. There were four generations of women on this retreat and that in itself is a miracle to be appreciated, loved, and respected.  I will never forget this weekend and I will never forget these women.  Kat, Chelsea, Cherilyn, Nicole, Emilee, Kristy, Arielle, Kelly, Jo, Jennifer, Shellie… Thank you – for being every ounce of who you all are – and for putting up with me.


The Peach

Published September 11, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have a dog who’s dying. Yep, you know where this one is going so feel free to bail out now because it’s going to get ugly. Peaches – said dog – has been dying for about two months – actually to be totally honest, since birth, because she came with four heart defects, and in a nutshell – her dying has been the single most horrific thing I’ve ever been through. Granted – I’m a middle class jewish white chick so I haven’t really been through all that much – a really bad stint or two with braces – an unfortunate weight gain during college – bad boyfriends – some super bad haircuts – a boss from hell – the death of my first dog – menopause – I mean, it’s real shit but it’s not deep shit. That said – this is the worst. The heart wrenching gut ripping tear spilling kind of shit I don’t know if I’ll ever recover from because the second her face enters my mind I lose it. I call Peaches a dog because you people make me call her that so I don’t get locked up for being the crazy dog lady – but she is not. She is human to me. She is my human. She is my person. She is moody, at times bitchy, she is finicky about her food, she doesn’t always like to be hugged but she’ll pretty much hump anything. Yes, I just described myself as well but we’re talking about Peaches aka The Peach. This dog, my first big dog, courtesy of a Saint named Brian Unger – is leaving me – and she’s doing it slowly. It’s a death march I’d like to have one day. For the most part she’s super spry, races around the house, and after a terrible scare – seems to have her heart crap under control. Plus she’s supermodel thin. And that’s the problem – she just won’t eat. Clearly not my actual child because nothing will ever stop me from eating. She’s lost 30 pounds in just a short bit of time which, let’s be honest, really pisses me off because I’ve been chasing the same ten pounds for years. But it’s very clear we’re at the end of the road for Peaches and I have to tell you – I’m just so very sad. I would kinda sorta really like her to live forever. But she can’t. I really hope she had a nice time here. I so wish I could talk to her and see if I did okay. I hope she knows how much I loved the fact that she was lazier than me. I hope she knows how much I love her. Loved her. Will always love her. I would love for her to tell me that she doesn’t mind going to sleep forever. But that’s just my guilt as a human kicking in. Dogs probably don’t feel the same way about dying. I was asking my friends what they thought was the lesson I was supposed to learn from Peaches and I think I’ve finally figured it out. As an alcoholic I tend to have a really hard time leaving things undone. It is a little something annoying that came with my sobriety. Something I didn’t have before. Anything unfinished feels like a massive weight on my shoulders and at times can become pretty emotionally crippling. It makes for a pretty good employee but not so much a person. I can get a little nutty. That said – Peaches perfectly normal end of life with heart failure activities have been going on for two months now. Every day I purchase another ticket on what has become a terrible roller coaster ride but I can’t get off because Peaches is still ready to roll. And so I keep strapping in. Peaches has taught me to just sit back and let things happen in their own time – if even that thing is a horrible piece of shit fuck you there is no god thing. Peaches is definitely riding this one out to the end and so shall I. I just wanted to take a moment to thank her now – while she’s alive – and say – I really love you Peaches and you definitely shook my tree.

Hope Opera

Published June 11, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Being a woman in her fifties is quickly becoming the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I’ve done a lot. It deserves a celebration. It deserves a massive mother f-ing party where I register to get all kinds of cool shit like the cool shit I’ve given you people over the years. Do you know how many monogrammed sheets and baby onesies I’ve bought? You people are why I don’t have that beach home in Malibu. I spent it on a single serve Keurig you just had to have in your new home for two. It doesn’t even make sense!!! Remember that “Sex & The City” episode where the single girl threw herself a party and registered for shoes and everyone had to buy her a pair of Manolo Blahniks? Get out your credit cards people because I’m doing that. I need a celebration and I need one fast. I thought things would get easier as I got older. I thought things would make more sense with age and while I understand more things than I ever did before –I’m considered too old to do anything about it. I missed the train on a whole bunch of stuff and now the train is no longer pulling in to my station – literally and figuratively. Now – everyone, get your fingers off your key pads and don’t send me that message about how I’ve never looked better and age is just a number and shove that dumb thought right back in your little computer because it’s bull shit. Not the part about me never looking better because it’s totally true but the part that follows that sentence and never does. You have never looked better – for a fifty four year old woman – and by the way – no one gives a fuck. Also – it doesn’t matter how great you look because the words coming out of your mouth are still – irrelevant. I may have learned to treat my aging like I don’t care but somebody needs to tell the rest of the world the same thing. Being a woman SHOULD get easier over the years. It’s not like we started out life riding a unicorn through our teen years, or living on a marshmallow cloud through college or riding a wave of chocolate sauce through our first jobs. Being a woman is hard as fuck. I get that no one wanted to listen to what I had to say when I was younger – I wouldn’t have wanted to listen to a drunk girl high on Quaaludes who was lifting her shirt over her head in the bar and screaming “check out my tits” either. But things have changed. I have spent decades gathering really important information. Knowledge – no one wants to hear. My life is a fucking Hope Opera and while I’m getting all dramatic about the stuff I’m going to do – no one is interested in tuning in to the show that is my life and what I’ve learned. At least in my business. They want to hear from young people. They want to know what the twenty somethings are doing. I’ll tell you what they’re doing – nothing that will help you later in life. The best part about getting older for me is that I really know what I want. Achieving it from the people in charge of handing out the good stuff is a whole other Oprah. I read an amazing article called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” – I highly recommend reading it. (( http://markmanson.net/not-giving-a-fuck/#.c8ikw3:ZUu6 )) It talks about the idea that we only have a certain amount of fucks to give as we get older and that we should be more mindful of the fucks we give when we give and I am totally on board with this. The problem for me is not giving a fuck – the problem for me – is HOPE. I am so hopeful now of so many things and that hope is hard to come by at my age and every day a little more hope gets chipped away from me and I’m worried I only have a limited number of that too. I just spent four solid months of hoping something would happen and it didn’t. What if that was my hope for the year? What if I’m tapped out? Not being hopeful is more dangerous than giving a fuck when you shouldn’t and I’m truly concerned because the hope is being sucked out of me faster than fat from a Beverly Hills Housewife. When you’re young and hopeful nobody raises an eyebrow. And when that hope dies – it’s cool – because you will hope again. But when you’re fifty something and hopeful about things – the eyes start rolling. “I’m going to have a house in Malibu one day. (eye roll) I’m going to lose this last ten pounds. (possibly warranted eye roll) I’m going to end homelessness. (deserved eye roll) I’m going to sell this script. (sigh) Plus – you start to really believe that it’s not worth hoping for things because you’ll just be disappointed when it doesn’t happen. Well, losing hope is the quickest way to give up on life. So lets’ all give hope a hug today and hope that I’m wrong about having a limited amount of hope. Shit there goes another.

Are You My People?

Published June 2, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There is nothing better in life than finding your people. Someone who gets your jokes, likes your cooking, thinks you dress cool, and doesn’t judge you when you eat a sleeve or two of girl scout cookies with perhaps a small ice cream chaser and maybe a chip or two – crinkle cut – salt and pepper – or salt and vinegar in a pinch – yes maybe blue cheese when I’m super high. Sometimes you travel through life with these people and sometimes you meet new ones along the way and add them to your people list. My people list is strong and thankfully it continues to grow. This is due in part to the fact that if you cross me I will cut you off of the people list like cancer and replace you. It’s not that hard. You’re not that awesome. I am. The other great thing about having people is that they will in fact call you on your shit. Again, don’t call me on too much because this too will get you crossed off. But if you can find someone who tells you the truth – most of the truth – not the whole truth because that’s too fucking much – then this is someone to add to your people list. And this is the fine line of friendship – how much to tell. For instance – the other day I found a really long black hair sprouting out of my fucking face and not one fucking person told me the entire day. I was outraged. And then I thought – would I tell my friend if he or she had a giant hair growing from his or her face? Probably not. It’s a hard thing to say. Like telling someone they have bad breath. Or a booger in their nose. You want to, but it’s a tough call. However, if you can find someone willing to take a possible punch to the face for their honesty than this person is a keeper. My neighbor is one of those people. Except for the chin hair he didn’t tell me about. And I adore him. So, to celebrate his honesty I shall tell you a story that was hideously embarrassing to him. Because that’s what we do for people on our list right? If you can laugh “at” you than the world will laugh “with” you. Either that is my excuse or I’m just so fucking tired of him mocking me that now that something hideous has happened to him I want to publically shame him. Yeah it’s the second one.
So the other day my neighbor and his equally lovely and honest roommate came over for dinner. They each arrived in neon yellow shirts. I didn’t know it was eighties night but hey I’m game. Apparently she had chosen to wear one and so he chose to wear one as well so it was only natural that when they arrived I too switched into a neon yellow shirt. Yes I have one. I’m not a savage. I know what you’re thinking – “wild crowd – wow, what you do to have fun is daring – ohmigod what a night – gosh how can I join this group” – and you’d be right. We’re amazing. But I digress. After dinner we decided to go get some froyo – something I don’t get but indulge him with because that’s what friends do. Or I was high. Yeah it’s the second one. On our way there my friend looked up and saw someone he knew – someone he had flirted with and thought about dating but that idea had stalled. This guy had been stringing him along and now was his moment. They were face to face. No awkward texting to decipher. This was big. “Hey what’s going on? What are you up to?” the hot guy yelled to my friend. “Oh nothing, just going to get some froyo!” he yelled back. “Oh, okay, cool” the hot guy said. And that was it and off we went. It was odd and confusing and no one really understood what was happening until my friend took a solid look around at us and said – “I just told a hot guy that I’m going to get froyo with my two retarded girlfriends in matching neon fucking yellow sweatshirts. I wouldn’t call me either.” I wanted to console him but I was too busy pointing and laughing. And that’s what it means to have people. Sometimes they hug you. And sometimes you laugh at them because they didn’t tell you about the hair in your face. We’re even now mother fucker.

I’m Saving That

Published May 26, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night while I was washing out a large container of Talenti Tahitian Vanilla ice cream – yes I buy large stop judging – a thought popped into my head that proved I am becoming my mother. Well maybe not MY mother, but someone’s mother. I am becoming a woman who wants to save things to put other things in. Yes, there I was rinsing out this large plastic jar and thought – I should save this. It’ll be good for dog biscuits, or screws, or q-tips, or maybe some jelly beans, or how about some other pile of shit I have in my house that I don’t need. By the way – I’ll never be that woman who has glistening colorful jars filled with candy on my counter for people to just pick a piece or two while they’re in my house because I would eat all of the candy every night and have to replenish it every morning and even I don’t have that kind of fuck you money. But, while washing my Talenti container I realized that there comes a certain time in your life where you actually see everything as something that needs to be kept – which we all know thanks to A&E is one thought shy of becoming a hoarder who gets buried alive by a six foot stack of coupons they’ve secretly been cutting but no one knows about because they haven’t been to visit their mother in like two or three – decades. Nice work guys. “I guess I haven’t been here for awhile because I had no idea my Mom was keeping all of her dead cats.” I didn’t keep the container of ice cream but I really wanted to. I’m starting to fight this urge a lot lately. Every time I have to throw out a Ziploc bag I’ve used once – I think – I should rinse this and use it again – and then I don’t. I’m sure this is why America is dying under a pile of garbage. I’m sure it’s all my fault. I’m killing the country. But who knows – at the rate I’m going I’ll probably start smoothing out pieces of tin foil and storing those somewhere – probably inside some other thing I’ve saved – like an old box I find on the street or pull out of the neighbors garbage can as if they’ve thrown away a perfectly good box and they’re idiots and look how amazing I am to save this from the trash and one persons trash is another persons treasure and by the way that expression is such a pile of shit because trash is trash and you may rescue it from someone else’s pile but about a year after you’ve painstakingly turned it into something else you too will toss it because it’s garbage and you just want something new and shiny and that’s what this is all about at the end of the day anyway isn’t it – wanting something new and shiny? Isn’t that what we all want? Isn’t that why the divorce rate is so high in this country? I do love the fact that all those people who thought I was a loser for not getting married twenty five years ago now think I’m a genius because they’re all divorced and I still have all of my shit. They look at me sheepishly, head hanging, and whisper “you were right.” “I’m sorry what? I can’t hear you.” “YOU WERE RIGHT!” Finally society has backed the fuck off of me on that subject. They still think I’m dead inside because I didn’t have kids but all it’s going to take for them to realize I’m the smarty pants in that situation is one kid to murder one parent in their sleep and I’ll be off the hook on that one too. Until then, I’ll be in my kitchen rinsing out my paper towels to be used again. They’re very durable these days. Unlike most relationships.

Oh The Horror

Published May 18, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have just discovered the single worst part about getting older. It’s not the fact that everything drops and soon I can tuck my boobs in my ankle socks – though that sucks. It’s not the bizarre hair growing in weird places – though that is unfortunate. It’s not that everything seems too loud to you – though that is annoying. It’s not the complete inability to lose ten pounds no matter how much you starve yourself – though that is super frustrating. It’s not the fact that I can no longer sleep, have to smoke pot to get to sleep, then eat so much in bed that I have to vacuum my sheets everyday – though that struggle is very real. And it’s not even the fact that I’m becoming increasingly irrelevant on a daily basis – though that is – somewhat comforting at times – and I may actually be looking forward to complete invisibility. No, all of these things pale in comparison to the one thing I can no longer handle. Horror Movies. Yes, the greatest joy of my life has quietly been ripped out of my hands – never to return again – the joy of watching a really creepy movie. Somehow overnight I have gone from a person who loves a scary movie more than anything to a person who has to turn the television off when a commercial for a scary movie comes on because it sets off such a chain reaction of paranoia and fear that I can’t go to bed at night. Just the other day the trailer for Poltergeist came on and I mistakenly looked through my fingers at the very end and caught a glimpse of a child being flung backwards up a set of steps. That was it for me. I had to check under every bed, and inside every closet before I went to sleep. And let me tell you – that’s a lot of closets. I don’t know why the fear factor goes up as we get older but there is something in my brain that has stopped computing the concept of “this isn’t real” and the blood curdling images that used to bring me so much joy are now a very real possibility of giving me a heart attack. Yes, the worst realization of me getting older is – I can’t handle a horror flick and it is officially the saddest day of my life. I will never again be able to watch Saw 16 or Insidious 27. I can’t be first in line to freak out over Paranormal Activity 16. No – my finger nails will never again grip the seat or the thigh of the person next to me. Why I ask you oh gods of aging why! What is happening to my older mind and why couldn’t it develop a problem with reality tv? I could say goodbye to the Housewives easier than I can to Freddie Kruger. I told my friend Brian about my dilemma hoping that he would just laugh at me and tell me to get over it and get back on the scary saddle but he just looked at me and said – “I get it and you know what’s next? We’re afraid to drive.” Fuck. My. Life.

Too Cool To Club

Published May 17, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Walk up the stairs and knock on the doors one at a time” said my friend Peter. We had just been let in to a club in Hollywood. It was 10pm. The guy at the door who let us past the velvet rope at the front door was wearing an outfit he clearly cobbled together from his moms closet and the pirate section at the Halloween store. I could tell he thought he looked effortless and cool. He looked like my Mom in a pirate costume. “You’re the first ones here.” Oh great, not that again I thought. Now if you know me you know that I tend to show up at a party when the invite says to – which I have since learned is super uncool. If the invite says – the party starts at ten – that’s the time you’re supposed to get in the shower. Got it. But this was a surprise party and so when the invite said – be there at ten because the guest will arrive SHORTLY thereafter – I suggested we get there at ten. But once again – here we were at the supposed doorway to cool – and we were the first to arrive and we were being quietly shamed for it by some sort of tranny Jack Sparrow. Once inside, my friend directed me and a small group of patrons – they let you in in groups – up the stairs. Knock on the door he said. So I did. Nothing. Next door. Nothing. At the third door we heard something inside. A moan? A yell? A sigh? A cry for help? We opened the door and walked in to a small room where a youngish woman in lingerie sat in a chair reading a book. She looked like the worlds most bored hooker. She said nothing. I was high as fuck so I didn’t know what to say. Peter started poking me in the side. He thought this was the coolest thing ever. I am not one for this kind of theatrics if I’m not at a theater. And I didn’t buy tickets to a show – I was just trying to get a Near Beer. Just open the fucking doors and let me in. After a few minutes of the world’s most inane chit chat – she hit a button and the floor opened up leading to a stairway down into the bar. “I am the mistress of the night. You may go in.” She said in her best non plussed hooker speak. “What am I in the magic fucking castle?” I asked? “Yes!” Peter yelped. Isn’t it the best?” Uhm. No. Thank. You. I didn’t ask for the weird side show. Can’t we just get a fake beer? It’s not enough that they make you wait behind a rope – now they make you be a part of some retarded side show before you go in. Now I love cheese and theatrics but this was the kind of cheese I’m not into. This was like a bad individually wrapped slice of American cheese. This is not my idea of COOL. In fact , this is the opposite of cool. Cool is when you walk into a bar and Mick Jagger’s on the dance floor with a pet monkey playing a tambourine while doing shots of Jagermeister and he asks you to be his back up singer for a rollicking round of Sweet Caroline or American Pie. But in we went, and once inside, the space was really fun, like a big house with lots of places to party. Okay, maybe this won’t be so bad I thought. We went up to the private room where the party was being held and were denied entrance. It was 10:15. We were still the first ones there. The space was not ready. So once again, everyone in Los Angeles was too cool to arrive on time for a surprise party. Then I realized – the guest probably wasn’t going to arrive on time either. At 11 pm we decided to go downstairs to the main room to see “the show.” Suddenly a band kicked in and everyone turned to face the stage. Then a dancer with feather fans and pasties came out and did a burlesque strip tease while everyone watched and cheered. I’m sorry – didn’t this burlesque shit end ten years ago? Is this still a thing? Everyone in the crowd looked like they had been brought in on a bus from central casting and were told to act like – this is cool as shit. It wasn’t. It was cheesy as fuck. At 11:45 when the guest of honor had still not arrived – I convinced Peter we needed to go eat pie. We did. The end. We also ate cheese fries with gravy. So once again I’m here to say – I’m baffled by LA’s nightlife and it’s patrons. Everyone is so busy being late to the party that they are missing the actual party – which is the idea of being out and having fun with friends. Thankfully I was with Peter and another friend Jeffrey because if I had showed up to this shit show alone to sit for two hours while waiting for a party to start – I would have murdered the mistress of the night and taken a dump on the band and the burlesque dancer. I feel badly that I missed my friends birthday party but if you’re that late – shits gonna get real with me. I think I’m done with you LA Club life. If anyone’s looking for me I’ll be in a regular old bar with Mick and his monkey. His name is Horatio. And he likes cheese fries.

Munch on This

Published May 15, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night while I was eating an old cold stale corn tortilla smeared with brie cheese I realized something and sadly it wasn’t – “I shouldn’t eat this.” It was that I’m not a person who can simply eat a piece of cheese – without anything else. I cannot delicately slice off a little wedge and pop it in my mouth – naked. That cheese needs transportation. A life raft so to speak – to ride its way to its death into my mouth. Yes, I am a person who needs a cheese delivery system. I need a cracker. And when crackers are not available – I will use anything. I probably would have used a coffee filter had I not found the package of old tortillas at the bottom of the crisper which by the way seems to be a total sham because it certainly isn’t keeping anything I own crisp – other than the tortillas. My habit of eating late at night has not slowed down and the concept of filling my bed so I don’t fill my face isn’t working out quickly enough and if I don’t do one before I stop doing the other I’m going to pop the lug nuts on my soul cycle and ride that thing right out of the classroom. I decided a few weeks ago that I want to live this decade as the Fitties not the Fatties and while I’m working out like a banshee and consuming about eight calories during the day – I still haven’t curbed the night eating. I’m still waking up with a plate of something next to my bed and usually something in my bed. Last night the cheese platter came with a side of fruit and I guess I slept on a few blueberries because when I woke up this morning I thought I was bleeding from some orifice and I was slightly concerned at the color – blue. Also Tulip has gum in her hair and I think that’s from me chewing wads of it while trying NOT to raid the fridge and then sticking it on the table next to me rather than swallow it because the amount of gum I swallow is also a cause for concern. In fact – maybe the ten pounds I can’t get rid of is a giant ball of Stride 2000 just sitting in my belly. I have to stop smoking pot so I stop eating but I can’t sleep if I don’t smoke pot so now I need to figure out what to do with those twenty minutes before I fall asleep when I want to eat a stick of butter like a protein bar. I’ve been keeping the fridge stocked with fruit so that I don’t eat anything too bad but I do like to keep some cheese in the house for company but I’m usually eating it before the company ever comes. And by the way – who says “company” anymore? In fact, if I’m having a dinner party I have to shop the day of because I’ll eat everything I have to cook before anyone comes over. I once made a monkey bread to bring to work the night before and ate almost the whole thing so I had to go to the grocery store in the morning and rebuy and recook the whole thing. I act like I’m living in Europe and go to the supermarket every day but it’s not because I’m looking for the freshest ingredients it’s because I’m restocking whatever I demolished the night before. Yesterday a young Scientologist was eyeing my cheese purchases at the checkout line. You can spot the Scientologists because they wear a uniform and look dead inside. It was a lot of judgement from a kid buying “kiss my face” lotion. Who even knew they made that anymore? So I guess what I’m trying to say is – if anyone has a cure for the munchies – and don’t say eat baby carrots because I will baby kill you – please let me know. Until then – I’ll see you in the cracker aisle. I’m out.

Tiny Penis, Big Vagina

Published May 11, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I once dated a guy who told me I had a big vagina. Now I know what you’re thinking – “what a horrible lie to tell” – and you’re right – we didn’t date – we had an affair – that lasted about four days – but to me it felt like dating – and his words about my vagina – were crushing.
Boys love to talk about the size of their penis’s – or penises – or peni – or whatever the plural of dick is. They will tell you they have a tiny dick in a hot second. Usually they are doing this so that you are shockingly surprised when you get in bed with them and its normal. You were expecting a toothpick to pierce your little dolphin (Look at the vagina sideways and it looks just like Flipper) so when it turned out to be average – you were thrilled. The truth of the matter is – girls don’t really give a shit. Size doesn’t really matter. Until you tell us we have a flesh cave between our legs that you can hear your dick echo in when it calls your name. Then we care – then we shall prove that you have an unsatisfying one inch killer between your legs and we shall tell the world about it – one day – when we know you aren’t paying attention. But a big vagina is not something women discuss – so as far as I know – I’m the only girl that’s ever been told this. If there are others, please email me privately, but don’t’ send me any Vag pics – I don’t even want to look at mine so looking at yours is at the top of my “no thank you not today” list.
Here’s what I know about my vagina. It’s normal. In fact – it’s probably pretty tiny – because I am pretty tiny – and I haven’t dated any porn stars with fourteen inch meat thermometers– that I know of. But the guy I dated (just let me call it that, it’s my story) the one who said I had a big vagina – definitely had a micro dick. When we had sex it felt like he was hurling a pea down a bowling alley – or throwing a hot dog down a hallway – or one hundred other expressions men have come up with for having a big vagina. He told me in the middle of having sex – while his guppy of a dick was swishing around in my perfectly normal vagina tank looking for a nice rock – or one of those little houses – or a piece of coral to land on. Forgive the fish analogy but I’m not using to discuss the smell – that is one expression that really pisses me off. Women smell great. If they bathe. The end. So, stupid me, I believed him when he said I had a giant vagina. And I became very self conscious of said vagina. Is there something you can do to shrink the vagina? Of course there is. I think the second men figured out how to make boobs bigger they went to work on how to make vagina’s smaller. But guess what – fuck you. My vagina is normal and he was a big fat liar. Well everywhere except the pants. There was nothing big and fat there. It took a while for me to realize that my vagina was normal. Actually it took as long as it took for me to have sex with someone other than this baby carrot carrier. So about a day. I’ve moved on. I’ve healed. And I hope other women out there know – if a guy tells you you have a giant vagina – do the one thing you can – get another guy. I did. The vagina liar happens to be a super famous actor so every time I see him on screen I die a little bit inside but he keeps getting fatter which means his dick keeps looking smaller so I guess there is justice in the world so thank you for that God or Jesus or Mother Nature or Aliens or whomevers in charge of making sure people who have wronged me have terrible things happen to them. PS – there is such a thing as a loose vagina and I’m super sorry if this has happened to you. But if it has – make sure you tell your partner that it’s him and not you. They’ve been doing it to us for years. It’s penis payback time. Me and my dolphin support you.

Coy Vey

Published April 28, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

You know what’s more embarrassing than getting a bladder infection from banging around with a too young too hot male model who only speaks French and thinks you’re really 40 and a very powerful television executive who can make or break careers? Getting a bladder infection because your pee is too concentrated because you don’t drink enough water and the only male model in sight is the one staring at you from the ad for the drugs that you have to take to get rid of said infection because you’re one hundred years old. Yes, I said it. My pee is too concentrated because I don’t drink enough water. I also don’t drink enough young male models but I think that ship has probably sailed. It was a good ship. It was a fun ship. But it’s hit an iceberg called – “I need liquor to take my clothes off in front of you and I’m an alcoholic.” Apparently the average pee is a 10-10 ratio of something to something and mine is 10-30. I don’t know what it means but it’s three times as confusing as it needs to be. The whole ordeal got me thinking about sex. Mostly because I had to say to the gynecologist – how can I have a bladder infection when I’m not even having sex? And then I had to deal with her judgy looks and trust me – she’s judgy as fuck. She’s Asian Judgy – which, ask any Asian – is judgy plus – or judgy prime.
Here’s the thing about sex – I might be interested in having it – but I’m currently not interested in any of the annoying shit that comes with it – like conversations and caring and trips to the gym together and hikes – no hikes – I’m not hiking with you. I really do want to be that older wild woman flinging herself around the city with men half my age. I like younger men. They’re not dead inside – yet. They don’t have ex wives who ruined it for me. They’re not on Tinder with these weird half shots where you can only see a ladies elbow or shoulder. I get it – you were married. And you both hiked together. Did she not let you ever take a picture by yourself? Lots of women my age tell me I’m missing something by not being “out there.” They love to tell me how I should be shacking up with a younger man. I mean look at all of the Real Housewives of New York. They seem to be having a grand old time with their grand old vaginas but I just don’t think I find the whole concept interesting enough to get out there and do the work. Plus – are younger men really interested in a 54 year old woman who isn’t on television and can help their careers? Me thinks not. And me is pretty smart. Is there an app I can use? Or a website? Who’s running “I’m young and cool and won’t kill you in your sleep dot com?” Cause that’s a website I need. And don’t tell me to go on Cougar Life dot com because even those sick fucks have an age limit and I’m actually too old to be a cougar. Every day of my life someone asks me if I’m dating – or married – or interested in being married – or interested in dating – or did I have kids or will I have kids or blah blah quit asking me about shit I can’t answer. Here’s the cold hard truth. I’m the problem. I know this. I’ve always known this. If you’re a man and you seem interested in me, my first thought is – what do you want? What’s your end game? If you’re a young man and you’re interested in me my first thought is – do you need glasses and then – what do you want. And here’s a newsflash people – I AM DONE BEING COY. If you’re looking for someone to giggle and flirt and bat her fake eyelashes at your adorableness – well you’ve come to the wrong place. Coy has left the building. In fact – Coy moved out of town. She’s living on a farm – with her sixteen dogs and she’s starting an all girl dude ranch like the one in the movie “The Women.” I’m more of a – “Just tell me what you want and lets see if we can strike a deal” kind of a girl. Don’t waste all the cutesy talk on me because I’m not falling for it anyway. Like I said – I’m the problem. It turns out I’m looking for someone just to have sex with but I don’t want to have sex with anyone I don’t like. This is what we call a conundrum. I realize I may have wasted all of my good sex years being terrified of being judged and it turns out the person judging me the harshest is me. I wish I realized this back when I had my banging around body because I would have just gotten over it but now I have to get over it and get over my less than perfect body – the 54 year old one – with the cellulite – and the stuff you can grab in places I can’t reach. I have handles… and there’s nothing to love about them. It turns out – if I want to start having a fun life filled with fun sexual encounters – I have to stop judging myself. I bought condoms. Wish me luck. And watch out young fuckers – I’m coming for you. Maybe twice.

Call Me Grandma

Published February 2, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’ve recently discovered that there are quite a few important world changing things I’d like to open a Kickstarter campaign for, the invention of calorie free Sour Patch Kids, cigarettes that don’t kill, and jeans that make you lose weight when you wear them. I mean, if some guy can get thousands of dollars for a cole slaw recipe – why can’t I fund my inane inner brain thoughts? Lately however there’s one thing I really could use some funding to help stop: The rampant use of the clichés “age is just a number” and “you’re only as old as you feel.” I call bullshit on both of those and here’s why… other people. I can go around all day feeling youthful in my daisy dukes with black tights, combat boots, and a sweatshirt that says “clothes before bros” but the second I leave the house and go out in public – it’s all over – and reality can sometimes be a cruel cruel bitch – and sometimes that cruel cruel bitch is just a woman you meet at a Superbowl party.

It’s been happening to me a lot lately. I’m hanging around a younger friend – minding my own business – when somebody offers up a comment that’s such a fucking drive by I want to shoot them from the tinted back window of the car I’m not driving. For instance – I was out to dinner with my friend Chelsea one night – a beautiful 26 year old – when the waiter came by and said “It’s so nice to see a mother daughter out together.” After I finished choking on my pan friend dumpling and crying at the dinner table – I realized it could be a compliment . After all – he did think I was cute enough to be her mom cause she’s pretty fucking cute. But the Mom word is being thrown around a lot at me lately – and it’s happened when I’m just innocently standing next to someone younger. “Oh is this your son? Your daughter?” It’s most painful when I’m with my 24 year old male friend and people think I’m his mom. Sure I could be, but he doesn’t need to be reminded of that when I’m trying to get him to sleep with me now does he? And just when I’m starting to get used to the whole Mom thing – by the way – I didn’t have kids so fucking knock it off – I get delivered an even lower blow at a Super Bowl party while I was stoned and simply trying to see how many mini cupcakes I could shove in my mouth at once – answer 4.

So there I was – showing a group of girls a photo of my beautiful three month old niece Daphne – on my iphone which I know how to work fuckers – when a total stranger walked by and said “Oh is that your Granddaughter?” And Crash!!! Ow. That hurt. Did anyone see the car that just ran me over? What a fucking drive by! Maybe the Kickstarter campaign I need is to get more people to Shut The Fuck Up by using just my eyes. I needed a great comeback but all I could think was – where’s the bathroom I need to cry in private. But I’m working on a comeback – something that will level the person on the end of that comment. “No I can’t have kids because I’m dying of cancer.” That could work. Or – “I couldn’t have children because I’m dead inside” – that one may be too on the nose. I’m working on something though people, so you better be on the lookout and watch what you say to me.

In the meantime I’m trying to deal with the one cliché that seems to be holding true for now – THE TRUTH HURTS. And… scene.

The Big Bang

Published January 3, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Well 2015 came in with a bang – literally – when a speeding car slammed into my body – knocking it’s passenger side mirror into my hip and snapping it – the mirror not my hip – off like a Lego. The car never stopped. My back and hip hurt like hell which is where I’m hoping the driver ends up. There is no way they didn’t see me or hear the hit. It was loud. It was scary. I hate them. They were probably texting. I’m an old woman people. My body can’t take this kind of shit. It felt like a truck ran me over. But if you think this is going to stop me from having an amazing fucking year – you are wrong. I am choosing to make this the start of their year not mine – and I’m quite certain that person is going to have one fucked up year. I am using all of my karmic energy and my psychic Letty to make sure this happens. A chicken may have to die but that’s okay by me.
But the horrific event has got me thinking about my plans for 2015 and the kinds of things I want to manifest and the kinds of things I need to give up. First thing I’m giving up – getting hit by cars. Sure that ones easy but some of the others aren’t as on the nose. I have sadly come to realize that there are things in life I cannot change or turn back the hands of time on – for instance – the bikini days are gone. They lasted one year with my new boobs and that was it. I was so happy basking in the Turks and Caicos sun with my tiny tits but it was super short lived. Menopause has made my weight the single greatest quiz show in the history of the world. There is no right answer as it changes on a daily basis. I’ll take “What the Fuck Is Happening To My Body” for 100 please. Maybe Alex Trebek can get this shit under control but I’m giving up. I was forced into a one piece this year. And by forced I mean – I looked in the mirror and said – oh that shits not moving back anytime soon. Sadly the one piece doesn’t cover the arm or leg fat and when you get a tan in a one piece your belly looks even bigger when it’s all white compared to your tan legs and arms. Seeing young people flitting about on a beach not realizing they are playing with a body on a timer makes me crazy. I want to tell all of them not to take what they have for granted. What they have being – no cellulite and skin that snaps back into place. I’m pretty sure I could pull my excess skin into the shape of a balloon animal and it would stay that way. Maybe I should shape mine into a monkey on my back. I may have to go burkini soon. I was talking to a girlfriend the other night about this very subject – the concept of knowing when it’s over. “It” being that battle you wage with certain parts of your body. Getting old is such a bummer. I mean it’s better than kicking it and leaving a hot corpse but there are so many things you have to say goodbye to – like stomach muscles. I mean – I didn’t get on the exercise train until… well I’m still waiting to catch it. I know it’s not good to say “never” but I feel fairly certain that there are a few never’s I have to concede to. I will never have great arms again. I will never have tight skin on my thighs. My neck is getting to the point where I might get carved as a thanksgiving turkey next year. My hair is going and taking off any weight is now a lifelong project. I’ve also developed this new TMJ thing where every single time I open my mouth my jaw pops so loud people in other homes can hear it and just last week I developed some weird swollen rib thing that mimics a heart attack. I’m fucking falling apart at the speed of light and I’m not happy about it. All of this leads to the big never – banging a hot young guy – although there’s one left on my dance card – but I fear he’s gonna drop off right after he reads this – or sees me in my granny panties with the lights on. In fact – I’m quite certain he’s just humoring me. Its pretty easy. I’ll believe any twenty year old who tells me I’m hot. Why would they lie? I certainly can’t give them anything – except cash – which I will. I’m trying to age gracefully – like Diane Von Furstenberg – who is hands down the Queen of Cool Aging. She obviously gives Zero Fucks – and that is something I’m trying to achieve.
As for 2015 here are the extremely important things I’m working on. Drink more water. Get more massages. Sell and shoot my pilot. Stop eating cake and ice cream in the middle of the night. Stop eating anything in the middle of the night. Don’t stay at the party to late. Leave right before you see your friends do dumb shit. Have more dinner parties. Read more. Meet Amy Poehler. Her book is amazing. Enjoy every single solitary day and stop worrying about whether or not this is “it” – and instead make whatever this is – the best “it” it can be.

Are You There God? It’s Me Prada

Published November 19, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Sometimes in life – someone hands you an explanation for something that is just so perfect – it’s hard to argue against. Last night that person was my friend Chelsea – and that perfect explanation was her proof that there may in fact – be no such thing as God.

Now I am one of those people who believes in God and Angels and people watching over me because if there weren’t, I would have been dead a really long time ago. Or at least – incapacitated in some way – which is worse than dead – because if I’m unaware of how amazing my life and my shoe collection are – then what’s the point. Sure it’s good to be alive but if that life were drooling in a cup while being shoved around on a jazzy – I think I’m out. Now, I’m not sure why God and the Angels keep choosing to save me – perhaps it’s so I could write this award winning blog? But whatever the reasons – I am grateful. Daily.

So here I am walking around with zero facts that there is a God – minding my own business – when Bam! – a story that rocks my foundation – to it’s core and it’s all because Chelsea accompanied a friend to Church one Sunday in Los Angeles. Now here in the city of Angels we do a few things differently than other cities. We can’t drive in Rain. We talk about traffic like it matters. We tend to all wear the same outfit. And – when it comes to Church – it’s a little loosey goosey on who you pray to. You can find quite a variety of Gods to pray to and with and there can be a lot of granola, peace and love mixed in with God in some places. Now it’s easy to turn your nose up to that regular old Catholic God everyone talks about constantly and thanks at awards ceremonies – or one of those crazy healers who uses a basket of snakes to charm you – but when the Church you’ve been taken to is filled with a bunch of people who seem just like you – when they start saying crazy stuff – you can get sucked in. And here’s the crazy thing that happened. At one uplifting point in the ceremony – the crowd was asked to do something selfless – for needy people – and that selfless act – was to take off the shoes they were wearing and pass them to the front – to be passed along to needy people. HOLD THE FUCKING PHONE RIGHT NOW I’M NOT GIVING UP MY 300 DOLLAR SHOES – was the thought that immediately crept into her head. But everyone was doing it. The entire congregation was whipping off their shoes and passing them forward and chanting and yelling for Chelsea to do the same. “But these are my favorite shoes” she pleaded to her friends. Zero fucks given. They’re just shoes. Pass them forward. You’ll feel amazing afterwards. Well maybe those people were wearing JUST SHOES but Chelsea was not. She loved her shoes. They were her favorite pair. She had formed a bond with them – like I have with so many of mine. They are my children. And anyone who tells me I don’t know real love because I’ve never had a child is wrong – I love my Miu Miu studded shoes like a teenager who brings home an A+ from school in Calculus. But she did it. She passed them forward. A tear spilling on them as they left her tiny hands. She didn’t feel amazing. She felt shoe raped. And there under the guise of religion and love and God – Chelsea was given pretty clear proof that there is no God. Because no God would ask us to hand over our favorite shoes. God would give Prada a pass. Just saying.

Judged at the Drug Store

Published November 7, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night on my way home from work, I stopped at the drugstore to purchase a spa pillow for my tub. Now, I am not a bath person. I am a shower person. I do however, come from a long line of bath people – known as The British. These people have never met a tub they couldn’t sit in for hours. I, on the other hand, have a hard time in a bath. I get bored. It gets cold. I feel like I should be doing something other than just sitting there. Blah blah shouldn’t I be watching tv or something? But I had been feeling sick over the past few days and someone suggested a soak in Epson Salt. And so the night before – I tried it. This time however, I tried something I had never tried before with my bath – I got high before I got in. OMG MAGIC. So this is the secret to a soak in a tub – smoking pot. Why hasn’t anyone written about this? Why has no one ever told me that the correct way to sit in a hot tub is to do it – high. Fuck the whole candle light glass of wine shit – a bong is all I needed. And so there I was, high as a kite, happy as a clam. Whatever happiness that clam feels. I was feeling it. I followed that high bath with my first high shower and Jesus Christ who knew that too was equally as amazing!!?? Suddenly my bathroom was the most magical place on earth and it had been there all along!! The only bad thing that happened was I realized I was out of make up remover wipes after it was too late. There is nothing more devastating than pulling out that last wipe and realizing you don’t have any back ups. Nothing. Except maybe everything else in the world but I digress. My bathroom was now The Taj Mahal. I would turn it into the Zen Shrine it deserves to be. Any excuse to shop for shit is good with me. And so the next day at work was spent dreaming about that nights bath. How soon can I get out of here and get in there. I wrote lists of all the new things I needed for my bath. A small table for next to the tub, and a spa pillow for starters. And so, there I was, on my way home from work, stopping at the drugstore. My head was swirling with glee. How lucky am I that I don’t have to go home and take care of anyone else but me tonight? Damn I’m happy. And then it happened. On my way out of the store – spa pillow tucked inside my purse – a homeless woman who very much resembled the actress from Throw Momma From The Train – asked me for money. “Of course” I said and took out a few dollars from my wallet. As I handed it to her she said “Thank you.” And then she paused –turned her lips into a frown and said “I know how hard it is. Being a single girl.” I’M SORRY – WHAT THE FUCK DID YOU JUST SAY? “I know you’re single.” She said. “How do you know I’m single?” I barked in the parking lot. She said – “Well you’re alone.” I said “Well I don’t always shop with someone.” And then I realized – I’m arguing with a homeless woman in a Rite Aid parking lot about my single status – a status she was completely fucking correct about. I felt so judged. And worse – she said it as if we were on the same page. We were kindred spirits, in our lack of love. I got in my car, sped away, and seethed the whole way home. Then I ran my bath, suctioned my new pillow to the wall, smoked a bowl, and got in. It was perfect. No one was there to annoy me and I thought to myself – I may be single but I am definitely not alone. Fuck you Owens mom.

Tour de Cramps

Published October 28, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Here’s a fun fact: Even after you stop getting your period – women still cycle together. That’s right – you don’t even have to own a blood bike anymore to ride off into the crap-set with another girl.
I mean – no one was more excited than me to stop menstruating at the ripe old age of 53 – no one. I was so thrilled at the death of my vagina that I threw it a party and registered at the White Pants Store. But to my chagrin – the joy has been short lived – and all because I sit in a room all day with a vibrant young woman named Janae. Bitch.
It happened slowly at first so I didn’t even realize it. Once a month I’d get ravenous. Then the next week I’d be exhausted. Then the following week I’d be bloated. Now normally this would constitute a typical month in the life of Heidi – or at least – three typical things you can always hear me say – I’m starving, I’m exhausted, I’m fat. In fact – I say those three things so often I should just change my name to that already. But then I realized – these feelings were timed the way my period used to be – you know – where you have that one week a month where you don’t feel like a hungry sweaty gorilla? How is this possible I thought? In the beginning it just seemed like I was still having Phantom Periods. Like a person who’s lost a limb but still feels it? Maybe that’s what my menstrual cycle was going through. Maybe my body missed having a period. Stupid body. But month after month it continued to be there. And that’s when I started doing the math and found out that my 1 + Janae’s 1 = me being fucked. Sure there’s no death scene in my pants at the end of this period piece but I get all the other hideous crap I was so thrilled to be rid of. Just the other morning as I was eating a toasted English muffin with peanut butter, followed by a bowl of berries, followed by half a cronut, followed by two pieces of matzoh with butter, followed by a bag of SunChips – Janae looked over at me with a sad face and said – “Sorry, we’re getting our period.” Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck. This is so not fair people and I am here to tell you – I knew God was a dude.
I’m not sure what to do now because I kind of have to go to work everyday and I really like Janae but this is beyond the downside of a job – this is workplace harassment at its worst and I don’t think HR would take kindly to me reporting this behavior. “Uhm, Janae keeps giving me her period.” I don’t know if there’s some kind of workman’s comp claim I can make but I did not wait almost fifty years to finally be rid of something only to get it right back. Nobody asked for the bloody boomerang people!
I’m the kind of person who does not shy away from drastic solutions to fix a problem. I bought a new car when my old one had a flat tire. I cut off my boobs when my shirt buttons wouldn’t close. I quit drinking when I kept falling down. Wait – that last one was probably a good idea, but if this phantom period stuff keeps up I am so taking out my lady parts. Who needs this thing? It doesn’t write, paint, or create anything and the only thing it seems to know how to reproduce is someone else’s period.
For now, I’m going to sit in a hermetically sealed room at work with a microphone and shout my jokes through a speaker box. Maybe if I put my box in a box this long national nightmare will end. Damn you Janae.

The Real Halloweenie

Published October 26, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I thought I was cool. I really did. I believed the hype I’d been hearing about myself – that I am a fairly happening person – and that I can hang with the kids and be counted among the hip. But last night I proved, I am not only the least cool person on the planet – I also made it crystal clear to everyone who knows me – that I don’t get out enough.
I was invited to a Halloween party at a friends house – which I have now learned is called a House Party – which I have now learned has very specific cool rules when it comes to “when to arrive.” Now I am someone who hates late. If I am supposed to meet you at 8 – I’m there at 7:59 – unless there is a horrible problem – like someone died, or I have dog barf on me, or there’s traffic or I can’t find the right lipstick. So if you tell me a party starts at 9, I will get there fashionably late – like 9:01. So when my friend said – get there at 9 – I got there at 9. Not only was I the first person there. I was there before the host. If you want to know the absolute definition of nerd – be the first to arrive at a Halloween party in a Twister Game Board outfit – complete with hat and matching handbag and roll in to an empty house. Empty. No one. The fog machines weren’t even on yet. But I went with it. I didn’t think that much about it. I put my Near Beer in the fridge, went outside, lit up a joint and waited. At 10 pm I was still waiting for people I knew to arrive. I made some new friends. No one discussed the early elephant in the room – aka me. Even the host didn’t call me out – so I thought – I guess people are just late tonight. At 11 pm some friends finally arrived. I asked what took them so long – and that’s when I found out – I’m a loser.
“What time did you get here?” my friend Carolita asked. The look on her face when I said 9 o’clock was the saddest face I’ve ever seen. She recoiled in horror and shame. “Don’t you know you never come to a party at the time they say it starts?” No people!! I didn’t know that!!! My friend Rene said – “Everyone knows that whatever time the party says it starts is the time for you to just get in the shower.” Fuck. Shit. Dammit. I need a redo. I tried to hide my shame. Carolita said – “Here’s how parties work. If it’s a black friend throwing the party and it starts at 9 and you show up at 10:20, they’ll be nowhere near ready and you’ll end up helping them set up. If it’s a white person and the party starts at 9 and you show up at 11:30 – that shit is over.” Carolita needs to write a party book. She couldn’t have been more right. I guess if I’d thought about it longer – I’d remember that parties never start at the time they say but even then I would have shown up at 9:30 at the latest and I still would have been an hour and a half before anyone else arrived. I had blown it – big time – and now everyone knew it. The chick in the twister dress – not cool.
At 11:50 I thought – I should go. The two people I was waiting for still hadn’t shown up. I figured they weren’t coming. So I snuck away like a dorky thief in the night. I stopped at the supermarket and got some ice cream and some pirate booty and went home for the real party – in my bed – high as a kite – wondering how this whole – “come late to the party” thing started. I mean – who actually wants to be LATE TO THE PARTY? If you want me to show up at midnight – put that on the fucking invitation people. I don’t have the kind of party math skills it takes to figure out what time I’m supposed to be there if you don’t just say it up front. Maybe someone should hand out a schedule, or give me an atom splitter or whatever it is that does the calculations that lets me know when the cool kids hour of arrival is. And for everyone who didn’t see me at 9pm when I was freshly dressed and ready to party like it’s 1999 – you missed it – I was amazing. Ask the guy in the kids Pterodactylus onesie. We had a blast. I rolled up to my house in my jeep at midnight with my ice cream and my cheese doodles just in time to see my friend Christian walking his dog. He literally fell over laughing at the sight of me. And that almost made me feel better. Then I told him what happened and he hung his head in shame – for me.
I really don’t understand the concept of showing up late. You can have just as much fun at 9 as you can at 11. And most people are just sitting around their houses waiting to go to the party or driving around the block until it’s an acceptable time to go in. Maybe they’re the fucking nerds and I’m the one forging a new path. Who knows. All I know for sure is – I’m gonna be so late to the next party I’m invited to – it’s gonna be the next fucking day. Deal with it.

Mirrors & Menopause

Published August 27, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I need more long sleeve shirts. This was yesterday’s hideous conclusion to the growing problem that is me growing old. Life is playing a horrible trick on me lately and there seems to have been some sort of screw up in the casting session for the part of Heidi Clements – second half of her life role. I feel like the person the universe has chosen to play me is too old. While my brain is clearly reading the lines of a 23 year old, my body is acting out the part of a 93 year old. I want to recast this shit show but I don’t know who to call.
Everyday I mentally regress more. This may have something to with the fact that I’ve been hanging out with some young people, smoking pot, staying up to late, and going places I shouldn’t be caught dead in – and in fact – probably seem close to dead to the strangers around me. “Who’s that old lady and why is she here?” While most people my age are discovering the mellower part of life – chilling at home – buying new slippers – falling asleep at 8 – giving up – I’m out there trying to perform my second act – and I’m worried the curtain’s going to come crashing down on my head and I’ll break something trying to run from it.
I’m discovering there are quite a few problems to staying young – first and foremost – the two m’s: Mirrors and Menopause. It took me three hours to get dressed to go out the other night. My bedroom looked like a fabric graveyard with scads of dresses, skirts and pants heaped in a pile on the floor. It appears I’m gaining weight by eating air. If I cut out any more calories I’ll have to start giving food back. Nothing fits. I went on a three day juice and seaweed diet and gained four pounds. I don’t know who developed that steering wheel thingy on “Lost” that moved the island but I could sure use one of those inside my body to move it back to around 35. Where did all this cellulite come from? I’ve already switched from sleeveless shirts to t shirts. I’m careening towards three quarter sleeves and I know long sleeves are not far behind. What’s next? A body bag with a belt? I keep staring at the sleeveless shirts in my closet and thinking – I should just break up with them already but I feel badly because it’s not their fault we no longer get along – it’s me – I’ve changed. Am I suddenly at that point in life where I have to start giving up on certain clothing items? I’ve already dumped my above the knee skirts. I think they’re still mad at me. We had a great relationship. If I wake up tomorrow and can’t wear my high heeled shoes – I may just call it quits. I have definitely stopped looking in the mirror less but every once in a while I catch a glimpse of myself and think – why God why? I’m starting to understand the allure of plastic surgery but the results are still not good enough for me to do it. I still have a weird left boob and that was elective surgery.
The other problem with my growing love of growing younger is – my inner old lady sneaks up on me sometimes at the worst possible moments. Case in point – the other night I went to a club with my friend JL to see another friend Chelsea sing. As we each passed the bouncer screening for ID’s – everyone was stopped – except me – whom he just looked at and pathetically waved in. Now this isn’t the first time I haven’t had to show my age and I was fine with it until one of the other people we were with said “heidi the guy wants you to go back and show your ID” and as I turned to go back he said “Kidding!” I almost murdered him. I still may. I recovered and went inside but after I finished having a lovely conversation with Chelsea – I turned and discovered JL was gone. Oh shit. I was lost in a sea of people and I didn’t have my phone to text him because my senile brain left it in the car. Now what. I spent twenty minutes wandering through hundreds upon hundreds of young people. They were staring at me. I could tell. What’s with the creepy lady? Oh god this is awful. What should I do? I guess I could leave. I could hide in the bathroom. Should I wait outside? Is there a middle aged lost and found somewhere – where other young people go to pick up the losers they had to come with and lost? And suddenly there was a tap on my shoulder. “Where the fuck have you been.” It was JL. I could have hugged him. He’s a saint. He actually came looking for his grandma while most others wouldn’t even have noticed. On our way out we had to walk down a giant flight of stairs and I looked at him and thought – our friendship is going to end when I take a header down a flight of stairs like this and break a hip. You may love me now but theres no way you’re going to want to ride in the back of the ambulance for this one.
I want to hang out with the cool kids but I’m coming dangerously close to responding to those AARP ads. I don’t want to actually be younger because I so enjoy where my brain is right now. I just wish I could shove it in a younger body. This is what’s wrong with the life we live. We should start out as physical old people with baby brains and as our brains get older our bodies should get younger. Can somebody start working on this please? I have a sleeveless leather dress I really want to wear.

Don’t forget your labor day reading!!

Commando In Chief

Published July 30, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I want everyone reading this to sit down immediately. It’s important because what I’m about to say will not only be life changing – it may in fact be the single greatest discovery one woman has ever made and I want to make sure that when I say it – nobody keels over and conks their head on a coffee table or a toilet – depending on where you read my blog but lets be serious I know it’s the later. Okay? We good? Everybody sitting? Here we go. I Heidi Clements, have discovered the secret to stop menopausal hot flashes and sweatiness. Boom Shaka Laka!! Let me start at the beginning.

For those of you who’ve read my book – some things have changed since it’s been published and I feel it’s my duty to update you.

1. I get hot flashes now.
They are constant. They are fucking annoying. They are ruining my hair. I have been forced to purchase a handheld fan and get looks from the boys I share a writers room with when I turn it on and point it at my head. I also like to pretend I’m a supermodel on a photo shoot when I do this.

2. I finally got that tattoo of my dog Zoey who died.
It’s her name on my right wrist. I didn’t get a giant picture of her head on my shoulder but I thought about it.

3. I am now a person who leaves the house without underpants.

And there we have it folks. Number three.

So, last night, I was invited to go hear one of the stars of “Baby Daddy” sing a few songs from his upcoming album. (he was amazing) The first problem was – what to wear. Now I don’t want to call myself obese because that’s just silly. I’m not obese. I’m morbidly obese. I’m a house. I’m a building with shoes. I’m puffed up so big if you stuck a pin in my I’d balloon all the way to Jersey. At least, that’s how I feel lately. I’m not sure why this is. I work out everyday. I don’t eat that much. I am confused. I am exhausted. I am running out of things that I think I look good in and last night my bedroom looked like a graveyard filled with stacks of dead body skirts and pants. I finally settled on a long tight skirt that sort of acted like a girdle but when I went to put on underwear the panty lines were so hideous because there was spillage over the top and out the bottom. Not cool. What to do? Well, I did what many girls do but I myself find truly gross disgusting and weird. I went out without underwear. At first it was okay. I didn’t really notice. But the second I sat down in my car – my two fat thighs started touching and I’m not gonna lie – it was odd – it was downright creepy. And depressing. But it was too late to turn back because it was – well too late. I parked by the event – about three blocks away – and began my walk. The only problem was – it was on a side street in Hollywood and my walk to the venue was suddenly feeling very rape-y. I was literally walking down rape alley, by myself, with no underwear on. This was clearly a mistake. When I got attacked somebody would say I was asking for it. “Of course she was raped. She was on rape alley with no panties.” So I hurried along and finally made it to the venue. I kept thinking that other people would find out I was unclothed in the pants area. I was nervous. I felt weird. But then it happened. Every single person in the place was complaining about the heat – except me. Young people were sweating – visibly. I was not. Now I’ve become a person who is hot everywhere constantly. The most common phrase I utter these days is – “Is it hot in here or am I having a hot flash?” But last night – it wasn’t me. And I finally realized why. It was the underwear – or in this case – the lack thereof. It turns out the secret to staying cool is a skirt and no undies. It turns out – the vagina is the airway we should be leaving open – a breezeway dare I say that lets the hot world around us just wave in and out. Just like the Hatch in Lost, my girlie parts are trapping heat and if I don’t push the button the whole things gonna blow. Yes, the unpantied vagina is a gateway to keeping cool.

I was so happy with my discovery that I forgot how fat I was on the way home and stopped to secretly buy some ice cream – Ben and Jerry’s half baked which thanks to my friend JL is now going to be a major problem for me. There I was in the supermarket without undies in the freezer section thinking – I pulled off two big things tonight and no one will ever know. And that’s when I looked up to see my friend Victoria walking down the aisle. Caught.

So – the moral of this story is – if you’re having a hot flash ladies – take off your undies – but if you need to get ice cream at 11pm – go to a supermarket in someone else’s neighborhood because getting caught with your hand in the freezer is way more embarrassing than getting caught without your underwear on. At least in my world.

Call Me Tinder-ella

Published July 20, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Everyone’s on it. It’s no biggie.” So said my friend Joshua at work the other day regarding the on line dating craze that’s sweeping the nation – Tinder. “You just put your picture in. Say what age range you want to date and boom, men start popping up in your phone.” This did sound simple. Who doesn’t want men popping up in their phone? “Do I have to talk to them?” I asked. “No” he said. “You can’t actually text with them until they’ve liked you as well. Once you’ve matched with each other – then you can text.” This sounded pretty good. In fact – it sounded kinda fun. I uploaded my photo and put in my age range – 40 – 55 and I started sliding through my choices. It was like central casting for prisoners, or weight watchers, or some kind of creepy grandpa dating service. This was not going to be fun at all. In 1.3 seconds I was already over Tinder. Josh told me to keep looking. And so later that night – I did. I sat quietly in my bed while The Real Housewives of Some City played in the back ground and I clicked on men. Swipe to the left means NOPE – swipe to the right means – ME LIKEY. I swiped right on a 40 year old. He was super cute. He liked blueberries. Who doesn’t like blueberries. Instantly the words “It’s a Match!” flew onto my screen. This meant he had actually liked me first. I was intrigued. I waited to see what happened next. Nothing. I clicked on another picture – a 45 year old paramedic firefighter. I clicked on him. I happen to have a fire that needs extinguishing. In my pants. “It’s a match!” again came flying onto my screen. This is fantastic! I’m literally a hot property in Tinder world. But I didn’t want to text anyone. That seemed desperate – like the one guy I matched with who instantly sent me a text that said “what are you doing tonight?” – uhm not texting you back you big desperado. I have a life. I didn’t actually have a life that night but I wasn’t going to let him know that. There was one really young guy who kept sending me “Moments” which are weird little photos of things they like. One moment was a waterfall. I wanted to drown him under it. I deleted his moments and quickly hit the single greatest button on Tinder – UNMATCH. Oh how simple life is! Poof. Guy gone. A couple of days later I had six matches. Well I had eight but two guys unmatched me the second we matched up. This was kind of depressing. What was it about my picture that they liked initially and then seconds later was repelled by? Could they see something in it that I couldn’t? Like my sheer hatred for almost everything? Tinder was starting to bum me out. Nobody was sending me a message. Sure they liked my photo and the matches were flying back and forth on my screen but they were just a bunch of first named faces staring at me from my iphone. Everyone kept telling me to write them first but this didn’t seem like a good idea at all. I’m a message receiver not a message sender. These people were going to have to work to have a completely annoying interview like cup of coffee with me before we realized it was a horrible match and moved on. And then – I hit what seemed like the Tinder Mother load. Older guy – 48 ish – handsome – lots of nice pics – dog included – seemingly cool house – and – one photo that was snapped on a movie premiere line. Yes! He’s in the business. I quickly swiped to the right and boom – it’s a match! He had already liked me. Joshua sprung into action. He immediately used one of this guys photos and did the most amazing bit of Google stalkery I have ever seen. He found out exactly who the guy is. Another writer! Yes! Everyone in the writer’s room told me I needed to write something to him first. He could actually be normal. I love that the biggest group of broken toys (writers) thinks another writer will be normal. Ha!! Oh god. What do I say? They offered their lines. “Just say hi”, “Say something about being a writer.” But I couldn’t say that because then he would know I google stalked him. Shit. I worked on a statement for a full twenty minutes and finally typed out – “Hi, I think you’re the first match I don’t need to meet at a police station.” Funny right? Wrong. Radio silence. And it’s been that way ever since. I’m not sure what kind of guy clicks on a girls picture and then ignores her incredibly clever text but this guy is one of those guys. Fuck him! Fuck Tinder! I shouted to no one. Great – another thing in life to make me feel like a loser – my own phone. So for now – I’m taking a Tinder break. I’ll let you guys know when I’m back on. And if you ladies are swiping through and see my writer – tell him he doesn’t know how good he almost had it. He could have been my Tinder Fella. It’s no fairy tale over here people but it sure beats trolling creepy dating sites.

Small Plates – Big Problems

Published July 11, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t know how it is where you people live, but lately dining out in Los Angeles has made me think that all the restaurants have banded together and decided I’m too fat and are now serving me portions they believe are the only size portions I should eat and in fact are making me share those portions with my friends. Every time I walk into a new restaurant in L.A. – which by the way is often because I’m a bougie bitch – I am told the same thing by my actress waitress (who I would really like to start acting like waitresses because if one more of them gives me some cute lip that she thinks is some sort of audition – we’re gonna have some fucking problems.) Anyway they all say the same thing – “it’s all small plates so you can share!” Okay – first of all – shouldn’t it be – it’s all giant plates the size of your head so you can share? Do you know how hard it is to cut one pea tendril steamed in kale juice with currants and apricots? I don’t get the small plates concept at all. There is not enough food on a small plate for me to eat let alone divide between the six people I’m dining with. (Don’t be judgy – I have friends) The whole small plates thing is taking over in Los Angeles to the point where the only place I can get a full sized plate of food – i.e. an actual piece of fish – is Denny’s – and while I love what they’ve done with the place over the years (nothing) – I’m not hungry enough to eat an entire Eggs Over My Hammy by myself. On the one hand, I order food like I buy shoes so I do enjoy tasting as much as possible on a menu when I first go to a new restaurant, but I’d like more than a spoonful of something that I then have to divide among friends. If there are more than two of you – you have to order two of everything. It’s a scam people!! Am I the only one seeing this?? I mean, I haven’t had an entire square of ravioli in years! I don’t even know what a full piece of toast looks like anymore and quite frankly the amount of small plates on my table at the end of a meal is making my table look like the kitchen and I’m on dish duty.
Oh how I long for a big plate of something, anything – other than salad which seems to be the only thing restaurants are willing to heap on your plate. This is like offering me free water. And don’t even get me started on the amount of water types I now have to choose from. Tap, filtered, sparkling, flavored through a squirrels ass – I mean – it’s water – stop it. If all of this is supposed to teach us about portion control it’s not working. I mean – it’s working while I’m at a restaurant and eat one quarter of a taco but the second I get home I’m trawling through the left side of the refrigerator or worse, I’m stopping at the supermarket on the way home and yelling “fuck it” as I throw open the freezer door and pull out the Jenni’s Ice Cream. (It’s the best if you haven’t had it – I recommend the salted caramel mixed with dark chocolate)
So – hello LA chefs – I’m hungry. Until you start changing things up on your menu’s and treating me like a nice jewish mother by greeting me the words “let me make you a nice plate” – I’m done dining with at your small plate establishments. I learned a long time ago in my yellow bedroom back in Staten Island when my friend wanted to borrow one of my favorite Barbie’s coolest outfits – I don’t like to share.

For more stories like this – or better than this if you hate this – check out my book!!

My Independence – Camp Indian Head

Published July 5, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I was ten years old the first time I learned what it meant to be on the outside, to not be one of the cool kids having all the fun, to be the little girl who people said – “no don’t ask her to play – she’s not one of us.” It was the summer of 1971 and after years of successfully begging my parents, I was finally off to my very first sleep away camp – Indian Head – in Honesdale Pennsylvania. If you were a Jew in the 70’s – camp is where you went for two months every year. This seemed outrageous to my parents – to have a child go away for that long. Outrageous was also the cost of this adventure – something my parents told me they couldn’t afford. I believe it was 975 dollars for 8 weeks. Back then – me and all of my friends and their parents hung out at the Staten Island Swim Club – where we had a cabana and went every weekend. Nobody left for the summer to go to camp. I don’t have a snapshot from that time but it’s seared into my memory like a faded picture, swanky Jews sipping cocktails and smoking cigarettes and wearing the latest in swimwear while their kids learned to dive off the high board. In actuality it was kind of a shit show brokedown palace that served greasy hamburgers and warm sodas but to me it was everything. Eventually my parents decided that what we needed to do every summer was go to a place called “The Hamptons” and in 1971 they bought a cottage on the bay in Shinnecock which is near South Hampton. Now back then, the Hamptons was not the playground of the rich and famous – it was just the tip of Long Island filled with farmers and fisherman. There were no Kardashians, no film festivals, and miles of amazing beach. I wanted nothing to do with this hideousness. I wanted to be behind locked gates where there was a lake filled with frogs, bunk beds, moldy cubbies to put your clothes in – and hundreds of kids in captivity to play with every day. Finally in that summer of 1971 – I was off to IHC – which would become the home of some of my greatest memories of life and shape who I am today.
Indian Head was already a long standing tradition for many kids. They went every summer and had already formed life long bonds and cliques before I ever got there. It took about 24 hours for me to realize I had made the biggest mistake of my life. I hated camp. I wanted to go home. No one liked me. I was not part of the cool crowd. A girl I had actually known from home – I’ll call her Judy because that was her name – had been there for a couple of years before me – and she convinced all the other girl campers in my bunk – I think we were called Utes because everyone had Indian names – to be mean to me. No one talked to me. No one included me in their girl talks. No one picked me to be on their team. I was ostracized. About a week in I was miserable and then came the real blow – I broke my wrist playing tetherball and was slapped with a cast. It was the cast that broke the nerdy Jewish girls back. I was officially a dork. I called my parents and begged them to pick me up. They did the smartest thing they’ve ever done – told me no – and told me to stick it out. I did. I don’t remember what the turning point was – it may have been the day I realized my cast made me the most powerful tetherball player on the East Coast – by using it to smash the ball that thing went flying around a pole – but one day – I was in. And that day was the greatest day of my life. I went to Indian Head for ten years. I went on to be a counselor, A Sing Leader and the youngest Color War General they ever had. Now I know most of you have no idea what this is but it was special. We had a boys camp and a girls camp that were separated by an M.D. line. (Mason Dixon) We would go on raids at night and sneak into the boys bunk and make out with our boyfriends. Yes I had a boyfriend at ten – his name was Peter Ezersky – and his parents owned the camp. Kaching! I knew how to pick a winner back then. There was a canteen you would go to for socials (dancing with boys) and buy candy with a coupon book. There was a lake with water skiing and boating and every kind of sport imaginable was played every day. There was a craft shack and waiters dorms and a nurses bunk and the big house where the owners slept and dined. We went on hikes and went camping and sat around the campfire telling ghost stories and eating smores. When you were a special camper or it was your birthday you got called up to the flagpole and everyone cheered for you. You also got a slip of paper hidden under your mystery meat that said “Happy Birthday Baby” from the cook that entitled you to something special from the kitchen. There was Bug Juice and singing and Friday night Services and Square Dancing and plays and musicals and oh god I still want to go there every summer and I still have magical dreams about Indian Head. There was always something wonderful to do even if you hated it. If I could I would go there tomorrow and be a counselor for the summer.
Now eventually I went on to join the coolest clique around and we went on to bully quite a few nerdy girls when I was 11 through 13. I still feel guilty about these moments and I still have an affinity for women who are not deemed cool as I grow older. It’s amazing how quickly you forget you were one of them when you finally make it into the clique.
This week lots of kids on the east coast boarded buses and headed off to IHC – still running – still in the same spot it was. On the fourth of July there was always fireworks and singing around the lake. It was fucking amazing. I always loved the fourth of July because of this.
Yesterday it took me the whole day to even realize it was the 4th of July. I’m home working on a script and didn’t even think about making a plan for the day. I looked at pictures of everyone I knew doing something special and fabulous and I thought – fuck – I’m back to being one of the dorks. I didn’t get one single invitation to do one single thing on the fourth of July. I went out to dinner with my best friend and he said he had the same kind of day. We both realized we were “on the outs” and after a lot of discussion we realized – we kind of put ourselves there – because that’s where we wanted to be on this particular day – July 4th 2014 – with each other – having a great meal – listening to the fireworks explode behind us – celebrating our Independence from being people who cared what others think. But it was because of camp all those years ago that I still long to have a giant group of friends hang out by a lake – or an ocean – or a house – or a bunk – or wherever – like I did years later in the Hamptons with summer shares and we vowed to each other to have some kind of summer house next year in Malibu or somewhere. We’re going to start our own cool kids camp. If you’re nice to me – I may let you come.

More stories from my silly life are available:

Stop Smelling The Sunshine and Watch TV

Published June 22, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There’s a new phrase I’m hearing a lot lately, bandied about in conversations between seemingly normal people who couldn’t possibly be normal after uttering such a hideous, awful, pompous, annoying bullshit thing you can say to another person when that other person is me. “I don’t watch tv.” I’m sorry what? Why? What could possibly be the reason not to view the magic that spews out of an electrical pluggy thing that is capable of entertaining you twenty-four seven – three sixty five? Me no get it. Are you mentally ill? I mean, even that’s not an excuse. They make programs for crazy people. Have you not seen Little Women L.A? It’s midgets who only know other midgets. They dance, they date, they dance – did I say they dance? I’m sorry – I meant little people. I know they used to call it the idiot box but I’m quite certain the idiots are those who are not filled with glee when they stumble upon a Law & Order they haven’t seen before, any Law & Order but who am I kidding – SVU with Chris Meloni is the best unless you happen upon a Benjamin Bratt one and then all bets are off and so are my pants cause I’m in my underwear on the couch faster than you can say – snack time and a marathon. People who don’t watch television are not only missing out on some of life’s most important and historical moments – i.e. when Ramona threw a glass at what’s her name from that canoe and when Momma Joyce got super ghetto and told Todd his mothers a prostitute. If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you see – this is what’s absent from your life. The other problem is that I make a living supplying things for you to view in that box and if people stop watching that then I have to stop watching the Saks Fifth Avenue feed on my computer because I won’t be able to buy another pair of shoes again. You not watching TV equals me not shopping and that’s cutting into my closet and I’m not happy about it. If you don’t think you’re missing something then let me point you in the direction of a very informational commercial I saw last night for Frozen Foods. That’s right – there’s an American Frozen Food Institute out there and they’re worried you’re not eating enough completely tasteless rock hard things that come in a box. First of all I’d like to take a class at the Frozen Food institute because I need to know why my freezer continues to make stalagtites despite my constant defrosting. I’d also like to know why ice cream is easier to scoop the second time you eat it. Who am I kidding – there’s never been a second time of ice cream in my freezer. The commercial from the FFI – was very high end and very convincing. It said that “Freezing is natures pause button.” Hahahahahahahahha. Sorry. Really? What’s it pausing? It’s taste life? The commercial urged me to take a fresh look at frozen because it’s how delicious stays delicious and while I know that cake is how delicious stays delicious I did feel for the people trying to get you people to eat completely hideous tasting blocks of icy yuck. So I am joining the Frozen Food people today and urging you to do something to – come back to television. It’s the brains pause button. And if you tune in to the right show – it’s how couches stay delicious.

Don’t forget to buy my book..

Welcome To Florida, Here’s Your Noodle

Published June 15, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I  haven’t  seen  mine  yet, but apparently all Jews have a contract with God or Jesus or somebody really important that says when you hit 65, you must move to Florida. I have no idea how Florida became the Hebrew Beltway, but it is. Maybe the heat is similar to Israel – but  I’ve never been to the Holy Land. I  don’t  want  to  die   in a grocery store. People tell me every day how beautiful  Israel  is  and  how  I’m  an  idiot  for  not  going  but   I’m  sorry  – I’m  not  jumping  out  of  an  airplane  and  I’m   not going to a country that is in a constant state of war, where crazy people strap bombs to themselves as routinely as I wipe my ass.
What I do know about moving to Florida is that once you get there, time stands still. How else can I explain that   my   parents   still   don’t   have   “call waiting,” and I constantly get a busy signal when I call them? Who are they talking to anyway? They are so busy. My parents have a bigger social calendar than I do. It seems like there is a lot to do at their over 55 Floridian Complex in Delray Beach.    I’m  pretty  excited  for when I move there.
I lost about six hours of my life one day trying to get my parents on Facebook. I could have taught them how to build a rocket ship quicker. If you want to know the true meaning of guilt, yell at your parents. It’s  akin  to  screaming at a nun. I  know  we  didn’t   choose our parents, but seriously, how can you ever get angry at the people who gave you the gift of life? Now, I am as hard and cynical as they get, but I am so grateful just  to  be  breathing.    I  don’t  know  if  the  alternative is cloud dancing and cocktails, so I really truly do relish being here on the ground among the living.
I think my parents are here to remind me to be nice to old people. Oh, and to tell me gossip about the kids I grew up with. According to them, I am the only successful one. The other kids are massive fucktards and can’t  keep  a  job  or  a  woman or a house or a calendar. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to my parents, but I have no kids, no husband, the bank owns my house and quite frankly, my career could end tomorrow. But fiddle dee dee, why let them worry about reality? I have also come to realize that my parents are here to inform me of all  deaths  of  people  I  don’t  remember.  The conversation goes something like this:
Mom:  “Remember  Bobby  Feldersomethingwitz?”   Me:  “No.”   Mom:  “He  was  married  to  Jodie  Blahblahstein?”   Me:  “Sort  of.”  
Mom: “Well, he’s  dead.”     Me:  “Okay.  Thanks?”
My parents are British. My dad is from Leeds, England and my mother from Liverpool. If you think this makes them cool and hip and Beatle-like parents – you are wrong. They are still Jews after all, and that trumps “cool”   every   time.   My   parents   moved   to   America   when   they   first   got   married   back   in   the   ‘50s,   and   for some reason they thought it was a brilliant idea to move from England to Staten Island. This would later prove to be a horrible decision – unless you enjoy living on a landfill surrounded by Mafia – but   I’m   sure   it   seemed   like   a wonderful idea at the time. I hate telling people I was born in Staten Island and in fact, I tell people I was born in France. I believe that the Statue of Liberty – a gift from France that you can see from Staten Island – is our own little Isle de la Cite. It works for me.
The problem with having British parents is that the English are about as different from New Yorkers as you can  get.  They  don’t  emote  the  same  way  and in fact, they don’t   really   emote   at   all.   The British are refined and reserved and keep their feelings in check. This does not fly in America, and this is a really hard way to grow up in a city where all people do is to shout their emotions and stab you in the front with their feelings. The good thing about having British parents is their complete lack of knowledge of American children. I got away with murder as a kid. I started drinking at age 13 – and was smoking pot at about the same age. I dropped mescaline to go to school and tried pretty much every drug before I ever got to college. I even got high with my history teacher. My parents had zero idea. They just thought I sucked at school because I was stupid, which I may very well have been. (Have you ever met a smart 13-year- old?)
Everyone loved my parents. They dressed well and threw fabulous cocktail parties. But they were big believers  in  “Children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,”  and   sitting around the dinner table in our house was SILENT. There was no shouting or arguing allowed. You would enjoy your Veal Cordon Bleu in silence, and you would eat everything on your plate even if it took until 2 am. I don’t  understand  this  concept  at  all.  If  my  child  wanted  to   only  eat  one  pea  at  dinner  I’d  be  fine  with  that.  She’d  be   thin.

My house was also very, very neat, and there were a few   rooms   we   weren’t   even   allowed   in   unless   we   were   serving guests at a dinner party or performing for them. I once played a song I wrote on the guitar for a bunch of my parents’   party   guests.   It   was   about   a   hooker.   My   mother was not pleased. When we were very small, our parents took us into the dining room to teach us manners. We   spent   the   whole   meal   saying,   “Please   pass   the   salt”   and learning to use our knives and forks correctly. I am super- grateful for this, actually. I find the way some people eat akin to watching monkeys throw their own poo at the zoo.
If   you’d   walked   into   my   childhood   bedroom,   you   would have thought I had just moved in that morning. We were not allowed to hang pictures or have any kind of mess. All I wanted to do was hang posters of Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy, but that was not allowed. It would ruin the paint. I shared a room with my sister Alison, who lived in the upper part of the room that was separated from mine by one step. If I ever stepped on her “part,”   I   would   be   beaten   to   a   pulp.   All   the   dressers   and   closets   were   on   my   “part,”   so   she   had   full   access.   This   was   how   I   learned   the   concept   of   “unfair.”   I   was   the   baby. Everything in my life was unfair. Everything was monitored, even our phone conversations. We had one of those little telephone tables that sat in the hallway between  the  two  upstairs  bedrooms,  and  that’s  where  you   had to have your conversations with your friends. When no one was paying attention, I would try to drag that phone into my room. You could JUST get it inside behind the door and barely shut it – but it was better than being out in the open. You kids with your cell phones today have no idea how hard it was to be attached to a land line—a rotary phone land line. Our phone number started   with   “Gibraltar   8.”   That’s   how   old   I   am.   I   might   as well have been making calls from my covered wagon.
I was not allowed out of the house at all during the week until I went to college, and the first night there I went completely mental and partied like an animal. It has taken me 30 years to reign myself back in. My parents told me nothing about sex. In fact, they told me nothing about everything. I freaked out the first time I got my period. I had no idea what it was. I figured my vagina had died. My mother shoved a tampon at me like I was an idiot. How could I not know these things? This was not the conversation a refined British woman was supposed to be having with some sweaty 13-year-old. Even if that 13-year-old was her kid. I most definitely did not grow up in some real-life version of “Sex and The City.”  Back  in  the  ‘70s, girls  didn’t  talk  about  that  kind of stuff. No one was walking around Susan Wagner High School shouting,  “Hey,  you  bleeding  yet?”  I  miss   the  ‘70s.
I went to visit my parents recently after I was reminded   that   it   had   been   a   while   since   I’d   been   to   Florida – about 10 years. The idea of spending time in my   parents’   condo   was   not   exactly   number   one   on   my   “to-do”   list.   It   was,   however,   number   one   on   my   “to- don’t”  list.  I  booked  my  ticket  and  emailed  my  flight  info   to  my  Dad.  He  wrote  back:  “Can’t  wait  to  see  you.  Even   if  only  for  a  day.”  What? A day? I looked at my itinerary and yes, I had in fact booked a trip for just 24 hours. Oops. I told my folks it was an oversight and rebooked my   flight.   I   figured   I’d   go   for   three   days,   but   I   don’t   know how to tell time and thought that a flight that leaves at 12:05 pm on Wednesday meant that you leave Wednesday night and not five minutes after midnight on Tuesday. Now I was going to Florida for four whole days, and what the hell was I going to do for four whole days? Ohmigod, I should rebook this but then  they’ll  get   upset! Breathe. I broke out in hives.
“I’m   so   happy   you’re   here!”   my   mother   cried   as   she   hugged   me   moments   after   I   landed   in   Florida.   “I   made you a home-cooked meal tonight in honor of your trip.   Brisket   and   chicken   soup!”   I   then informed my mother that I had been a vegan for the past four months and   hadn’t   had   meat   in   about   a   year.   Her   face   fell.   I   ate   the brisket. It was going to be a long four days.
Delray Beach is like a giant summer camp for old people.  My  Mom  and  Dad’s  complex had everything I had back at Camp Indian Head. There was a pool and a clubhouse, and there was a constant variety of things for them to do. My first day there, we stopped at the clubhouse and I met a bunch of ladies playing bridge, Mahjong, and even canasta. I thought all of these games died  years  ago,  and  now  I’m  worried  that  I’m  running  out   of   time   to   learn   them   and   won’t   be   allowed   in   some   of   these  communities  when  it’s  my  time  to  check  in  because   I am Mahjong-illiterate.
The second you start meeting  your  parents’  friends,   you find out what your parents really think about you and lucky for me, my parents seemed to think I was pretty great. In fact, some of the people I was meeting thought I was probably too great to be true and when they met me they kind of rolled their eyes at how much they had been forced  to  hear  about  me:  “Your  mother  can’t  stop  talking   about   you   and   that   show   you   write.   What’s   it   called   again?”  I  thought,  “I  know  you  know  what  it’s  called,  you   smug  old  people.” Every day we  would  go  to  the  pool,  because  that’s   where the action is in a Florida condo development. I could have sat at that pool and listened to people all day long, which is a good thing because old people know how to talk. All the women would gather in the pool with their  noodles.  If  you  don’t  know  what  these  are,  they  are   long Styrofoam things that help you float. Apparently when  you  check  in  to  my  parents’  community,  they  give   you a noodle. (I hope I get to choose my color. I want pink.) I met a woman named Pearl who I instantly fell in love with. She floated out to the pool area like Jackie O. She has short white cropped hair and wore big black round sunglasses. She had on a one-shoulder navy blue swimsuit and was pin thin. I get the feeling people tell Pearl  she’s  too  skinny  and  should  eat  more.    To  me  – she was perfection. She was beyond chic. Pearl walked up to me   and   said,   “I’ve   heard   so   much   about   you,   and   I   just   want you to know that I appreciate celebrities and your mother  doesn’t.    You  should  have  been my child. I want to hear everything you know about the stars. I should have   been   a   star.     Either   that   or   a   princess.”     I   couldn’t   agree more. I thought – “I  want  to  be  Pearl  when  I  grow   up.” Pearl’s  husband  Hank  takes  her  to  the  pool  each  day   to make sure she gets her exercise. It seems Pearl can be a   bit   petulant   when   it   comes   to   doing   things   she   doesn’t   want to do. This made me love her more.
On   my   second   day   in   Delray,   I   met   “Mr.   Turkey Timer.”     This   was   the   nickname   I   gave   to   the   man   who   came to the pool every day and began a ritual that I instantly knew had been years in the making. The pool area  at  my  parents’  place  is  fairly  large.  There  are  plenty   of places to sit without being on top of anyone else, and yet this minute man would always sit right next to me.
He would arrive in shorts, a T-shirt, and those hideous Velcro mandals men wear that should be outlawed. He would spread two towels out on a chair, one for the top half and one for the bottom. He would apply lotion and then get out the kitchen timer, set it, and lie down. Then for the next 20 minutes, the sound of that dammed timer would drive me insane. TicK. TiCK. TICK. I wanted to scream,  “How  about  a  watch?  Has  this  age-old system failed   you   in   some   way,   sir?”   He   once   spoke   the   word   “hello”   to   my   dad.   I   detected   a   slight   accent,   and   my   brain decided it was German and then that brain went off on   an   entire   “Timer=Oven=Jews=Death   Camp”   rant.   What can I say – that’s  how  all  Jews  think. Every time I hear Heidi Klum say anything, the translation in my head is,  “Get  in  the  oven.  Get  in  the  shower.”  I  can’t  even  step   foot   in   Germany.     It’s   a   whole   thing.   Something   must   have   gone   terribly   wrong   in   “Mr.   Turkey   Timer’s”   past   tanning days that led him to this system. It worked for him. I decided to keep my mouth shut and my headphones on.
One day, I overheard this conversation.
Man: “You   know   what   I’m   gonna   do   today?   I’m   gonna go out and get myself some of that – what’s  it   called – that smelly stuff – Faberge? Yeah, Faberge.  I’m   gonna get some of that  Faberge.  I’m  gonna  light  a  Cohiba and  I’m  gonna  pour  myself  some  wodka  (he  actually  said   “wodka”)   and   then   I’m   gonna   smoke   the   cohiba   and   drink   the   wodka   and   then   I’m   gonna   spray   the   place down   so   she   don’t   know   nothing   about   anything.” (He was referring to Febreeze and how he could have a moment of happiness in his home without his wife finding out.) I thought, “Eighty-something, and still hiding things from a spouse? Color me permanently single.”  
The most amazing thing I saw, however, was while driving down the highway to dinner one night. Suddenly there  was  an  electronic  sign  for  a  “Silver  Alert.” I asked my dad what that meant.
Dad:  “Old  people  missing.”    
I laughed for a full five minutes. And dinner itself is a whole thing in Florida. The most popular time to go is about 5:30 which is when NO ONE is hungry and the portions you get are the size of your head. No one can eat the size of the meals they give you, and so everyone gets a doggie bag. This makes the diners extremely happy.     Basically,   if   they   don’t   get   two   meals   out   of   the   one meal – the  place  is  shit  and  they’re  never  going  there   again.
My   parents   are   now   in   their   80’s,   and   I   have   to   say,  I’m  thrilled  with  their  aging  progress – it bodes well for me. They both have their minds completely intact. No one is drooling and mumbling things incoherently – at least not without the aid of vodka. The only real problem is loss of hearing. My Dad wears a hearing aid, which does not stop me from having to scream everything. When you say things like I say on a regular basis, screaming  anything  should  not  be  an  option.  My  Mom’s   hearing is also on a slippery slope to non- existence, but she  refuses  to  wear  a  hearing  aid.  I  get  it.  They’re not at all   sexy.   I’m   terrified   of   losing   my   hearing.   My   Mom   says you basically just hear the sound of your own voice in your head. Uh-oh. I already have that problem, and it led to some severe drinking. At the beginning of my trip I thought,  “How  am  I  going  to  survive  four  days  here?”, and by the end of it, I was thinking, “I’m  so  glad  I  spent  this  time  with  my  parents” – well, that and, “I’ve  got  to   start  a  retirement  fund  immediately.”  
I studied Kabbalah for a couple of years.    It’s  some   4,000-year old-mystical side of Judaism, and they believe in reincarnation and that we actually choose our parents. They say that when we are souls in heaven, we decide which people will raise us in our next lives based on things  we  need  to  learn.  I’m  not  sure  what I needed to learn other than the obvious – Jewish guilt – but  I’m  so   glad I chose my parents. I may not understand why they did what they did when it comes to how they raised me, but I think I turned out okay. When I was young I wished my parents were more  like  my  friends’  parents.    The  girls   were all really close with their Moms and did things together and gossiped about boys and clothes and how to frost-tip   their   hair.   But   as   I’ve   grown,   I’ve   realized   you   can’t  change  people,  and  you  have  to  just  accept them for who they are. So I accept my parents for who they are – the wonderful people who breathed life into me and love me unconditionally. And they accept me for who I am – the loud-mouthed  weirdo  who  can’t  seem  to  find  a  man   and  didn’t  give  them  grand kids. My Mom may not have spent nights braiding my hair and showing me how to scrapbook   and   whispering   to   me   all   of   life’s   secrets,   but   before I left Florida she told me she was glad I was leaving my sneakers in the guest closet so she could look at them and  think  of  me  when  I  wasn’t  there.  It  broke  my   heart.
I’m   not   as   scared   about   getting   old   since   my   visit.   I   may  even  check  in  to  my  parent’s  complex  when  I  hit  60.   I’ll   be   the   spring   chicken   in   the   group.     I   even   have   my   eye on one single old geezer who  was  pretty  sexy.  I’ve  
got   my   fingers   crossed   he   doesn’t   bite   it   before   I   get   there.     Together   we’ll   swim   with   our   noodles   and   he’ll   think   I’m   the   sexiest   young   thing   in   Del   Ray   Beach.   Finally,   I’ll   be   able   to   start   eating   again.       I   can   almost   taste the cake now.

More stories like this can be found inside the pages of Welcome To Heidi.

Don’t Blame The Cake

Published June 10, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’m starting to lose my faith in God. I’m starting to believe that there may not be a big smart someone up there guiding me and protecting me because if there were he would have made Chinese food – dietetic. If there were a God – ice cream would not make me feel whole again and french fries would not call out to me saying things like “eat me I’m just a potato how unhealthy can that be?” But he didn’t. God made everything that’s bad for me – delicious and intriguing and all of it available to my naked eye which is a weird expression because if my naked eye sees me naked it’s actually the best food deterent there is. I mean – one morning look in the full length mirror naked and bam! I’m back on a diet faster than you can say – wow I didn’t know you can have arm cellulite. Which by the way is just another cruel joke from the man upstairs. I mean – couldn’t he have spared our arms from the dreaded fat and would it have killed him to give both men and women cellulite and don’t tell me men get it too because one dimple on your thigh does not equal the shit storm of what’s happening on my ass which lowered down to my thighs at forty and is now floating dangerously close to the back of my knees now that I’m in my fifties. Fuck – I’m in my fifties. When did that happen? These days it seems like the second you turn fifty, every month of a woman’s life is equivalent to a dog year which is equivalent to 7 years of a human life. I don’t know if I did the math right but I’m sure it all adds up to the same thing – aging sucks – and the ability to not smother my feelings with pan fried dumplings isn’t helping matters. If slippery shrimp were the gateway to weight loss wouldn’t life be just a little bit better? Why is everything delicious sending me back to the closet in my guest room where the fat pants live? Isn’t this something God could fix if he loved me and yes – I believe that the person who floats above me in the sky is a dude. They’d never give a woman that job. We’re far too emotional to decide who gets to live and die especially if you asked us on one of those days where we think everyone should die which is like Monday through Sunday. I’m sure God is however married to someone he passes all of his decisions through. I mean – the expression “behind every good man…” has to have started somewhere right? If God were a woman wouldn’t we be the ones who get better with age? Wouldn’t men be saddled with sanitary napkins which by the way is an oxymoron and if God were a woman do you think the price of giving birth to a child would be a lifelong case of hemorrhoids? If that’s not the cruelest joke ever I don’t know what is. Didn’t we just shove a giant watermelon out a pea sized hole? Did we just make you a carbon copy of your mouth breathing self in our bellies? Did we not just hand you a small you? Did we really need to get something on our butts that never goes away that makes it impossible to sit on anything other than a rubber donut which is not a good look when you’re running a company. At least after giving birth women have a good reason to finally just say no to anal sex. Nobody needs to see that and quite frankly – that ramp is closed. Mines an exit only. I closed it after the first time a guy said – sorry wrong hole, I made a mistake. Really? No one makes that mistake. That’s a carefully planned attempted entrance. You’re a fucking liar. But the truth of the matter is if God were a woman cake would be zero calories and I know I’m not alone in my love of cake because just last night while enjoying a plate of food I should have just stuck directly to my ass without ingesting because that’s where it will end up – my friend Maria said the smartest thing ever. She said – “never put cake in the refrigerator. If you can’t finish it – it’s your fault. Don’t blame the cake.” I hope the first woman who runs for President uses “don’t blame the cake” as her campaign slogan. She’ll get my vote. And we may not be able to get the job of God but if we could get some tits and a vagina running things in the white house I’m pretty sure I could get some cold sesame noodles that have zero calories and really isn’t that what life is about?

And if you haven’t already – please buy a copy of my book with more fucked up thoughts like this.

The Time I Dated A Greek God And Not The Good Kind

Published May 30, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

He is one of those guys from my past that I’ll never forget. His name was Chris. Or was it Peter? Actually it may have been Paul. Was it Paul? I can’t remember. But I’ll never forget him – or to be more exact – his fur pants.

It’s not every day you meet a great looking young chef on the rise in New York City. And for a girl who loves food – this is hitting the boyfriend jackpot. The only thing that would have made him a better boyfriend would be if his parents or sister or someone he was close to and got discounts from owned a blow dry salon… or a shoe store…. Or Saks… or fuck it I’ll take Macys if I have to. If I could will this person to become a real person I may actually get married one day but for now I’ll have to be happy eating at good restaurants, paying someone to tame my jew hair and shopping at the Barneys shoe sale like a normal person. I can’t shop at Saks anymore because one of my mortal enemies goes there on a daily basis. Maybe she’s looking to buy a soul.

So, there we were in New York City back in the eighties – me and Chris Peter Paul – dating, eating, but not having sex because I actually liked him and when a girl really likes a guy she doesn’t have sex with him right away because it makes it seem like we’re sluts and we are but we don’t need him to know that until we’re ready for him to know that and so we act like we’re all prissy and oh no just a kiss goodnight tonight maybe next time and then it gets so awkward that you have to do it just to get it over with but we weren’t there yet. We were having dinner at his place and then we were gonna finally do it. The dinner was amazing. Not – oh a guy cooked me dinner amazing – but oh a guy cooked me a fucking balls out chefs dinner amazing. He deserved my vagina. Shit, he deserved mine and another girls vagina and I probably would have given him that if he had a cute neighbor. And then it was time. We went to the bedroom and started to get undressed and when I turned around to see him take his pants off – I thought – wait – why does he still have pants on – fur pants – thick fur up to his waist covering his ass pants? What the fuck is happening right now and how do I stop it? Turns out my beautiful, smart, great cooking new boyfriend – was a human hairball. His lower half was so thick with fur that he looked like Pan – the Grecian Goat God who carried a flute and mesmerized the ladies but I didn’t care how good this guy was gonna be with his flute because no amount of music was going to soothe my vagina back into submission. And that was it – the end – relationship over – delicious food buh bye. I fled the area faster than you can say “ohmigod are those hooves?”
These days there are such things as lasers and men are getting all kinds of hair removed from all kinds of places but back then it was game over and I lost out on an actual real meal ticket because I don’t want to date a guy who still has pants on when he takes his pants off. The end.

Let Your Tit Flags Fly

Published May 29, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Yesterday while the rest of you lazy fucks were sitting around doing nothing with your lives and making no headway whatsoever in the human struggle – a young celebrity child was out there doing the unthinkable in the name of – well actually I’m not sure what it was in the name of – but Scout Willis was out there flashing her fun bags for something important!!! Now, to tell the truth, I don’t know what the big deal is about Scout whipping her boobs out in NYC. I did this for years in just about every bar in the city and no one seemed to give a shit. But Scout is actually trying to make a point with her boob flashing where as mine was more of a “hey I’m drunk check my tits out” point. I guess it’s unacceptable to show your boobs on instagram and she wants breast cancer survivors and breast feeding mothers to be able to bare all on the Facebook site. It’s a “Freedom of Boob” Act and I’m sorry but it seems like there could be way better things to do with her time.
However, the more important thing to come from this so called shocking display of a celebrity boob is that I had no idea it was perfectly legal to show your tits in public in New York City. Yes, it’s totally okay to flit around with your nips out while taking a bus, hailing a cab, picking up some strawberries, or walking around that High Line area that I do not understand at all – it’s a park built on a highway? No, not getting it. But yes, it’s legal for women to be topless in New York City and now Scout has unleashed what may be a hideous new trend in New York because let me tell you what happens when nudity is deemed okay – all of the ugly people in the world get naked – not the hot ones. Have you ever noticed who’s in a nudist colony? Not one hottie. Not one Supermodel. It’s all a bunch of hideous hairy fatties that no one wants to see naked. Dam you Scout!!! I’m praying her little act of putting her breast foot forward quietly goes away and no one starts following her lead. She’s adorable but trust me – she’s the last of her kind to bare all and she’ll be copied by a parade of fleshy flops no one wants to see.

In case you’re wondering where else you can go let your tit flags fly – here’s a list.

Asheville, NC
Austin, TX,
Boulder, CO
Columbus, OH
Eugene, OR
Honolulu, HI
Keene, NH
Key West, FL at Fantasy Fest
Madison, WI,
New Orleans, LA, at Mardi Gras
New York City
Portland, Or,
Santa Fe, NM
South Miami Beach, FL (on the beach)
Washington, DC

Not on the list? Los Angeles. Home of the best boobs in the world – because we buy them here. Feel free to visit these cities and unleash your mammories on mankind. Just let me know you’re going to be there because I don’t need to see that. I don’t need to see your boobs anywhere. I also don’t need to see anyones penis. So keep your pants on America.

Say Goodbye To Hollywood

Published May 28, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There’s this weird thing that happens to people after we live in Los Angeles for a while – in particular – those of us who live in Hollywood. Eventually we all start to blur the line between who’s famous and who are our friends. We see someone we think we know and shout hello to them only to find out the reason we know them is because they are famous not because they once came to our house to play Trivial Pursuit or Canasta or whatever it is people play in their homes. Case in point – I once accosted Bradley Whitford at the Gelsons in my neighborhood because I thought he was my friend. “Ohmigod, how are you?” I chirped across the parking lot. He looked at me and said – “I’m sorry do we know each other?” I paused for a moment and realized, well no Bradley we don’t. I’m just a fucking weirdo who is obsessed with The West Wing and after years of viewing it on my tv – have mistaken you for my friend here at the supermarket. Goodbye. Carry on. Have a lovely day. Try the sushi. So sorry. Please don’t get a restraining order.
Last night while attending a Billy Joel concert at the Hollywood Bowl – it happened again. There I was gleefully prancing to my seat when suddenly – “ohmigod my friend Bill.” I wave – carry on – point – wave again – flail around like a mental patient – and nothing – just a blank stare from my friend Bill. Why you ask? Because it wasn’t my friend Bill it was Doug Savant from Melrose Place. I could see the terror in his eyes. Oh shit – some old fan is gonna ruin my night with the Piano Man. I turned away and just started laughing my ass off and then fled for my seats which thankfully were NOT right next to his. Wow. Awkward.
This happens all the time in Hollywood. At least to me.
Eventually I settled down for what turned out to be one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. My twenties flashed before me as I listened to what was part of the soundtrack of my life. I told the 23 year old I was at the concert with this and he said – I hate when people use that expression – the soundtrack of my life. I said – that’s because you’re not allowed to use it when you’re 23. You haven’t had a life yet – and so – you have no soundtrack. The next time a 23 year old says this to you – punch them in the face. But I do have a soundtrack – and it’s Billy Joel, and the Beatles, and the Psychedelic Furs, and oh so many more. There is nothing greater than the nostalgia that comes with the music of your past that takes you back to a place and time filled with people and moments and snippets of the life you have lived. There was a group of fifty something jews from Long Island – my people – sitting next to us and together we screamed and danced and took a trip down memory lane. It was a warm beautiful night and Billy Joel sounds exactly the same as he did back in the eighties and as I looked over at Doug Savant I thought – we might not know each other and you might very well be calling the police for a stay away order but we’ll always have Billy Joel and I’m gonna tell everyone I know – that we went to this concert together – and we bonded like you read about.

The Book of Moron

Published May 23, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I used to call my blog The Book of Moron and today I can “not so proudly” tell you why. My little pink book needs promotion in order to sell copies to people other than my mother and my dog walker and so my wonderful publisher Donna Cavanagh has been doing her darndest – (I can see this is not a word but I’m not changing it) to get a gal who likes to talk about her vagina and eating cake out of a garbage can – some press. She is amazing. She has been listening to me rant about what an unfunny failure I am for quite some time now and hasn’t told me to shut the fuck up – yet. She’s getting close – I can tell. She recently set me up to go on a nationally syndicated radio show with a man named – well lets just call him – Bob. Bob called me a month ago to set up a time for the interview. It took me a few days to call him back as I was in Seattle and quite frankly he was the first interview set up and I was nervous about the book and wasn’t sure I was even going to talk to anyone. Then when I realized the books wouldn’t fly off the shelves without promoting it – no matter how cute my cover is – and it’s fucking cute – I called him back and set a time.
Bob: “Two weeks to call back? You know I’m doing someone a favor with this interview?, right”
Me: “Sorry it’s only been a few days.”
Bob: ”No it’s been two weeks.”
Me: “Really Bob, it hasn’t, I swear.”
Bob: “Whatever. How does the 23rd at 9am sound. Great? Bye. Send me an email. My address is (he gives email.)
Me: “Bob I’m in the car I don’t have a pen and I can’t write down your email.”
Bob: “It’s not that hard. (He gives email again and hangs up.)
So I pulled over and wrote down what I prayed was his email and wrote in my iphone on the calendar – Bob radio – 9am.
Well the day was here and I looked in my iphone and saw Bob 9am but couldn’t remember if it was 9am my time or his. So I sent him an email.
Hi Bob,
Is the interview 9am my time?
Reply from Bob:
I say to myself – okay good. Noon my time.
See what I did there? See why I’m a moron? I did the time thingy the wrong way. Here’s how my brain worked. New York is three hours earlier than here so BAM – noon interview. Hahahahahaha. Wow. No need for an IQ test here people we have a moron!!
So last night for the first time since the 1800’s – I slept like a baby. I woke up to two messages from Bob.
Bob: Hey you were supposed to be on at 9 my time.
He’s panicked. He’s mad. But it’s only 8:14 my time so I’m not sure why he’s so mad. If I got it wrong at it WAS 9 my time then we’re good. No? No – he screamed at me in the phone. “It was 9 am EASTERN!” I still was not registering it at all. No compute. Me No getty. “Can’t we just talk at 9 then in 45 minutes why are you so mad.” “Heidi, the show was over two hours ago.” Me: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Bob told me once again, that he was doing someone a favor by having me on in the first place and that he sold the time to advertisers and because of me not showing up he was left with a hole to fill. (Not the first time a man has told me that) So I offered to pay Bob. He said it was 750 dollars but he wasn’t going to make me pay that – I could pay what I thought was fair. I wanted to say – what would have been fair was you not insisting on being a man and just replying to my first email with the words – 6AM YOUR TIME. But I said – fine – I’ll send you a check. Then Bob said how about 1500 and you can do two segments. Wow that turned fast. He said – why don’t you think about it and we’ll talk through email again. I hung up. I made coffee. I laughed at what a fucking moron I am. I can’t tell time and I’m 53 years old. Oh well. I think I’ll celebrate my screw up with a shoe purchase. The stores open at 10 am. My time. Everyone’s time.

Period. The End. Enough Already.

Published May 20, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It seems the rumors of my dead vagina have been greatly exaggerated. It’s still breathing… or in this case – bleeding. After a year long hibernation – the angry beast that lives in my underpants came back to life and started menstruating again. It was just a little spotting at first and then for two months in a row – it was a full on punctuation – the dreaded period. So I did the unthinkable – I went back to the gynecologist.
Now a trip to my gynecologist is like dropping acid and waking up inside a cartoon. You see, she has a little bit of an addiction to frogs and by addiction I mean if she wasn’t the best gynecologist in Los Angeles she would totally be arrested for being completely bat shit bananas. Every single solitary inch of her office and all of the exam rooms are covered in frogs. Frog paintings, frog sculptures, stuffed frogs, blow up frogs, glow in the dark frogs, every single solitary fucking frog that’s ever been made on the face of this earth is in that office and staring at me and my vagina while I’m getting a pap smear. Why couldn’t she have a John Hamm obsession? I’d be fine if he were staring at me in my paper dress. And by the way – can we not fucking update the paper dress? Seriously? Who’s in charge of this? Men?
Anyway, I went to see the doc and she said – well it’s post menopausal bleeding which isn’t good so let me get up there and see whats going on. So in the stirrups we go and she yanks me down to the end of the table and then she does what she always does – she has a full on conversation with me about bull shit while my vagina is in her face. It’s beyond random. “So, how’s everything with you? How’ve you been?” “Uhhhh, super.” The conversation went on for a ridiculous amount of time and all I kept thinking was – god I really should have gotten waxed I mean I know it’s just my gyno but it’s really getting out of hand down there and just when I’m lost in thought trying to distract myself from what’s happening – Bam! – in goes that steel shoe horn and it’s all over but the screaming. I mean – maybe it doesn’t hurt you people but my vagina is like that death road in Bolivia. Sure people want to travel on it but it’s treacherous and few are tough enough to try it and the lack of use has left it a little overgrown so to speak. She told me that she had to get in there and cut something to biopsy and make sure I didn’t have cervical cancer. Perfect. It was really fucking painful. “Are you drilling for something?” I shouted. She laughed. Not funny. It felt like her hand was weed whacking it’s way through my overgrown vagina. Jesus talk about Grey Gardens. Eventually she removed something from what felt like the roof of my mouth, gave me some pills, and sent me on my way. She said to take the pills for a week and it would simulate a D&C. If you don’t know what that is. Congratulations. It’s hideous. She also laughed in my face when I said “I guess I should get some tampons.” “No no no too dry. You need pads.” Perfect. Kill me.
So I went home – took the pills for a week – and nothing. Then – the first morning I woke up with no pills to take – it happened. A blood bath. I gave birth to a four hundred pound blood baby in my favorite pajamas.
It’s been four days now and the bleeding hasn’t slowed down. My doctor said this is normal. I’m ruining all of my brand new period free panties and those giant pads don’t look sexy inside my cute dresses. I hope it ends soon. I’ve already done two tv appearances with a cotton wad shoved between my legs. Not cool. So if you want to make a gal feel better about walking around in a bloody world – please buy her book.


Squatter’s Rights

Published May 14, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“I JUST WANT TO SHIT.” That was the text from my sister at 9:36pm last night.

Perhaps I should start this from the beginning.

I am a huge Howard Stern. Back in the early nineties I actually went on the Nutrisystem Diet because Howard would have girls in studio once a week to promote the diet. They were live commercials. Jennifer Aniston was a Nutrisystem girl on the show back in the day – before she was “the Jennifer Aniston.” I went on the diet and Bam! – the woman who ran my local place asked me to go on the show and promote the delicious cardboard like food. I did. It is to this day one of the highlights of my life. He was the nicest, smartest, coolest person in the world. So when Howard recently started talking about his love affair with the Squatty Potty – I thought – I must need this – I too – love to talk about poop and in fact – I may be a poop-aholic. The concept of the Squatty Potty is – we as humans need to be pooping the way we did back in cave times – by squatting. Sitting down is apparently bunching up my colon and is not the proper way to eliminate. Now normally I enjoy any excuse to throw good money down the drain or in this case down the toilet but I thought I’d try the idea first. So I put my feet up on a garbage can in my bathroom. It worked! It was a miracle! My poop was now riding the super highway to Flush City!! But still – I didn’t purchase. It seemed like it might be an embarrassing purchase – like a handrail for my tub or a seat for my shower. I told my niece about it while on a trip to Turks and Caicos. We watched the video. It was set to classical music and really made taking a dump seem like a nice elegant thing. Still I didn’t purchase my potty. What if someone saw it when they came to my house? “Why do you have a stool in front of your toilet?” I looked at the Squatty Potty on line – lovingly. It came in an ugly plastic or a beautiful teak. Hmmmm, maybe this would make it seem more elegant. A wood shit helper? It was so pretty. It was calling to me. And then, a miracle happened. I mentioned my Squatty Potty obsession to my friend Becky who said “Oh, I have one of those. A friend gave me one to review for a magazine. It’s the teak one.” What!!!!!!!!!!! The heavens opened and birds sang. I did spend a second wondering if it was used and if that mattered. I mean – she didn’t actually poop ON it. Or did she? Unfortunately I wasn’t home when Becky delivered the squatty potty so she left it in front of my house for all of my neighbors to see. “Oh she has shit issues. Sad.” But I put that thing under my toilet and have been addicted ever since.

I told my sister about it. We watched the romantic evacuation video together. She ordered her Squatty Potty. It came yesterday in the mail. Then came the texts….

First a photo of all the pieces and instructions on how to put it together.
“Ugh, don’t want to have to put my poop shoot together but here I go.”
Two seconds later.
“Already challenged.”
Two seconds later and two more photos.
“Wait, which kind of slant do I want? Options are forward slant toes lower then heels or backward slant heels lower than toes WTF.”

I sent her a picture of mine.

Two seconds later.
Two seconds later.
Two seconds later.
“Is it no longer sexy to ask your husband of almost 20 years to put your shitter together? What if he’s watching his favorite TV show and you call him to the bathroom?”
Two seconds later.
“Girls who get Chanel diamond encrusted broaches should not have to assemble any kind of contraption associated with taking a shit. Even if it means putting oneself in the ideal position for defacation.”
Two seconds later another photo showing bolts.
Two seconds later.
“I can make clothes so surely I can figure out what angle my pooper should be.”
Two seconds later.
“I think I’m going toes up.”
Two seconds later.
“Were you timing me? This better drastically improve my movements.”
And then finally – her finished photo and this.
“Assume the position. And now back to your regularly scheduled programming.”

I haven’t heard if she likes it or not. But I mean – who wouldn’t? As for my Squatty Potty – the young man who’s one of the stars of my show used my bathroom the other day and didn’t seem to notice it. Then again – he may be just too embarrassed to ask what it is and thinks I’m so old I need help climbing up to my toilet. I’m not asking. I’m just gonna keep squatty pottying.



Chew On This

Published May 3, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If you heard a loud crack this morning while enjoying your Cream of Wheatie Puffs – don’t worry – it’s not you – it’s me – and my TMJ. Yes, the one thing I didn’t have – I now have – and I don’t know how I got it. I’m quite sure I didn’t contract it the normal way, by grinding my teeth down to nubs at night while I sleep, because I don’t sleep. No, I think my jaw has been out carousing with other jaws that have this terrible affliction and it brought the dreaded disease home to me. Whore.
It started out innocently enough, a yawn, a large piece of fruit, a good laugh and CRACK – my jaw bone would pop by my ear – the bone visibly moving. Now I can’t even put on lipstick without it sounding like a day at the ballgame – or a shootout in Compton. I need headphones to turn down the noise level but that level is in my head and there’s no turning down that sound cause god knows I’ve tried for years and I have the liquor bill to prove it.
So off I went to the dentist or as I like to call him – The Butcher of Brentwood. It’s not that he’s a bad dentist – he’s actually a great dentist – it just annoys the hell out of him when I compare him to a death camp captain and lets face it – if you shove your hands in peoples mouth everyday and drill things until they scream in pain – you pretty much have a dark side. Does anyone really believe cops do what they do because they want to serve and protect? Come on now. If my job came with a gun and the ability to shoot people who do dumb things – no one would be alive.
I thought my dentist would tell me that it was my Invisalign causing the pop heard round the world but apparently my TMJ stands for Too Much Gum. (Its early and I don’t know a J word for this,) He said that is in fact exacerbating the problem. I told him I was never giving up the gum. I’ve given up alcohol and food but this is the final straw – this is too much to ask. He told me that gum also produces acid in the stomach and causes bloat which can lead to weight problems. Bingo! Gum – done. So I stood there at the counter like an addict and handed over all my gum. It took a full ten minutes. Out came the packs of Strike Spearmint – the only gum I chew – one by one. When I was done – there were at least 20 packs in front of me and the entire dental team was stupefied. They should see my shoe closet.
It’s been four days now and I think this is going to be harder to give up then booze. Gum is such an integral part of my life and I didn’t even realize it. Everything I do is attached to gum. Work out – chew a piece of Stride. Go for a dog walk – chew a piece of Stride. Finish a meal – have a piece of Stride. I chew gum in the writers room, the shower, my bed (I’ve swallowed about three hundred pieces) just about anywhere I can chew it – I do it. I’m trying really hard not to give in and to tell the truth I’m definitely not taking this particular life blow in Stride and I’m hoping there is some kind of gum support group I can join. Once again I am stuck looking one of life’s most difficult questions in the eye and I don’t have an answer. WHY IS EVERYTHING I LOVE BAD FOR ME? Chew on that people.

Five More Minute, Five More Dollar

Published February 25, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Every time I go to the nail salon and am greeted by a beautiful young Asian girl who barely speaks English I think – you could totally fuck your way out of this shit hole. Men are obsessed with Asian girls – and I totally get why – they have everything I want – straight hair, small boobs, narrow hips. Done. Finito. Stick a fork in it. And speaking of forks – they also have the ability to eat rice without gaining weight which quite frankly outweighs all the other stuff – except maybe the hair – but you’d have to be Jewish to understand that obsession. I’m going to Florida tomorrow and there isn’t enough anti humidity hair spray in all of the land to make it possible for me to leave the house without looking like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl when she was pushing that steam table around the office party.
Yesterday however, my nail girl (so bougie) said something to me that I wish applied to all areas of life. “Five more minute, five more dollar.” She was referring to my feet and telling me that if I wanted five more minutes of foot massaging it would cost me five more dollars. Sign me the fuck up. And while we’re at it – what else can I get five more minutes of for the low low low price of five dollars? Wouldn’t it be great if everything you wanted five more minutes of cost just five dollars? Here are a few things I’d like five more minutes with:

1. The “House of Cards” finale.
2. The Oral Sex I had from that model in 1996.
3. The conversation I had with John Hamm at a party three years ago.
4. My dog Zoey.
5. Every hideous answering machine message I left for someone while drunk so I could dial back in and erase it.

What would life be like if we actually had to pay for our time here? Well first of all – I’d be dead – because I spent all of my life money on shoes. But it does make you think. If we had to pay for our time here would we appreciate it more? There are 1440 minutes in every day – so If everyone had to pay one dollar for every minute of every day – I think that day would become that much more important. So, I’m going to live today like it cost me $1,440.00. I’m going to start at the mall. I saw some shoes I want. And yes, I had to look up how many minutes are in a day. Fuck you.

The Insult

Published February 7, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“I want to be you when I grow up.” Boom. There it was. One innocent little sentence made up of nine innocent little words that together suddenly made the most hideous insult I’ve ever heard. Twenty years ago this was a compliment. Ten years ago it was cute. Now it’s “I’ll slap you if you say that again” horrific and instantly says to the fifty three year old person you’re talking to – “wow you’re old as shit.” At least that’s what my ears took in, swirled around in my crazy center and spit back out as a rude insult.

There are a few “compliments” that as you get older no longer feel so complimentary. This is one of them. Add to that “Wow you don’t look your age at all” and you can send me back to my bed under the covers with a bunch of medical tape strapped to the back of my neck pulling it together like a skin ponytail and returning it to it’s thirty year old status. I hate my neck. But that’s another story.

I always hoped that one day I’d grow up to be some kind of role model or powerful influence to young women but now I’m rethinking this because every time I open my mouth around someone more youthful than me – which is the entire los angeles area – I get slapped with this anti-acclamation. Perhaps you young people come up with something new to say to someone who says something that inspires you or perhaps you could just write them a check. And while you’re at it – if you could learn to shut your mouth a teensy bit when I say – I’m 53 – I’d appreciate it. I wouldn’t want to break a hip picking your jaw up off the floor.

I See Your Nads and I Raise You Two

Published February 2, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


When it comes to sex, I consider myself to be a fairly well adjusted person and by fairly I mean – I don’t run screaming from the room if a man takes his pants off. (At least not every time.) I believe this is due to one simple thing. I never saw my parents naked. This however, all changed last night when I saw someone else’s parents naked on what can only very loosely be called a television show aptly named, “Buying Naked.” At first I thought I was watching Saturday Night Live because there is no way anyone would have made this into a television show. And then I remembered I live in America where everything is a reality show and you can become famous for killing ducks or farming with Amish people or being a chubby little beauty queen with a catchphrase and a mother who looks like a thumb.
I watched Buying Naked for quite a few minutes. Granted, I was high. Every time the naked people appeared on camera there would be a vase or lamp placed perfectly in front of their naughty bits. Fine. I get it. It’s Benny Hill in a realtor show. Whatever. But what I couldn’t stop thinking about was the poor people who owned the house who probably never knew that old man ass cheeks would be touching their couch that day. I bet nobody told Betty & Bob TryingToSellMyHouse that someone else’s boobs would be brushing up against their lovely wall paper or that fingers that touched gonad flesh would be touching their light sockets. But most importantly I couldn’t help but think – I can’t believe I don’t have a television show and this elderly epidermis loving loon does. So, today I will be sitting in front of my computer – nude. I’m strapping a camera to Peaches back and I’m calling the show “Writing Naked.”

Turks & Chaos: Lost on Jewguana Island

Published January 3, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“I can’t believe this is where we’re going to die.” said Dan as he looked at his wife – my niece – across a picnic table on a picturesque island in the British West Indies. It was one of the most beautiful settings I’ve seen. Dubbed Iguana Island – for the massive amounts of Iguana’s that inhabit it – this is where we found ourselves one afternoon on my recent trip to Turks & Caicos. The Caicos Islands and the smaller Turks Islands are tropical – known primarily for tourism and are British run with a population of about 31 thousand. Eighty percent of that population is African American – and 100 percent of that 80 percent probably thinks about murdering a white tourist at least once a day or at at the very least, spitting in their conch fritter. Have you ever noticed that white people talk to island people like they’re retarded? It’s so embarrassing listening to white people on vacation. Every word uttered to a waiter or a beach boy is done at a louder decibel level than necessary. They’re not deaf people, they’re black people. I was constantly finding myself inching away from some fat paste-y white person yelling at someone because their banana daiquiri wasn’t cold enough or – my favorite – “make sure you give me the good coffee and not the watered down stuff you’ve been using.” In case you didn’t know – island people are ripping you off every second. They are watering down your booze, giving you the bad umbrellas, not really cleaning your sheets, and going through your stuff and stealing from you every second of every day. This thankfully – is not how my family operates – that is – until we got dumped and left for dead on Iguana Island. Our four hour boat tour and lunch excursion started off innocently enough. We hired a private tour to take us snorkeling and then for a picnic lunch on Iguana Island. The snorkeling was amazing. Beautiful fish everywhere the eye could see. Then it was time to “catch” our lunch. We were instructed to follow the boats Co Captain and when we spotted a Conch Shell – to dive down and grab it. We all caught one or two but sadly found out they were too small to eat and had to toss them back. After about 20 minutes of conch diving – the white Jew in all of us kicked in. One by one we all returned to the boat empty handed and ready to bitch. “This is ridiculous, we’re never getting any. Guess we won’t be having lunch. These guys don’t know what they’re doing. What a dopey excursion. I see potato chips. That must be lunch. I’m starving. I’m tired. What do we do now. This is awful. Fuck my life.” All this said – I’ll have you know – in the most gorgeous spot I’ve seen – in quite some time – turquoise water – white sandy beaches – etc. The thing about vacations is – it takes days for your city brain to slow down to island brain – and it usually happens right as you’re boarding the plane back to the States. So here we were – a bunch of bitter Jews – wanting our damn conch lunch to hurry up and get there. Eventually the co captain found three large conch – and off we went – along with the “how is that gonna feed a group of six” conversation. The other thing white people do – is ask a lot of questions and do a lot of wondering. We rarely just let a situation unfold – especially on vacation. It’s slightly different for us Californians on vacation – because we’re used to being surrounded by island like people – except ours really are retarded. So – off we went to Iguana Island. We jumped off the boat and watched our co captain kill a conch. He made a hole in the shell and then we pulled out the conch. Attached was a little clear stem filled with liquid. “Eat that. It’s an aphrodisiac” –the co captain said.” Two of our men did. Then we laughed at them for twenty minutes saying how stupid they were to listen to a local when they said to eat something and that it was probably conch penis filled with conch semen. Then the co captain told us to – “walk towards the horizon, and find the picnic table, and watch out for the burrs.” So off we went, shoeless, because we’re idiots, and made our way to the other side of the island. It was absolutely fucking stunning. We were literally the only people on the island. I’ve never been anywhere like it. “Is this Iguana poop we’re walking in? Perfect. Ouch I caught a burr. This is stupid.” Eventually we made it to the other side of the island and found the picnic table. We figured we walked about three miles. (It was about four city blocks.) We sat at the picnic table chatting and waiting for our lunch to be delivered. After about forty five minutes later – it started – “So obviously they’re never coming. They probably took all our stuff and our hotel keys and are emptying the rooms right now. I can’t believe this is where we’re going to die. Does anyone have a cell phone. What the hell is wrong with these people. Lets go look and see if we can spot them. Is that our boat? Should we do something? I know they’re island people but how long does it take to make lunch. It was only three stupid conch. I’m starving.” Suddenly out of nowhere – a giant Iguana came out of the weeds. Probably about two feet long. It was beautiful. I have only seen them on television and never live. It was really cool. My niece tossed something to get it to look our way – it turned and charged everyone and up they went on top of the picnic table. “Okay – maybe we should just walk back towards the boat. Fuck lunch. Fuck this. They can deduct it from our overall price.” So off we went back to the other side of the island – where we found our captain and co captain and a lovely lunch waiting for us. Lobster, sandwiches, fresh conch salad etc. Yes, they had planned a full lunch. Where had we been, they asked? Guess you really liked walking around the island they said. Turns out we missed the part where they had told us – walk around – then come back for lunch. Or maybe they never said it. Who knows? They didn’t care that their work day had been extended by an hour. “No problem mon.” We had lunch, and rode back as the sun set in the distance. Stunning. Unforgettable. And we got to see an Iguana to boot. Sadly, we spent so much time jew-ing it up about being stranded that we forgot to soak in the amazing surroundings we were in – while we were there – to the fullest extent. We’re going back to Iguana Island next year – and while I’m sure we’ll be more relaxed – I’m also sure we’ll find something else to fret about – we are after all – Jews. Pissing, moaning and worrying is in our blood. And now – so is Conch Aphrodisiac.

The Bikini Incident

Published December 14, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

In 16 days and hopefully 10 pounds – I will be heading to Turks & Caicos with my family. If you’re planning on burgling my home – don’t bother – my dogs will still be in my house and yes – they will eat you. I was super excited about this vacation until I had this innocent little conversation with a friend about bikinis.

Me: “I can’t have cake today. I have to get in a bikini in two weeks.”
Him: “A bikini? Why?”
Me: “Well I’m going on a vacation.”
Him: “But why a bikini? How about a nice one piece.”
Me: “Are you saying what I think you’re saying?”
Him: “At a certain age, women need to stop wearing bikinis. Why not a nice one piece with a skirt.”
Me: “I bet you didn’t think tonight was the night you would die.”

Now, I am aware that there are certain items in my closet that I should no longer wear. Items that are reserved for much younger women like tutu’s and knee socks and there are days where I certainly push the borders on those items and wear them anyway but this whole bikini thing is too much. I mean – I just got bikini boobs and now I’m too old to wear a bikini? I had no idea. I bought out the j crew website of bikini’s for this vacation. I thought I just had to knock off ten pounds not twenty years. A skirt? I need a bathing suit with a skirt? Fuck me this can’t be happening!!!! I mean, I know I’m currently way out of shape but am I suddenly one of those women who’s going to upset people on the beach? Are other people going to point at me and say things I point and say about them – “whoa, does that bitch own a mirror. She needs to find a one piece.” I mean, I don’t want to upset anyone. I guess the fact that I will allow no pictures to be taken of me whilst in my bikini should be a sign but when did my world become the cruel world it is to other old bitches? When did I become too old to wear a bikini?
I’ll be shopping for one piece suits today.
But I’ll be dammed if I’m getting a fucking swim skirt.

The Upshot of Shit

Published December 8, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I haven’t done anything stupid in days. Entire blocks of hours have passed without anything dumb or crazy or Heidi happening to me. Most people would consider this a fine “how do you do” but not me. When nothing happens it means there’s nothing to put on the page – and that is problematic because that’s when the regular thoughts jumble up the inside of my brain and make me start thinking about normal things like – “fuck I’m going to die alone” – instead of “shit my oven is locked and now I can’t make a peach cobbler that I don’t know how to make.” Instead of “Hey I wonder if Marijuana tea would help me sleep” it’s “Hey, am I going to keel over from a heart attack and die before accomplishing what I want to accomplish and they’ll find me with half of my face eaten off by my Chihuahua?” See, it’s bad when I don’t do stupid thing. That’s when normal things are free to enter my head and roam around and kick up scary dust. Other retarded things are out there happening – and they’re not happening to me. I did get some really good news. My neighbor, who is a hideous bitch because she kicked my dog Peaches in the face when she thought Peaches was going to bite her and ended up biting her but only after she got kicked and the woman drove me insane for a year and told all of my neighbors that my dog is a monster which she isn’t, well that neighbors second husband – left her. So that was cool. Karma’s a bitch, a bigger bitch than my neighbor. I decided to look at some things I’ve written and see if anything has changed on those fronts and sort of update myself on my life so here goes:

1. My oven is still locked. They are coming again next weekend. I am not hopeful.
2. My boobs are smaller but the left one doesn’t look as good as the right one.
3. I am sleeping better thanks to the use of silicone earplugs, a television with a sleeper shut off and an eye mask. I am 100 years old.
4. I pee less during the night than I used to.
5. I still don’t think it’s cool to poop at a friend’s house or a restaurant.

Huh? Turns out I’ve been writing about nothing. Sorry.

Mom For A Week

Published November 3, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I found out the hard way last week that I’m a selfish, loner who has more rules than she thinks. I also found out – I’m fine with that. But it’s good to shake things up. The request was simple enough – host my British cousin’s 17 year old son for a week. Done. How hard could that be? I’m cool. I’m happening. I’m on Instagram and Twitter. I know what “ratchet” means. (Well I do now after someone cooler than me told me.) But I’m also 53 and the one thing I know about this age is – I’m about as bendy as a plank of wood. Joe arrived on Saturday from London. How was his flight? Hideous. Some idiot spilled a drink all over him and he had to wear a blanket like a kilt for the entire flight while his pants dried. I laughed out loud. This kid was funny. He was not amused. I forgot how important stuff was to me as a teen. All stuff. Especially my stuff. We went home. I fed him a delicious dinner of chips and salsa. Didn’t he want an actual meal? Nope he was fine. He went to bed. He warned me that he had a hard time waking up. He told me his parents try everything to get him to go to school. I was determined to change this. I made so much noise the next morning – a deaf person would have heard me. Joe didn’t. I went out and ran a bunch of errands. This was my life when I dated young guys. They’re like cave dwellers. They hibernate and can sleep forever. I came home at noon. Joe was still sleeping. I found myself saying – “you can’t sleep the whole day away.” God I’d kill to be able to sleep like this. I quietly knocked on the guest room door. When I cracked it open I almost passed out. How could one skinny kid do so much damage in just one night? It was like a tornado tore through the lower floor of my house while I was sleeping. I stopped myself from telling Joe to clean his room. I told him I wouldn’t say a thing about it as long as he kept the damage behind the closed door. I told the cleaning lady to skip that room for a week. She probably would have thought I was robbed. Every day I woke Joe up became increasingly difficult. I was tapping my nails on the counter longer each day. I found myself yelling – “If you’re not out in two minutes Im leaving you here.” But he’d always pull it together. Later each day, but always just on time enough. He was quite proud of this. Joe came to work with me every day for a week. He would sit in the car and change the radio dial every thirteen seconds. It was small attention span theater – the Prius edition. I stopped myself from yelling “please pick something and leave the radio alone.” We would pack up some healthy snacks for him to eat and he would come home every day with random snacks he took from the craft services table. He couldn’t believe all that stuff was free and just sitting there. I found myself telling him he needed to eat a full meal and I’d ask him everyday if he had something other than chips for lunch. He took pictures of the craft table and sent it to his friends. He sat in the writer’s room where I told him not to speak. He spoke. He actually pitched jokes. I threatened his life. He went to rehearsals with the actors where I told him to watch quietly. He didn’t. He actually pranked our Assistant Director by hiding in his podium and scaring him. Joe made himself known at work. He talked to anyone and everyone. He wasn’t shy. He made friends with the actors and random stars he found walking around the lot. Joe was invited to a Halloween party. He had to get a particular costume. It was dire. He needed to know what time it started and who would be there. Teenagers ask a lot of questions. I sent him home on the plane in the giraffe costume he got for Halloween. By the time he left I was exhausted. I haven’t had to think that much outside of work in years. But I was also grateful. Joe made me remember what being a teenager is. Alive. Thinking. Curious. And what I am threatened with becoming. Tired. Cranky. Whatever. Joe was a crash course in the beauty of life – which is interesting since he – like most teenagers – thinks the future is a disaster and what’s the point of living. But he does live – and quite vividly. He is unafraid. He is funny. He is smart. He is enjoying life one day at a time. He is making his presence known before some adult like me beats it out of him by telling him you don’t get what you want. Joe had the time of his life. And so did I. I’m trying to be more like him. I even bought a leopard onesie. I’m thinking I could start a business for old farts like me who are too settled in their lives. Rent-A-Joe. If anyone’s interested… please inquire.

Bowl Me Over

Published September 8, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night on a beautiful balmy evening in Los Angeles – while I was innocently minding my own business over some grilled chicken, corn salad and chocolate bread pudding – something irrevocable happened. I changed my mind about the Hollywood Bowl – and now I fear – I may never get asked back. I used to say – I’ll go see anyone there. ANYONE. I am now forced to retract that statement, thanks to The Blue Man Group. Going to the Bowl is a wonderful experience, especially if you travel with my friends Kevin and Dan. I am lucky enough to get invited at least once a summer to their bowl box. After last night I may get booted to the back of the friends list. I looked a gift box in the mouth, and then laughed at it. Kevin and Dan have a bowl routine that would shame Martha Stewart into retirement. There are table cloths, stemware, flowers, homemade everything and they even had a small wooden piece of table cut to connect the two tables in a four seat box. These people do NOT fuck around. Last night – Dan was unavailable to go – I now know why – and Kevin asked me to be the fourth in a group that included one of the most powerful women in Hollywood and one of my favorite actresses of all time. I couldn’t say Fuck Yeah fast enough. Both of these women are amazing. I only had one caveat. “Don’t tell anyone I went to see Blue Man Group.” Now, I had never ever even seen them perform. In fact, I didn’t even know what they were about. But my instincts told me that seeing this act would be akin to going to a Carrot Top concert. My instincts were dead on. In fact – Carrot Top should be pissed that I put him in such retarded company. First of all – I can’t believe that blue shit is still just make up that can rub off. There was a spot on one of the guys shirts that bugged the shit out of me all night. But it’s more of what they do – or don’t do – that made me drop my jaw in amazement, and not in a good way. They play pvc pipe. Literally. They drum music on pvc pipes with some rubber spindle thingy’s. It’s so… 1980. In fact I think the decade called while I was watching the show and asked for their act back. I felt like I climbed in a time machine and went back to whenever this bull shit was created because they certainly haven’t updated it at all. I kept thinking, what the fuck is happening? Is this it? Do people actually pay to go see this? Can this much cheese fit in the Hollywood Bowl? I can’t believe I blew out my hair for this. Who the fucked booked this for the Bowl? I kept looking at my box mates. I may have actually done the whole finger gun in the mouth blowing my brains out routine once or ten times. This is the moment I believe I went too far. This is what will get me crossed off the cool kids at the bowl list. Oops. The night did end on a positive note thanks to the fact that that note did not come from the Blue Men Group. It came from a Brazilian group of musicians who brought the Bowl to life. I danced. I ooh’d over the fireworks. I almost forgot what I saw the previous two hours. Then on my way home I passed a giant billboard that said The Blue Men group are now performing at the Monte Carlo Hotel in Las Vegas. I think that’s exactly where they belong. Say hi to Carrot Top for me boys.

To Twerk Or Not To Twerk

Published August 31, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Recently, I found out that my backyard neighbor is an extremely accomplished DJ. I’m pretty sure his name is BevMo. But I could be wrong. Because I am 100 years old. Bevmo travels around the world mixing his unlistenable music with other peoples unlistenable music and stands on a stage as he blends together these two unmelodious melodies for tens of thousands of people. People love this guy. He’s a music god. And I’m not gonna lie – he’s very very sexy. But I am officially at the age where his music is the sound that makes me say “can someone turn that down?” He makes 14 million dollars a year. And that is an assload of money. Which is ironic because that is exactly what Bevmo is known for… the ass… or TWERKING. And for those of you who just said – what’s that? – just look at what Miley Cyrus did to Robin Thicke’s crotch at the VMA’S and you’ll know. The official definition of twerking is “to dance to popular music in a sexually provocative manner involving thrusting hip movements and a low, squatting stance.” I think it’s like a reverse Elvis Presley? Or the twist with a twist? All I know is, I’m not gonna be doing that. Twerking is what people with cellulite DON’T DO. It is also a word that has been added to the Oxford Dictionary. And for that, I am ashamed. Not that I’m old, but that we’re dumb. I love our millennials and all but if they could cut back on the dopey phrases I find myself even using – maybe Oxford could cut back on the asinine additions to the dictionary. Like these:

• cake pop
Really? Are we going to put every retarded food item we come up with in the dictionary? I’d like to add CroNut.

• FOMO, n.: fear of missing out:
I haven’t even heard this one. Does that mean I’m fomo?! Oh fuck no!

• guac, n.: guacamole.
You lazy fucks.

• MOOC, n.: a course of study made available over the Internet without charge to a very large number of people.
Uhm. No idea what you’re talking about.

•omnishambles, n. (informal): a situation that has been comprehensively mismanaged, characterized by a string of blunders and miscalculations.
Huh? Say it again slower.

• phablet, n.: a smartphone having a screen which is intermediate in size between that of a typical smartphone and a tablet computer.
No one is fucking using this.

• selfie, n. (informal): a photograph that one has taken of oneself.
Erg. Annoying. We even wrote this one in a script. Double Erg.

• space tourism, n.: the practice of travelling into space for recreational purposes.
Okay seriously shut the fuck up.

• vom, v. & n. (informal): (be) sick; vomit.
As in what this entire list makes me want to do.

As a writer I always hope to influence people, and sometimes even make up words that will one day make it into the lexicon of the universe. I had truly hoped that word would be FuckTard. But I didn’t get credit for it back when I started using it so…. I’m working on a new word. It may even have it’s own dance. Stay tuned.

Fart Blanche

Published August 25, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I like to burp. Out loud. As loud as possible. And hopefully, if I’m with the right kind of people, have those people – grade those burps – on a scale of 1 to 10 – ten being the best – obvi. I am not embarrassed by the belch. Even the words for the action are funny. I enjoy letting funny words come out of my mouth – so why not a burp? The truth is, I am almost incapable of holding a burp in. I’ve tried it, but it’s just so unsatisfying and quite frankly, so unnatural. Holding in a burp, to me, is kind of gross. Why should I have all that whatever that is trapped in my mouth. Yuck feh. To me, the sound of someone holding in a burp is completely disgusting. Old gassy people do that. I’m not an old gassy person. Yet. Any day now. Ew. I’m not kissing that. It’s still in there. Floating around. Dancing on your tongue. It seems to me that burps should get out – be given a gas-port, and be set free – let loose into the world – to bubble off and drift somewhere over someone else and maybe make that someone else laugh, even though they didn’t even hear it. If I want to have a really good time with a burp – I will drink a soda. I try not to do this too often because it is rather disturbing. Nothing can explain the level of noise that comes out of my mouth after carbonation has entered. My friend Ben always pretends to clean his classes off after I’ve set a soda burp free – like he just got splashed in the face with mud after a truck drove by. I found out the other day that my friend Joshua can burp on command. I find nothing cooler. It is, in fact, one of the things I wish I could do. Everyone tells me it’s easy. Just swallow air. I’ve tried. I’ve failed. It’s not that easy. If it were, wouldn’t everyone do it? If I could burp actual words – I would know the full experience of being the coolest person on the planet.
Oddly enough, the same rules do not apply when it comes to the other end of gas – the ass – or, the cute little word we’ve given it – the fart. This is a sound that should never be heard in public – and if it is – and heard from my behind – I would die a thousand deaths. I do not want my wind blowing in the… well… wind. Setting a fart free is not cute, funny, and should most definitely not be graded. But I wonder why that is? Why do we not have “fart blanche?” While I love to ingest things that make me burp, I quickly cross off things that make butt wind, especially since as I get older, controlling that end, seems to be more difficult. If you walk into my house in the morning – you will quite possibly hear the 1812 Overture – and yes – it is satisfying – but it is also hideous. People tell me stories all the time about having to fart on a date – and how they’ve managed to quietly do it and get away with it, except for one friend, who let one fly after his date got in the car then accidentally pulled the fart into the car after him as he quickly tried to close his door behind him. There’s a lot of work involved in keeping flatulence bottled up. Maybe it’s time to lift the ban on ass gas and start grading the sounds that escape us when we least expect it. You guys go first. Tell me how it goes.

You Feel Me?

Published July 28, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

What started as a lovely Sunday morning of drinking coffee, adding to cart, and writing, has suddenly taken a turn for the worse thanks to an article a friend just posted on Facebook. It’s called “The top ten feelings to feel before you die” and it turns out – I have a slim to none chance of doing most of them.  This was more upsetting to me than finding out Whitney Cummings is dating Peter Berg and trust me – that was fucking upsetting.  Here is the list:

#1 – The feeling of holding your newborn for the first time.  Fuck you.  Not happening. Dead eggs.

#2 – The feeling of kissing your husband or wife on your wedding day. At this point – kissing my wife is a more likely outcome and I’m not gay.

#3 – The feeling of proposing marriage or saying yes to a marriage proposal. We’ll see about this one but quite frankly I’d sooner say yes to another breast reduction.

#4 – The feeling of holding your grandchild. See #1

#5 – The feeling of telling off your boss. Yay I did this one. Twice!

#6 – The feeling of having your heart broken. Why do we need this one? Feh. Been there done that bought the t shirt still wearing it don’t like it.

#7 – The feeling of watching your child take his or her first step. See #1 and #4 and BT Dubs – fuck you again.

#8 – The feeling of being hated for no reason. Yeah, not really into this.  I’d like to switch this one out for – the feeling of having no hate. We good? Good.

#9 – The feeling of caring for your parents. Seems a little on the nose to me.

#10 – The feeling of kissing the one you’re in love with. If this includes dogs – super.   Otherwise – quit it already.

The amount of things on this list that I won’t be able to complete is mind boggling. Does this mean I am set to live an unhappy second half of my life? Why must I constantly be reminded what a failure I am for not having children and getting married? Am I dead inside? According to this list – I will be soon. Look people, I am well aware that I may wake up one day and look around me and only see shoes and think – shit – I should have bought something else – like a husband and a family but – there isn’t much I can do about that.  So I’d like to offer a different list of feelings I think people should feel before they die.

#1 – The feeling that you truly like yourself and won’t be with someone unless they respect you as much as you respect yourself.

#2 – The feeling that you can provide for yourself.

#3 – The feeling of getting your dream job and seeing people react to what you do.

#4 – The feeling that if everything stays exactly the way it is right now at this point in time – that you’ve led a good life.

#5 – The feeling that someone needs you – even if that someone is three dogs.

At the end of the day I get it.  Making out is fun. Having someone in your life could be interesting. Children can be adorable. And a life without these things may not be in the cards. But come  on – “different” makes the world go round.  You feel me?

Marketing Boobs

Published May 7, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have my first post boob removal checkup today – which is good – because I think my right nipple has become detached. At least it feels that way. Other than that – I’ve had no pain. Well other than the shooting one under my left armpit.  Oh and the one in my right collar bone. Oh and the one from the bra that feels like its stabbing me in the rib. Oh and the one that feels like my lungs have been removed. Other than that – nothing.  Totally good. Oh and the sleeping part is weird.  Other than that – I’m fine.  Really.  I have noticed that every single television show and commercial since the funbag flee of 2013 has been focused on boobs.  Last night on RHOC – yes I watch it don’t hate me – one of the women said that her boobs were a hot mess since she breast fed her children.  The other woman suggested an implant since after all her husband is a plastic surgeon.  This was a terrible idea to her.  So the friend said “If you want to be flat chested and eat at good restaurants go to New York.”  And boom, there it was.  The single most truthful thing anyone has ever said on television ever – well at least said on any Real Housewives show.  It’s true.  New York women don’t give a fuck about this shit.  My entire self examination and fashion obsession started right here in good old Hollywood – home of “is that yours” added to the end of any compliment. Nice hair – is that yours?  My mother said to me – “I finally realized why you have such a shoe obsession – it makes people look down instead of up.”  Yes!  Thank you mom.  It’s not easy living here in SoCal but is has worked for me.  It has turned me into a plastic surgeon expert – as in – I’m not touching any of my wrinkles because they look even weirder after you pull them somewhere back behind your head in a skin ponytail – and it’s made me more acceptable of aging. I realize it’s happening and am reminded of it every single day of my life.  But I do realize that there is a mass market available to advertisers that prey on women who are not comfortable with themselves and are desperately clinging to life as a chick or what they think being a chick is.  My friend JD posted such an ad this morning – BIC PENS FOR HER.  Yes it’s real. According to the ad the pens are an “elegant design with a “thin barrel to fit a women’s hand.” Plus, the pens come in pinks and purples, and “the occasional peach and turquoise.”  I’m guessing it’s only an occasion peach or turquoise because our heads would explode from too much goodness if it was an everyday thing. I don’t know about you ladies but I need a pen – just for her – so I can write how much I hate everyone – in an easier more elegant fashion.  And when I get angry at the men in my life – I can stab them in the eye with a colorful twist.  But this pen is not alone in the She Marketing world – Honda has also thrown it’s estrogen into the fembot ring with a pink car called “Fit.” Honda says it’s “adult cute” and even has pink accents like stitching and displays.  The car has an ultraviolet blocking windshield and a special air conditioning system aimed at stopping those wrinkles that “turn adult cute into just not adult.”  What the fuck are they talking about. I swear I am not making this shit up. The funniest thing about the car is that it’s called Fit which is the one thing most American women can’t do with that car – fit in it – since the country is grossly obese.  The final Her-ball in the throat of all this chick marketing is from Fujitsu and their new laptop – The Floral Kiss.  The computer comes from the female employees of Fujitsu who were asked to create a pc that women would find appealing.  They should have found one that delivers us shoes every time we turn it on.  But they didn’t. They created a laptop that features gold trim, zirconia adornments, a pearl like accented power button and a floral motif design for the vents. But perhaps it’s most important feature is its flip latch that opens easily for users with long fingernails.  But wait there’s more insulting technology!!!  The laptop comes with special software for the ladies like “scrapbooking” , “daily horoscope” , and a “diary” application. Dear diary, why are people so fucking stupid. Listen you weird straight male marketing people – you may not know this yet or you’re too scared to admit it – but women are going to take over the world.  We have to. You keep fucking it up.







Once Burned

Published April 28, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Here’s a phrase you’ll never hear me say – “I’m going to Burning Man.”  Burning Man is “an annual art event and temporary community based on radical self expression and self-reliance in the Black Rock Desert of Nevada.” Translation: The “I’m too old and too sober to attend shit show of a festival.” Last night however I did attend a small art show in an obscure section of Los Angeles – featuring artists who will be attending Burning Man.  The gallery was set up to sell art to help these folks earn money to fund their BM projects.  I walked in to see a young woman and a young man standing on platforms both in dresses. They each had a jar and a pair of scissors in front of them.  The concept was – put money in their jar and you get to cut a piece off of their dress.  Huh?  Okay.  I can kind do this at home or watch Project Runway but whatever. Someone had taken a giant swatch from the guys genital area proving – even Art lovers can act like immature assholes.  I asked him what happened and his female counterpart said “Some jewish guy did that” proving even artists models can be racist idiots. Most of the women at the event were dressed like weird circus whores and a whole bunch of the guys had those Snidely Whiplash/Salvador Dali twirly mustaches.  I asked my friend what the outfits were all about and she said that a lot of people who attended BM chose a style of dress called Steam Punk – like the guy in the circus pants and top hat. See what happens when you don’t go out people – you miss this stuff.  I like art and all – in fact – I try to support all of my friends who paint or sculpt or draw or whatever it is they sell – I buy – but this was not my bag.  People who all dress alike seems to say the opposite of “I’m an artist.”  Expressing yourself exactly the same way as someone else doesn’t seem to jibe with the free thinker I assume all artists are. But what do I know. Maybe I’m fashion schizophrenic since I can’t seem to pick just one style.  But this steam punk business mixed with the idea of spending days in a desert with no shower, no high heels and melting lipstick , did not sound like a fun idea to me. And then, I saw him. The Ryan Gosling of the Steam Punk world. He was wearing a suit vest and suit pants. No shirt. Biceps for days and a Dali mustache.  And suddenly I knew – that’s why girls go to Burning Man.  This guy was worth sleeping in dirt and smelling like pee.  This guy could make any girl feel okay about standing in line for a porto-potty in a hippie dress and a bad beaded necklace you bought for the occasion at Forever21.  Suddenly I remembered the days of what I would do when faced with someone like that. I’d throw back another shot, waltz up to him and just start making out. I had courage when I drank.  I also made really bad choices in men because I had liquid tolerance for weird people in circus clothes and usually ended up somewhere like Burning Man.  Not so much anymore.  Last night I didn’t try to make out with Ryan Steam Punk Gosling. I didn’t make a date to meet him under the art tee pee by the iron gorilla sculpture in the desert. I took my Valentino shoes and Chanel purse home where they belong.  I think I’ve been burned enough.

The Angry Young Man

Published April 20, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Turns out Billy Joel was wrong. There is no place in the world for the angry young man because he’s no longer at home with his back to the wall and his intentions are not good – he’s out there on the streets, blowing people up , shooting school kids, and his intentions are clear – he’s going to murder people because he’s lost his fucking mind. I think we need to spend a little less time trying to figure out how much weight Kim Kardashian has gained in her ass and figure out what the hell is going on with the young people in this country – whether they started here or moved here – something is awry with their brains and when they go all screwy – we’ve given them ample opportunity to arm themselves and take out whomever they choose.   Remember the old days when a nerd got pissed?  He didn’t get a gun. He didn’t build a pressure cooker pipe bomb.  He became Bill Gates and learned how to say fuck you with his brain focused the right way. Maybe we should legalize prostitution and set up whore houses on high school and college campuses? Is it possible we’ve got a killer semen back up situation here?   Get turned down enough for a date and some men will get a little heated.  Perhaps free makeovers for nerds? I think if you have a nice haircut, clear skin and a cool pair of kicks – you might not feel like killing anyone.  What about a psychology class where the teacher is actually analyzing her students?  I’m all for free speech and blah blah America but maybe if you keep searching your internet for weird shit like how to build a bomb or how to kill a whole bunch of people at once – somebody gets to come to your house and check you out… for real.  Enough eight year old boys dying and six year old girls losing their legs.  Parents barely have time to grieve the deaths from one psychotic episode before another unfurls.  Where the hell are we living anyway?  I feel bad for Muslims in this country – every time they take one step forward – some nutbag whips them ten steps back.  Today however – the angry young man takes a backseat to his female counterpart – the angriest sorority girl in America from the University of Maryland’s Delta Gamma chapter. She’s pissed. Super pissed. And she put it all in an email and sent it out chapter wide to all of her so called whiny little sisters.   It starts with this…

“If you just opened this like I told you to, tie yourself down to whatever chair you’re sitting in, because this email is going to be a rough fucking ride.”

Well, you can’t say she didn’t warn them.  I don’t know who this chick is but I think she needs a major time out.  “Fuck you you fucking fucks with your shitty shit faces” she writes.  First of all – I love her writing style but she seems a little over the top just because her fellow delta gamma’s fucked up with a bunch of fraternity brothers.

“Newsflash you stupid cocks: FRATS DON’T LIKE BORING SORORITIES. Oh wait, DOUBLE FUCKING NEWSFLASH: SIGMA NU IS NOT GOING TO WANT TO HANG OUT WITH US IF WE FUCKING SUCK, which by the way in case you’re an idiot and need it spelled out for you, WE FUCKING SUCK SO FAR. “

Actually, I’m quite certain that Sigma Nu doesn’t care about you at all… they’re too busy bonding in some weird homoerotic way that they’ll pretend didn’t happen later in life.    I can’t wait till this chick leaves college and realizes everything she cares about is stupid and doesn’t matter in the real fucking world.  She did call them “ass hats” which I commend but other than that – she needs a chill pill the size of Maryland.

Maybe we need to take a note from the airlines and pump some mellow gas into our global cabin. Can everyone please relax. You’re missing life.  And it’s kinda rad.

You Want Chanel?

Published April 18, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


Like the little voice inside my head – it was piercing and consistent. “You want Chanel? Louis? Hermes?”  Granted – none of these names were being pronounced correctly but there was no denying the small Asian woman was still speaking my language.  At first – I just kept walking.  Why would I need a fake Chanel handbag when I already have four real ones? (I didn’t pay for any of them. They are blood bags. Different story for a different day.) But still – the word Chanel kept calling to me.  What did they look like I wonder?  And so began my dangerous and brief affair with the faux bag business on Canal Street NYC.   I swore I’d never be that person but it seems even I can succumb to FauxNel. My friend Freddy and I peeked inside that first stall. They kept the Chanel under lock and key – apparently it’s illegal to sell knock off bags – who knew?  She opened a drawer and there they were shining like rainbows and quite frankly smelling a little bit like cancer.  I guess pleather has that distinct smell.  She had every shape and size and color and Fred immediately pointed out a dayglow orange one that was to die for.  I loved it but I had to explain to Fred that if you’re going to buy a fake Chanel – at least buy one in a color that the real Chanel actually makes.  This made no sense to him. Everyone will know that your bag is a fake so why not get a cool color?  Ha! Fred.  You silly silly man. Why would anyone know my bag is fake?  I purchased a small red one and took it out that night. I got a ton of compliments on it and no one was the wiser.  The next day I decided I needed more. The faux bag business was a drug and I wanted to be high again.  Fred and I returned to the same stalls and every time I asked if they had Chanel they said – No.  What? How is this happening?  Just yesterday you had scads of them?  Did other cheap jews like me come to your stalls and buy you out?   I told Fred maybe they think I’m a cop. So I started announcing that I wasn’t. I just wanted Chanel and I wanted it now! But alas, they weren’t biting.  We went home dejected. I immediately got the CDT’s and I didn’t think there was a cure for this kind of detox.  The next day I had to catch my plane home.  I hatched a plan. If I get dressed and pack really quickly I can make it back to Canal Street and see if I can turn this shit around and pick up one more bag.  I hit the streets at nine and voila – one man was open.  “You got Chanel?” I whispered in his ear.  No, he replied. I was devastated.  Then – out of nowhere he said – “You watch Leo, I’ll be right back.”  Leo was his 7 year old son. The man darted out the door . Leo looked at me like this wasn’t his first White lady rodeo. Five minutes later the man came back with three giant garbage bags filled with faux Chanel.  Appropriate carrying cases I thought. But still, the heavens opened up. The birds sang. Leo and I danced. It was a miracle.  I bought my new gold patent Chanel for 40 bucks and then tossed in a faux Louis Vuitton belt. Fuck it. Go fake big or go home.  Back in Los Angeles now – I put my fake Chanel’s in the closet with their real counterparts.  I figure maybe if they hang out together the phonies will learn something from their very expensive friends.  It’s  Hollywood. Anything can happen.

Once In Love With Amy…

Published April 12, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


I can’t remember the exact moment I first met Amy but I knew even then – she was special.  Amy was the first of her kind for our family so I didn’t have a lot to compare her too but for a baby, she seemed to be on the up and up. Sure she was just a blob that cried a lot but quite frankly at that point in my life – so was I. In fact, Amy and I had quite a bit in common.  We both drank from a bottle and no one seemed to understand a word we ever said.  The last would happily change for her – for me – not so much. This was the beginning of a beautiful relationship.  Amy is one of the few people in my life I have known since the very first day of her life – she is in fact – the first person to hold this distinction.  She is also – one of the very few people in my life – I truly love – in a gut wrenching – full on no questions asked unconditional kind of way.  She is beautiful, smart, quick witted and incredibly stylish… again – just like me. This kid is genius.  Even if she no longer is a kid. She will always be one to me since I completely forgot to have any. Amy is the closest I’ll ever get.  It’s a great system – I did none of the work but was there to watch it all go down.  My sister Wendy grew this one – and she did one hell of a job.  If you’re going to have a daughter – this is the cream of the daughter crop.  She is sharp and kind. A rare combination. Trust me, I have all the edge the family had and it’s hard finding the nice button.  This weekend – Amy is getting married.  I can’t even believe it sometimes.  How and when did this happen?  Wasn’t I just at her first ballet recital?  Didn’t I just wear goofy glasses and blow up shoes and dance at her sweet 16?  Didn’t I just make fun of her friends at her college graduation? Wasn’t she just drunk at my house in los angeles meeting kenny G in a bar?  Oops – sorry about that part Wendy.  I burst into tears every time I think of it. I am going to be the hottest menapausal mess at her wedding.  They may want to hide me in the back.  Nothing says crazy Aunt like smeared mascara and tulle.  I am quite certain I will look like the black swan.  It is a great moment in Clements/Purnell family history and the good news is – I love her husband to be.  He can handle the shit.  And by shit I mean the kind of business a Clements/Purnell chick can throw down and trust me – we throw hard. We leave a mark.  Dan – or Berman as he is known – is what they say when people say – oh you found your soul mate.  He is the Ying to Amy’s Yang.  They may both be Yangs actually but whatever it is, it works. They found each other.  And they have the Jackson family to thank.  That’s probably the first time anyone’s ever said – Tito is the reason I found the love of my life – but it’s true.  At least those fame suckers did one thing right.  They brought two jews together – other than their lawyers.  Dan only needs to remember one thing about the women in this family –  we don’t ask for much.  Actually we do. But fuck it – we’re worth it.  So, tomorrow night, while you’re doing whatever it is you do, say a prayer that I don’t completely break down at this most auspicious occasion – and wish this young couple well as they take on the world together.  I could not possibly be happier and they could not possibly be more perfect together.

Getting Jiggy With It

Published April 9, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night I went to a taping of Dancing With The Stars and came away with two big thoughts.  #1 – I couldn’t possibly hate the warm up guy more. He should be fired or killed.  And #2 – I’m going to kidnap Jiggy the Dog from RHOBH.  There I was innocently sitting next to my friend Melissa – an actress – who was there to promote her new show in one of those fun audience cut aways they do – with me next to her looking like her short weird lesbian friend – I’m 5’4”, she’s 6’29”.  Suddenly the camera was shoved up inside her head and I didn’t know where to look.  Do I pretend I’m not in the shot and stare straight ahead at nothing while Tom Bergeron continues to talk about her or do I turn and smile at her as I sit awkwardly inches away from her face and pretend this is something normal that we do everyday?  I did both. Neither were successful.  Thankfully I didn’t see how it looked on t.v.  It didn’t help that both of us had just finished weeping at Andy Dicks performance which in itself was quite the quagmire.  It’s probably the first time Andy’s made people cry for the right reasons but it’s hard to believe he’s actually going to keep his shit together this time when it’s a reality show where he’s proclaiming he’s a new man.  Granted – I’m menopausal and everything makes me cry right now.  I’m sure viewers are trying to figure out what it is about Melissa’s new game show that makes her cry but oh well.  However it was moments later when things got really weird.  Suddenly out of nowhere – Lisa Vanderpump’s husband Ken appeared in the front row with their little dog Jiggy in his little Jiggy outfit.  I’ve seen the dog on tv a gabillion times but never up close.  Yes,  Jiggy the dog’s weird furry feet were sitting just feet away from me.   It was then I realized the true reality of the situation, that dog died ages ago and is now just stuffed.  It didn’t move.  It didn’t breathe.  It was clearly the biggest scam pulled in reality tv history.  Okay not that big.  Then during the commercial break, Ken got up and placed Jiggy in Lisa’s dance set – a wedding gazebo which she was standing under with her partner.  She was in her wedding dress and her partner in a tux.  In front of them was a stuffed dog in it’s wedding dress and Jiggy was on a pillow next to her in his wedding tux.  All I could think was – where is the Humane Society when you need them?  Isn’t this a whole bunch of levels of wrong even if the dog isn’t really alive?  Should Jiggy be forced into some weird television wedding with another stuffed dog?  Am I the only one who thinks this is a travesty?  Clearly I was.  The cameras came back on – they got their shot of the creepy doggie wedding and Lisa went on with her dance. Thankfully when it was all over I finally saw that little doggie stick it’s tongue out – and I breathed a sigh of relief.  Turns out Jiggy is alive and well and the only thing that died last night on Dancing With The Stars was Lisa’s cha cha.

Don We Now Our Gay Apparel

Published March 27, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I already know what they’re going to say and I’m already mad about it. “No.” You can’t marry the person you love. You aren’t normal. You aren’t a union. You aren’t a family. You don’t deserve to love who you love. You need to choose someone else.  And that’s the thing isn’t it?  People don’t choose to be gay so why do we get to choose who they love and marry?  The divorce rate for straight couples in this country is around 41%. That’s for the first marriage. For the third marriage it’s around 71%. Yes, you’re allowed to get married as many times as you want when you’re straight.  You get to crap all over that so called sacred union straight people are so desperately protecting. Is that what you’re afraid of? That same sex couples will show you up? That they’ll stay married and embarrass you people who dump your husbands and wives as often as you change your underwear? Love isn’t same-sexist but America certainly is. I hope I’m wrong.  Surprise me America. Prove to me that I really do live in the country so many proclaim it to be. Prove to me this really is the land of the free and the home of the brave.  Gay couples are already adopting all the children you don’t want. Why can’t you just say yes and let same sex couples say those two words every heterosexual person in the world gets to say and mean it, legally, and lovingly. “I do.”  Is that so hard? Let’s get married people – to equality.

Status Check

Published February 8, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’ve been downgraded.  It happened without me even knowing and now it’s too late to do anything about it.  It seems my new life in my dream job has led to a loss I may never be able to recover from. American Airlines has switched my Elite Benefits – to Gold.  I’m almost too horrified to admit it – to disgusted and ashamed to put ink to paper and tell the world my new truth – but this is what has happened while I’ve been sitting in a chair in a dingy bungalow in Hollywood – watching the world fly by and not flying with it. The new card came in the mail, which is almost always an exciting moment for me. My first thought was that some dumb company had extended a new line of credit to me – what would I buy – where would I go – apparently – nothing, nowhere and fast.  AA was swift to tell me that I had not flown enough to maintain my Sapphire Platinum status – a status I truly enjoyed the benefits of.  I never had to wait in line to board a plane, I earned upgrades and most importantly, I earned the general feeling that I was better than all the other people waiting at the airport eating bad food and wearing neck pillows. I was special.  Now it turns out I haven’t flown enough miles to keep my Platinum Status and I am left feeling a bit shattered.  I earned my Elite miles the hard way too – traveling for work – with a crazy person. We flew all over the globe for a couple of years on trips that sucked the life out of me and made me realize that the Devil didn’t wear Prada – she wore LuLu Lemon – and she was my constant badgering air travel companion. All I had to show for my pain and suffering were those miles and that status and now it’s all gone.  No longer will I enjoy thumbing my nose at less frequent flyers as I board the plane and climb into my first class seat. No – I will now be putting the ass in class, flying steerage and taking my place with the great unwashed.  I will purchase my cheese sandwich, I will feel the cramps in my knees, I will not enjoy the bevy of movies offered to the elite.  I guess I could buy my status back but it just won’t be the same.  When it comes to flying – money can buy you class – but earning it felt just a little better.   For now I’ll have to live with the memory of my Platinum Status – and accept that I am officially just the Gold Standard.  At least when I travel now, it will be for pleasure, and I won’t be tormented while I bullet through the air by a passive aggressive lunatic.   Damn you AA.  I didn’t think you’d be the double A to take me down.

Jodie Foster Care

Published January 18, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

People are still buzzing about Jodie Foster’s Golden Globes speech and whether or not she should be congratulated or committed.  I mean, even Sally Field looked at her like she was nuts. So I’ve decided to fully analyze each statement – or to be more accurate – judge the fuck out of it as a fellow woman and post fifty year old and pick it apart sentence by sentence.  Quite frankly she lost me at “I’m Fifty!!!!” Shouting that out at a Hollywood event like it was a proud fucking accomplishment to look so amazing when you’re so old – her thoughts not mine – set women in the industry back about fifty years.

“Well, for all of you ‘SNL’ fans, I’m 50! I’m 50! You know, I need to do that without this dress on, but you know, maybe later at Trader Vic’s, boys and girls. What do you say? I’m 50! You know, I was going to bring my walker tonight but it just didn’t go with the cleavage.”

Uhm okay – so she was on SNL? Was she a regular on SNL? I’ll just skip that part. You look great and you’re old. We get it. By the way – fifty is not the new ninety. It’s just fifty. Calm the fuck down. Maybe shout that again at sixty.

I love you and Susan and I am so grateful that you continually talk me off the ledge when I go on and foam at the mouth and say, ‘I’m done with acting, I’m done with acting, I’m really done, I’m done, I’m done.’”

Where is Susan now? You are on a ledge. Get her to talk you off of it immediately.

I’m going to need your support on this. I am single. Yes I am, I am single. No, I’m kidding — but I mean I’m not really kidding, but I’m kind of kidding. I mean, thank you for the enthusiasm. Can I get a wolf whistle or something?”

A wolf whistle? Again with the “aren’t I hot?” Is someone out there telling Jodie Foster she’s a sea hag every day? Who needs this kind of affirmation? She’s gorgeous. I’ve heard celebrities can be a bit narcissistic but does she actually believe she’s the only fifty year old single female in the country?  Maybe Jodie should get on Match dot com.  Perhaps this is actually the first time Jodie Foster has ever been single.  Maybe she doesn’t know what being single entails? Maybe she thinks you get ostracized from society and your married friends don’t invite you to dinner parties and whatever sex you’re interested in stops looking at you in a sexual way.  On second thought – maybe she’s right to freak out.

 “But seriously, if you had been a public figure from the time that you were a toddler, if you’d had to fight for a life that felt real and honest and normal against all odds, then maybe you too might value privacy above all else. Privacy.”

Uhm Jodie – I have no problem giving you your privacy – but you’re the one talking about your hot bod, cleavage, being single and wanting to make out with Marion Cotillard while on microphone at a massive public event.  You could have just accepted the award and talked about your time in the film business… just saying.

…and of course, Mel Gibson. You know you save me too.”


You see, Charlie and Kit, sometimes your mom loses it too.  

Something tells me they already know this.

 Jodie Foster was here, I still am, and I want to be seen, to be understood deeply and to be not so very lonely.

 Join the club Jodie, join the club.

Faking It

Published January 17, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’ve heard of men doing a lot of stupid things in my day but faking an orgasm definitely tops the list.  A recent article in GQ magazine – also known as the Gay Vogue – described how men can fake an orgasm. They detailed how to pull it off so to speak with a girl which is hilarious because the only guys reading GQ that have sex with girls are guys having sex with someone who sounds like a girl and if there’s one thing I know about my self respecting gays it’s that they don’t do fake orgasms.  They don’t do fake anything.  But, however misplaced the article – it was interesting to think that straight men would fake ejaculating.  I mean – why? I hope they’re not doing it for us. God knows women could care less what you’re doing when you’re doing what you’re doing. Basically, we don’t care how it ends – we just want it to end.  We care about you coming about as much as you care about us coming. Sure you throw that question on the end of the act but we know you don’t really want us to answer and if we do you simply say – “sorry.” Find me a guy who cares if you came and I’ll find you a guy you’re on a first date with.  After that – it’s all over but the blah blah are you done yet.  I had a lot of sex this week with a certain very famous celebrity. I didn’t fake any of my orgasms and I don’t care if he faked his. I didn’t even bother asking him. It would have been hard – since he wasn’t there.

The Girl Is Gone

Published January 6, 2013 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

For the fourth time in the past two years – my blog has led to an old boyfriend finding me – and reminding me – that I have in fact – been loved.  I forget sometimes. I’m so very busy complaining that I haven’t – and rewriting the way history actually happened – that I never dated anyone – which I most certainly did. It’s easier to imagine that you’ve never really been in love because if you were once than you still would be now right?  Last night while trying to finish off the end of a 7 day head cold – I watched one of my favorite episodes of Sex & The City.  It was the one where Carrie was desperately trying to get Aidan back after they had broken up because she cheated on him with Mr. Big.  She looked at him standing on his stoop and said – you clearly still have feelings for me, why won’t you take me back – and he said – YOU BROKE MY HEART!  And she ran away. It was such a great moment in girl tv but it’s not really the way things play out for girls in real life.  First of all, no girl in their right mind would have ever left Aidan.  He was perfect.  I once met the actor who played him and reacted in such a bizarre girly way he just stood there and laughed at me – but in a cute Aidan way.  Usually however, it’s the girl saying you broke my heart to the guy who left them weeks, months, or years before and has now come back to say – wow I really fucked up – can we try this again.  Usually it’s the girl yelling those words to the guy who didn’t realize until it was too late – that she was awesome and amazing.  I’m sure I broke a heart or two but there were also many times it happened after mine was already broken – by that very same person.  This friend – I’ll call him Michael because that’s his name – reminded me that yes – he too had come back – and yes – I was already gone.  He’s still really handsome so that may have been a dumb move on my part though he’s also working at an airport in Iraq.  Not really a place I’d fit in. I don’t think I’d look good in a Burka but mostly because I don’t have the right shoes to go with one.  On the other hand, I have mastered the art of the fake eyelash so at least I know that part would look good peaking through the slit.  As you can see, I’ve been giving this a lot of thought. But, when it comes to breakups for girls, once we’re done with you – we’re done – for good – unless we’re fake breaking up with you to get you to pay attention. This is also a pretty popular maneuver. One I was never good at. I don’t actually remember why we broke up or who broke up with whom but I remember that I was once again in a situation where I thought – I don’t think I should stand for this.  Yes, even in relationships I have always been Norma Rae – only I stand on the table and yell and then walk away.  I forget to make an actual point or an impact. But maybe I did.  Why after all, did this person wake up after thirty years of silence and say – today I’m going to find out whatever happened to Heidi Clements?  Maybe I have left my mark in the world of relationships if only to become the girl that boys didn’t forget.   If I’m the one they remember one morning while making tea over a hot plate in Kurdistan – I’m okay with that.


The Annual Suck It List

Published December 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

For the first time in a very long time – I am not curled up in a ball under the covers awaiting the New Year like a fresh coat of paint.  I am not shuffling around in my slippers moaning about how I can’t wait for the year to be over because it was a hot mess of moments I’d like to forget.  I am not listening to a constant loop of my own voice saying – next year will be better – next year will be better – god please let next year be better.  Yes, for the first time in a very long time I can honestly say – it’s been a good year. No, it’s been a great year.  In fact, as far as years go, 2012 was the fucking shit.  As the New Year approaches I look back in happiness and look forward with anticipation because now I know – everything doesn’t have to totally suck.  However, being that I am who I am 2012 isn’t going to get off that easy. There are still a few people, places, and things that need to go SUCK IT.

1. The bra lady who told me I was a 30G can suck my left one.

2. The muffin top that I can no longer suck in can suck it.

3. Girls who don’t like other girls can fuck off and suck it. In fact – if that show Girls doesn’t watch itself – it’s gonna suck it hard next year.

4. All of the agents in all of the land who don’t think I’m good enough to represent can watch the show I work on that was number 1 this summer – then shut it and suck it.

5. The pinkie toe I broke that can no longer be shoved into dozens of pairs of expensive shoes can suck it for showing me what an idiot I am for having the shoes in the first place.

6. If you’re only as old as you feel than all of my years over 32 can back off for a fucking second and then suck it.

7. Cancer – you’re gonna suck it forever.

8. People who hurt dogs or abandon them – you are all going to the capital of Suck It one day also known as Hell.

9. Guns – if you own one – suck on it.

10. People who bought their kids toy guns for Christmas – well I’d tell you to suck it but you are obviously too retarded to understand the words.

See! Short list. Quite frankly, I’m just too happy to concentrate on putting more items on the list.  As I exit the year however there was a moment last night that reminded me how far we’ve all fallen and how high we need to climb back up to get back to being the kinds of people I know we are.  Last night while eating chinese food after watching a movie – it was Christmas, that’s what Jews do – a homeless man started harassing people outside the restaurant. He was basically dancing around and shouting – but it’s Silver Lake so it sometimes this is considered street entertainment.  He was the most fashionable looking homeless man I’d ever seen.  He had long grey pigtails, a Christmas sweater and a skirt. In my neighborhood this is a fashionista not a person who sleeps in a garbage heap.  At some point I guess he became too scary and one of the patrons took him down to the ground and sat on him until the police came.  It was a very long time. Everyone in the restaurant got up to look – one person even videotaped it.  At the height of the melee I turned to my friend Vic, a little concerned for the man on the ground, and asked if she saw what the homeless person did to get put on the ground – and the waiter at my table answered for her – “More diet coke?”  It was the most perfectly timed lack of caring for another human being I’d ever seen. It was comical. I’m not saying anyone was right or wrong in the situation I’m just saying sometimes everyone needs to remember – YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE HERE.

Secrets Out Bitches

Published December 11, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


I was lying in bed last night watching Real Housewives Of  Beverly Hills and eating a Greek Yogurt thinking two things – #1) I am totally going to follow this yogurt up with a loaf of cheese and some chocolate and #2) If Taylor says “I gained so much weight” one more time – I’m going to put tape on my t.v. over where her mouth is – so basically – over my entire screen.  During the RHOBH a commercial for the new Victoria’s Secret underwear line came on.  It was some Christmas line featuring tinsel and gold colored items and a whole lotta boob and ass.  Quite frankly, I’ve seen less racy videos on You Porn. I am constantly confused by these commercials and their placement in television shows that are predominately watched by women and gay men.  Who exactly are they selling too? Are they hoping to snag the one man that is watching or do they think women like watching women they will never look like prance around in their underwear giving their husbands erections they will probably never be able to give them?  If they’re trying to get a gay man to buy something for his bestie – they need to shove something down the front of those undies.  Back when I worked at an entertainment show we would always do segments on the Victoria’s Secret fashion shows and go behind the scenes and I never understood why.  First of all – the underwear is made like crap. If it lasts long enough to make it through an entire spin cycle – congratulations – you got the one pair.  It also doesn’t fit very well and it certainly doesn’t come in sizes for girls like me who have 30G boobs and yes I’m using the term girls loosely so get the fuck over it.  If a guy ever bought me something from that line I’d put him back in line at the correct store – Cosa Bella or La Perla. Maybe there’s some theory that women buy this stuff because they want to look like the women in the ads and I guess there is some truth to that somewhere but I’d like to remind those women that the women in those ads aren’t real women. They are dumb fembots. (That’s what I’m going with please don’t burst my bubble) I’m sure Victoria’s Secret sales are through the roof but if they’d like to sell more products to women like me they should do the one thing I’ve been begging for in their commercials.  Turn those bitches around and show me their cellulite and jiggly asses.  I know they haven’t worked out a day in their lives and if I see some bumpy flesh that looks like mine I will sign up in solidarity and buy the shit out of those thongs.  Let the secret out Victoria.  It’s time.


Party On People – Without Me Please

Published December 9, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When a party invitation arrives in the mail or your mailbox is your first reaction – “Oh my goodness I am overjoyed with the idea of a party and cannot wait to mix and mingle with people I both know and don’t?” Well then, you my friend, are a big fat fucking liar.  Or, maybe it’s just me. Maybe the second I get invited to a party I’m the only one thinking, fuck, do I have to go?   Who will I talk to? Who can I get to go with me? And of course the most hideous thoughts of all – what am I going to wear and why am I so fat.  The holiday season is upon us and so are those damn party invitations.  Don’t get me wrong – I love a party that constitutes a room full of people I know – it’s the other sixteen gabillion I hate.   I’d like to chalk this up to an old curmudgeon type thing but quite frankly I’m pretty sure I came out of the womb this way.  My first words were probably – “uch, do I have to go?” However, it has most definitely gotten worse over the years.  There are many reasons behind my hatred of parties… I don’t drink, I actually feel shy around people I don’t know, I’m fat, I hate everyone, I do not like small talk, and I feel superior to almost everyone I meet.  Last night I went to a party for my dear friend Victoria. She was having a birthday and she beat the shit out of cancer. Two very good reasons to celebrate.   It was a great party and I met a ton of really nice people but the second I have to start talking to strangers my brain is so full of thoughts about what I’m saying and what they’re saying to me that I can’t focus and I feel dizzy. Maybe it’s the writer in me but if I could script this shit out before I go I’d feel so much better.  That lull in a conversation you could drive a truck through is so painful to me I can actually hear the air die.  Shit, did they notice I just killed a conversation? To be honest, I’m not all that good at big parties filled with a lot of people I know either.  I am constantly at war with myself – should I be the talker or the talkee?  Should I be entertaining or sit back and eat? Am I being looked at as a source of entertainment?  Do you think I’m funny? When you say I look great do I really or did I look really bad the last time you saw me? Oh my god my head is filled with nonsense at all times it’s amazing I can breathe.  And brrrrreeeeaaattthhheeee.  Throw drunk people on top of this and it’s a wonder I don’t take my own life at other people’s parties.  Why is talking to strangers such a hideous thought to me? Why am I so easily annoyed? Maybe I should start smoking pot or taking valium before I hit the party circuit or remove my inner judgy button because it is working overtime in these situations.  Why can’t I just learn how to have fun?  Maybe if I lay it all out on the table when I walk in – I can leave my issues at the welcome mat.  So, here is my party mantra for the upcoming months.  “Hi I’m Heidi. I’m old, single, and almost always ten to twelve pounds overweight. I’m a pretty funny writer though please don’t take that to mean that I’m going to crack jokes all night because the pressure is too much. I write a blog and if you read it I’m sorry I write so much about my vagina. If I find you boring I am going to make an excuse to use the bathroom or get something to eat. I am judging almost everything you say to me. I will talk about you later. I’m sorry.”

What do you think? Sound like a good ice breaker?

I Am So Totes Not Cool

Published December 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When did everyone stop using full words?  I don’t know what anyone’s saying. I feel old and we all sound like idiots. “That’s totally amaze!” “She’s so emo.” “I am totes happy for you.” “That is def not happening.” “Well isn’t that obvi?” “OMG “WTF” Blah Blah what did you just say? Texting has crept over into speaking and apparently we no longer have time to use all the letters in the English language to have a conversation.  It feels like every word in the dictionary has been cut short and regurgitated in some new form of a word and I’m having a hard time keeping up.  It’s not enough that there’s an entire urban dictionary of words that mean new things like bodybooking, hornymoon and garbivore.  Look them up, they’re there.  Now we have to talk like we text.  Can’t we just text like tards and then talk normal later?  When people watch video of us thousands of years from now will they think we were speaking some foreign language? Cause we are. Will the reverse be happening by then and everyone will sound like a scene from Downton Abbey? We can’t possibly be so busy that we’re incapable of slowing down long enough to buy a vowel and a consonant. They’re not that expensive and I’ve seen what you’re up to – you can spare five minutes.  I feel sorry for people who have kids. They must be just exasperated at the end of a conversation – and utterly confused.  I’ve had more fulfilling chats with my homeless friend John and he only has two teeth in his head. He also noticed I bought a new car and changed my work hours so he’s kind of more attentive than most of the people in my life are anyway.

Have you ever noticed that homeless people are complete loners? They never travel in packs. They don’t hang out together – at all. I get why you’d be alone with your sign on a corner during the day – you don’t want any cash competition – but what about later – at night – when things slow down?  Wouldn’t this be a fine opportunity to make other homeless friends?  I can’t imagine how awful it must be to live on the street – especially if you have your wits about you and have just run into hard times – but facing this alone seems to suck even harder. I love people who say they don’t give homeless people money because they’ll use it to buy drugs or liquor. If anyone deserves to be out of their fucking minds high as a kite – it’s someone eating out of garbage cans and sleeping on cement – give them a fucking dollar.  Maybe they should form some kind of gang. They must have a lot to talk about.  I know John does.  And he uses all of his words.

Got Breast Milk

Published November 27, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Got Breast Milk?

Maybe it was crossing the line but I spent a solid twenty minutes at work today trying to convince a male co worker to go home that night and try his wife’s breast milk – and not from the bottle like a pussy – but straight from the boob.  He’s the father of a newborn and we got into a discussion about breast milk and I thought – shit, I wonder if he’s ever tried it. So of course, I had to ask. Then I thought, how come I’ve never asked anyone this before. It’s kind of an important question – do you or don’t you? Have you or haven’t you. This is a new way to separate the men from the boys in my humble opinion.  “Ever try boob milk?” “Fuck yeah.”  It’s not like drinking your own urine. It’s a food item for fuck sake.  I mean, if my wife was producing a perfectly good meal from a body part, I’d totally want to try it.  Heck, if by some miracle I ended up pregnant and was nursing my child – I’d find a way to jam my own boob in for a taste test.  It seems like something you should do at least once in life as an adult, no?  I now want to ask this of everyone who’s ever had a baby but I’m afraid I’m going to let a creepy genie out of a bottle and I won’t be able to shove her and her nursing boobs back in.  Something’s you just don’t need to know about your friends. I just hope my co-worker tries it and reports back. I promised him I’d tell no one.  It’s really too bad that men can’t make a food come out of their private parts. It would make some things so much more interesting.

Watch It Fuckers

Published November 10, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If you want to know if you’re the most annoying person on the planet – just answer this simple question.  When you walk into a room and people are discussing a particular television episode they’ve just watched do you yell, “Stop, Stop, Stop, I’m not caught up!” If so – congratulations – you win. You’re a douche.  I can’t tell you how many times a day someone enters a conversation I’m having about “Homeland” or “Dexter” or “The Real Housewives of Some Fucked up City” and shouts – “stop talking I haven’t seen that episode yet.” Or worse, they cover their ears and start yelling like a two year old throwing a tantrum.  Here’s an idea.  Start watching more television on time. I know you people have kids and lives and shit but seriously, put it on hold so you can watch things at the same time those of us with no lives are watching.  You’re bugging the shit out of me.  If you’re on baby sitting duty and you think Homeland is too violent – get a blindfold and some ear plugs for the kid, or better yet, realize they’re gonna see this shit later and just expose it to them already.   Have a dinner date you can’t cancel and The Real Housewives are on?  Cancel the date. That person clearly doesn’t understand your priorities anyway or they wouldn’t have asked you to go out to dinner when that show is on.  This shit needs to be witnessed live – as a collective. What happened to the days of people watching things as they aired?  I have things to talk about with you people! This is quickly surpassing my biggest pet peeve for people who are late – though it is quite similar.  If you aren’t going to watch things in a timely fashion and be part of the conversation then do me a favor – if you enter a room where people are discussing something you haven’t seen – back your lazy non tv watching ass out of that room and go do something you find more useful like feeding your kid, talking to your husband or wife, or answering emails.  By the way – you can do all of those things while watching television.  It’s called multi tasking people – get up on in it – because the next time you yell “Ahhhhhh don’t” when I’m about to discuss what NeeNee said to Kim – I’m gonna blow. If you want to watch important television that needs to be discussed immediately – start doing it. If you want to watch shows that have the shelf life of Velveeta Cheese or warrant no discussion whatsoever – that’s what Two Broke Girls is for.

The Real Working Girl

Published November 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night I had a dream that my sisters Wendy, Alison and I found an old trunk in the attic of our old house and discovered that our entire lives have been a sham of a mockery of a fraud.  We are not in fact the product of English immigrants – we are in fact Hawaiian.  Who knew?  Suddenly it all made sense, my lack of English charm school skills, my hatred of clotted cream, and my love of pineapple upside down cake.  It does bring in to question my hatred of pineapple with ham pizza because that is just not right at all.  I think that’s an atrocity that should never be allowed. I have spent most of my life questioning my parent’s real move from England to Staten Island just after they were married.  Who in their right mind would do that?  I have always been angry that they didn’t at least have us in London and let us develop terrific and sexy British accents and then move us to the armpit of the earth.    But this whole Hawaii dream made it all make sense to me.  I don’t even like Hawaii so I was thrilled that they left and raised us in the land of the first shopping mall and home to Jewish and Italian gangsters.  Living on a landfill seems more charming to me than living in the land of the fat white American tourist and the frequent location of Law firm retreats.  If you don’t want to hear old white men make Lei jokes then stay away from Hawaii.  It doesn’t surprise me that this is one of the few close vacation spots for Californians – it looks like a movie set – and is America.  We don’t need to experience other lands and languages – we have Disneyland and It’s A Small World.

I have always lied about growing up in Staten Island.  I always tell people I was raised in Paris and figured the fact that the Statue of Liberty was delivered from France made it almost a truth.  When people ask me where I grew up I tend to say New York.  I feel more New Yorky than Staten Islandy. Nothing great happened to me on Staten Island.  I was not a popular kid, a cheerleader, a boy magnet, or for that particular matter – very smart.  I didn’t fit in to any one particular group and I always knew the second I could I’d flee the area like you read about and I did.  But now I see that Staten Island is in dire straights and in the past while I would totally make fun of a hurricane wiping out the 22 miles of hideousness – I am suddenly remembering what was great about Staten Island – the people.  I remember the amazing family who owned The Roadhouse that made the best clam pizza in the world.  I remember Pal Joeys, and the Chinese food place we went to every Sunday night.  I remember my friend Jody and her spectacular parents who cooked me massive meals and welcomed me in to their family.  I remember all the cool kids I went to high school with who to this day are still with the boys they met back then.  I remember cheerleading at the JCC and smoking pot before high school and getting drunk way too soon with some of the best friends I’ve ever had.  I remember riding the ferry in my blue eye shadow to my first job in the big city and all in all – I remember that the people of Staten Island are tough as shit and they aren’t going to take Sandy crap sitting down.  So today – I am not from France or Hawaii or New York.  I’m from Staten Island bitches and damn proud of it.

Show Me Your Halloweenie

Published October 28, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I may be stating the obvious here but it has just become crystal clear to me that the only group of people who love Halloween more than children – are gay men.  After 364 days of keeping it all together and hidden from the world – Halloween is the one day they can bust it out and show everyone who they really are – men who can’t wait to strip down in the streets and reveal  what they’ve been doing at the gym. Halloween is the day we really get to see who are favorite gays are deep down inside – nudists.  This is why straight men are annoyed with you.  They will never look as good as you.  They don’t have the dedication it takes and women don’t care how skinny your body is when you have a big fat wallet. Not one gay man in Hollywood had a top on.   My Facebook page is filled with so much flesh it needs an NC17 rating.    I had no idea how many ways there were to dress up from the waist down only. I suppose if I spent as much time at the gym as the gay men I know do – I’d be naked right now – and saying this into my live web feed – while eating ice cream.  The naked gay man is now outdoing the old woman as naughty nurse or dirty cheerleader. That’s a costume no one needs to see.  Ever notice that the craziest old lady in your office is always the one who wears  the least amount of clothing every Halloween and is using her “own” handcuffs and whip in her costume?

I actually forgot it was Halloween weekend.  I didn’t see any kids trick or treating through my shut blinds, turned off lights and locked doors.  I left the house early enough to miss anyone coming to my house and I didn’t have any candy anyway. Halloween is the diet buster that keeps giving long after the kids are gone and you have snack size everything taunting you from a cupboard for months to come.  Halloween candy is the ultimate “I’ll just have one” lie.  I did go to a sort of dress up event in the afternoon.  My friend Brian dressed up as a celebrity – I mean cowboy – and rode in a horse show in Burbank with other stars – William Shatner, Lyle Lovett and Bijou Phillips.  Brian wore a checked shirt and a cowboy hat that I’m not quite sure he realizes he actually wore in public.  (He looked darn cute)  The competition was called “reigning” I believe and Brian had had some extensive training for this event – 3 whole days.  What kind of a lunatic climbs on top of a giant horse and attempts to perform tricks in front of people after just three days of training?  This lunatic.


Yes, after three whole days of training – Brian slapped on some chaps and hit the dirt running.  We sat in the audience watching him make his way around the ring and suddenly we believed in miracles!  People jumped to their feet screaming for Brian!  They were mostly horse trainers screaming instructions – but still – they were screaming – and cheering – and at the end of the competition they announced the audience winner – Brian!  He beat out 82 year old William Shatner – who I was convinced would show me just how close he is to that last name. I stayed to watch his performance because I thought for sure they’d be dragging his ass out by ambulance and I wanted to be there for the history making wheel off of Captain James T. Kirk.  Lyle Lovett looked good out there but when it came to pomp, circumstance, and all around self mockery – it was Brian who won the coveted belt buckle that will arrive by mail in the near future.  I am praying it says Reigning Champion – cause ya know – that’s irony.   They called his win a Cinderella story and for the night he was indeed Prince Charming.  He galloped off into the sunset and I thought – god I hope I never see that shirt again.

Chair Today, Dead Tomorrow

Published October 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Have you ever noticed that when you see a person on a jazzy (scooter) they are usually morbidly obese?  I’m quite certain these marvels of modern technology were invented for people with real mobility issues – not for people who needed to wheel up more quickly to the steam tables at Hometown Buffet and roll away with a laden down tray without missing a beat.  It seems that everything created for people with real problems are being used by people with “no” problems as in “no thanks, I’ve eaten enough.”    I don’t have anything against morbidly obese people except the fact that they’re fat. Last night during yet another lovely bout with insomnia I caught a new commercial for a new rolling chair from The Scooter Store.  The Scooter Store by the way is in New Braunfels Texas which is a portion of texas founded by german people – so now there are two things wrong with that particular city – nazi cowboys.  The commercial for the new wheely chair asked some very important questions that even in my haze seemed to have one answer.

Do health issues limit your mobility: yes because I’m fat.

Is it difficult to get to the bathroom on your own: yes because I’m fat.

Do you feel like a bother to others due to your lack of mobility: yes because I’m fat.

Have you fallen in the past twelve months: yes because I’m fat. 

If there’s a way to capitalize on people’s laziness, America will figure out how to do that.  We excel in creating ways to make the simplest of tasks simpler.  “Don’t go to the gym, strap on this belt that works out your abs while you eat.”  Don’t get me wrong – I love eating and I hate working out but I also love being able to get myself from my television set to my bathroom without an assistant – though if I could find a hot male nurse to come over and walk me to the ladies room every now and then it wouldn’t be such a bad idea.   Why isn’t someone spending more time creating delicious foods that don’t make us fat.  I think Burger King, McDonalds and Taco Bel were created by Nazi’s as well. They probably live in New Braunfels Texas too.  Perhaps we should launch an investigation into this town.  It seems shady to me.  Maybe area 51 is really zip code 78130.  Just something to think about people.

What A Vick-head

Published October 16, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I wish that I could say I’ve been far too busy writing the great American novel or screenplay to keep up with my mundane thoughts and retarded perusals.  I wish that taking time off from chatting about my vagina meant I’d been doing something constructive like learning to tat lace or drive a tractor but the truth of the matter is – I just didn’t have anything to say – until now.  Who gave Michael Vick a dog?  Can someone please explain to me how a man who served time in a federal prison for running a brutal dog fighting ring where innocent animals were maimed, drowned if they didn’t perform or killed deserves to be the owner of a dog?   Clearly as a society, we’ve gone mad.  Some douchebag idiot wrote an editorial for The Los Angeles Times saying they think it’s perfectly okay to let this animal have a pet.  They say “Vick has served his time and should be allowed to re-integrate into society.”  I’m sorry – I didn’t know owning a dog was a part of societal reintegration?  I thought – getting to live in your house and not being ass fucked in prison was.  They also wrote that they think we should “give him a chance to prove himself” and that  “surely his neighbors will be watching.”    Really?  Is this how we handle child molesters and abusers?  Let’s give them a kid and see how it goes because surely their neighbors will be watching.  I guess it’s okay to go with this see how it goes theory because after all it’s only a dog.  What’s the worst that could happen?  Another dog gets killed?  We already kill millions a year.  Maybe this is a theory we should test in other areas?  Let’s allow Casey Anthony to adopt.  Maybe we should have let Jeffrey Dahmer have a boyfriend in prison.  Perhaps Westley Allen Dodd  just needed a few more kids to prove he wasn’t evil.  Nothing funny here folks.  Just idiocy.

My “To Don’t” List

Published September 21, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It’s getting to be that time of year that makes me so giddy I can barely stand it.  Coat time.  I have 73 at last count.  I like a nice fall day even if in California that fall day means we drop to a brisk 70.  I can strap a faux fur on in that kind of frigid like you read about.  When the thermometer drops below 80 – its fall bitches – and I’ll be wearing a leopard print overcoat and boots.  Everyone who’s anyone is blasting their fall blogs hoping to get you ready for the onslaught of something that supposedly means something but to me fall just means winter and winter means January and January means I get a refund from the tax man that lets me buy one more coat to wear before it’s hot as Hades again.  My favorite – and by favorite I mean most annoying – blogger has posted her Fall To Do list so I thought maybe I’d just see if I can do what’s on her list since making one of my own would consist of – “buy more shit you don’t need.”  Here we go.

1. Host a pumpkin carving party.

Uhm, why?

2. Go to a football game (mainly for the stadium food, since I’m not exactly a fan of the sport).

Well first of all we don’t have a team here so I’m not sure what game she’s going to.  Second of all – it’s pretty obvious she eats stadium food – if you know what I mean.   I don’t think a football game is a must do on my list unless it involves free passes to the locker room and an invite to be someone’s shower buddy for the day.  Sitting in the stands with a bunch of drunk white people is not exactly on my bucket list.

3. Visit a lighthouse – with a picnic in tow.  It’s something I’ve never done and sounds fun and romantic.

What’s fun about a lighthouse?  Stairs?  We have those at the gym.  Bring a picnic to your stairmaster crazy lady.

4.  Spend a day in my college town – it’s so charming in the fall.

Ha!!!!  College – Charming?  Those two words don’t go together unless the smell of DNA and vomit is charming.

5. Visit and apple orchard.

Uhm, why?

7. Have an early Thanksgiving celebration with friends. Once a year isn’t enough.

That’s retarded.

8. Start a movie club

How does that work?  You and your friends go to the movies together?  I think that’s called – going to a movie.

9. Check out open houses.

No thanks.  I have one.

10.  Can some of last summer’s produce and make jam and sauce.

Fuck you, you fucking liar.

I guess I need my own fall to do list after all.

#1 – Stop reading the blog that’s driving me insane.

#2 – Get more people to like my FACEBOOK page


https://welcometoheidi.wordpress.com   and


Purses For The Poor

Published September 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I wonder if poor children in third world countries wearing Toms shoes make fun of poor children in other third world countries wearing Bobs shoes.  I saw Brooke Burke from Dancing with The Stars on t.v. selling Bobs from Sketcher’s which look remarkably like Tom’s shoes created by Amazing Race contestant Blake Mycoskie.  The concept behind both of the companies is that they provide a pair of shoes to a person in need for every pair of shoes we buy.  Hmmmm maybe it’s a secret new reality show no one knows about?  I think it’s kind of rude of Sketchers to take business away from a company that’s already done such amazing work supplying needy people with shoes.  i feel bad for the kids who get the knockoff Bobs.   I have a firm belief that nobody wants a knockoff.  Even a poor person with no shoes.  Isn’t there another area for Sketchers to conquer with their shitty footwear?   How about they send all of their Shape Ups to third world countries?  I can’t stand seeing people wabbling around on those “aren’t going to change one single thing about your butt” things.  If you tell me you have Shape Ups and they have completely changed the shape of your ass I will tell you that your ass has moved up simply to distance itself away from those hideous shoes.  I guess they don’t need ass reshaping shoes in Bangladesh.  That’s something the people there probably don’t get involved in.  I bet you don’t care how high your ass is when you haven’t eaten in a week.  I would like someone to start a handbag situation like this in Beverly Hills.  Right now I’m interested in a grey Celine Mini Luggage piece that cost 3200 dollars.  I don’t see why Neiman Marcus can’t start a Tom like program so that the next time a rich person buys a Celine handbag – they give one out for free to someone less fortunate – like me.  I’ve been eyeing this handbag and while I know it’s a disgusting amount of money I feel like I may stop breathing if I don’t have it.  I know there are knockoffs available but they always arrive from somewhere Asian smelling like cancer and while some people may not know I’m carrying a knockoff – I’ll know.  Nobody wants a bag by Bob.


You’re History Dummy

Published August 22, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Clearing your computer history is the new emptying out your pockets.  Forgetting to erase where you’ve been is the 2012 version of leaving lipstick on your color or a crumpled up napkin with a phone number in your pants.  I know I erase my history on a minute by minute basis so if anyone ever finds my Ipad they won’t know where I go – like YouPorn and Saks Fifth Avenue.  Yesterday at work was a perfect example of how not clearing your history can prove to be very very embarrassing indeed.  I don’t have a desk right now because I’m just filling in for a few more days so I rove from desk to desk and yesterday that desk belonged to a male producer who wasn’t working until the night shift.  I logged in and like any good woman – immediately began snooping through his internet history.  The first thing that popped up was Whore Presents Dot Com.  WTF?  There’s a website where you can go and buy presents specifically designed for hookers?  That’s insane.  I shouted to another male cubicle mate – “what’s this married guy doing on a website called Whore Presents?”  “Whore what?”  “Whore Presents” “Whore Prentiss?” “Whore Presents!!! Like gifts for a whore!  Ugh nevermind.”

I was really upset.  I couldn’t believe A) there was a site dedicated to searching for gifts for a woman who is ruining another woman’s life and B) This friend of mine who I really liked was trolling this shitty website.  I clicked on the link.

Who Represents Dot Com  – A list of actors and the agents who represent them.

Oops.  Never mind.   Clear your history people.  It’s embarrassing – to me.

To Pee or Not To Pee

Published August 17, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I need a new bladder.  Mine is broken.  It’s on some kind of high pee alert and I’m getting up three times a night to empty the contents of an organ I have put nothing in to.  It’s very generous of my bladder to give so much to someone who’s given it so little but I’m ready to be cut off.  I’m a camel.  I don’t drink liquids.  If I added up all the things that I drink during the day and before I go to bed it could possibly fill one 8oz glass of water – possibly.  I’m just not a thirsty person.  I think when I gave up drinking I gave up all drinking. I mean – what’s the point of a liquid if it doesn’t get you high or relaxed?  I quench my thirst with shoes preferably Chanel, Louboutin, Miu Miu or Yves Saint Laurent.  They are very quenching.  I always thought men were the ones that had the elderly pee problem thanks to that prostate.  It made me happy knowing that those fuckers had at least one thing happen to them as they got older even if that one thing was nothing compared to the ten million things we get as we get older – like shunned and ignored.  Now it turns out its not just men and it’s not a nothing problem.  It’s ruining my eight hours of solid sleep that I thought I would finally be getting now that I’m older and have nothing to do and go to bed so early it’s still light out.  Awesome!!  No.  I’m peeing – a lot.  So I did what any normal woman with a medical problem does – I googled it.  The first results of my medical exploration were that I have a bladder infection, diabetes, or uterine fibroid tumors.  Terrific.  Then it was Incontinence.  Listen, I don’t tinkle in my pants and I don’t smell like pee – yet.  One website suggested that I stay on the toilet longer because even when I think I’m done peeing I have more pee and that I’d be “amazed at how much urine I have left in my system.”  Yeah, that kind of shit doesn’t amaze me at all.  A 75 percent off sale on Louis Vuitton and still finding my size after the sale is on amazes me.  It said – don’t be in a hurry to get up because it will come trickling out.  Great.  I have things to do – like sleep.  I never did get a real answer for the pee problem – only more things to terrify me about what’s to come and how I need to do exercises to strengthen my pelvic muscles.  I don’t have time.  I’m busy.  Having a fucking life.  I’ve decided to invent the bladder cork.  It will be a pretty little item I shove in my private area at night that keeps the pee in place.  I will remove it in the morning and unleash the tinkles of hell.  Other than that I’m just getting some rubber sheets because I’m exhausted getting up all night long and every time I move the dogs think it’s time for them to go out and pee and quite frankly that isn’t happening.  If they can hold it so can I.  Or I’ll go on the rug too.

Cracking The Code

Published August 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night while enjoying a phenomenal meal with friends I realized that the older we get the more our conversations start with “remember when blah blah blah?”  Things like the joy of getting called in for dinner from your outside play and when you were truly truly lucky that dinner being a tv dinner that you got to eat in front of your favorite show while the corn area seeped into the hot chocolate pudding area and the tater tot section.  Oh it was so simple then.  Well didn’t our parents used to say the same thing?  I remember when we had to walk to school?  I remember when my allowance was 13 cents and you could buy an entire meal?  I remember when children didn’t speak at the dinner table.  I remember when my father beat the shit out of us with a belt.  You know, simple things.  So that means, our children, forty years from now will also say the same sort of thing.  Well not mine because I forgot to have any children but your children will.  And what will they say based on the fact that they have everything and have learned how to do nothing except push buttons on things that do things for them?  I remember when I texted my mom she had to actually text back and not just appear through hologram?  I remember when we had cars and not jet packs.  I remember when you ate a meal not popped a pill?  It’s possible I guess.  One thing I do know that perturbs all people my age – passwords.  I have at least 1700 and thanks to the various companies I have them with – they are all different.  Sometimes it all letters, sometimes numbers and letters, sometimes it’s upper case only, then lower case with just one upper case, then one number and one letter and one exclamation point and if you could use that Spanish squiggly thing that works too and oh my god I can’t remember and of these codes.  My passwords are all some sort of variation of a place I’ve never been to but it’s fairly easy to remember and then I do have some written down on my computer but there are scads I have no clue about.  I love when you think you are logging in somewhere for the first time and you go to register and it tells you “that email address already exists in our system” and I think – fuck – I must be up at night logging in and buying things because I sure don’t remember joining the Barbecue Sauce of The Month Club before.  That’s when I use my “other” email address.  The one that’s registered to my dead dog – you know – just in case.  But it’s those passwords that get me every time and not remembering them. That’s when you get to play the quiz with these companies.  That’s the question you chose to answer when you first registered that they hit you with when you get into a really difficult password situation.  It’s like fucking Jeopardy at my house everyday.  What was your first dogs name?  Uhm, shit, did I say my first dog as a child or my first dog as an adult.  Zoe. Or was it Zoey.  Or was it Chips.  Did I live on Friendship Lane or did they not accept the Lane part and I had to say just Friendship.  Fuck I just want to buy some discreet pee panty liners why are you making me take a test!!  My friend Dan said getting back in to his Consumer Reports Magazine was harder than breaking in to the Pentagon.  I didn’t know he broke into the Pentagon so that was impressive but he really just wants to read his magazine on line.  All I know is this – if you steal my identity – good luck – every card is maxed out – and quite frankly if you can figure out my codes – I’ll be glad to buy you a nice jar of Barbecue Sauce.

Lie To Me, I’m Fine With That

Published August 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

A friend posted this on his Facebook page today:  IF YOU TELL THE TRUTH, IT BECOMES A PART OF YOUR PAST.  IF YOU LIE,  IT BECOMES A PART OF YOUR FUTURE.  I completely agree.  Ish.   I think you should tell the truth about yourself but some people use this statement as a weapon – a kind of excuse to let their filter fly off the handle.  “Hey, I’m just telling you the truth.”  I have an idea – if I didn’t ask you to tell me the truth – don’t.  Please keep it to yourself.  Your opinion is best used on you.  I don’t like you enough to care what you think about me because if I did I would have asked for your opinion and if I didn’t ask for it then I’m clearly not ready to hear what it is you must tell me about myself that is crushing your soul unless you get it out.   I think this statement should be modified to say – if someone tells you the truth and you didn’t ask for it – you have free reign to tell them the truth right back.  “I liked your hair better long.”  Thank you.  But I wouldn’t let my dog take style tips from you.  “You really are too thin.”  You’re just jealous because you’re a fatty.  “I think you should have kept the Porsche.”  I think you should have made my car payments for me.  “Ewww, I’m not a fan of kale” (as I’m eating a kale salad)  I’m not a fan of you. Shut up.  Go Away.

People are constantly throwing their opinions around but rarely take two seconds to do what it is they really need to do in life.  Pick up a mirror, stare into it, and unleash the truth about yourself.  Trust me , I have plenty of shit to say about plenty of people but you know what – I don’t tell them – to their faces – I put it here and let them figure out if I’m talking about them.  It’s childish and it works.  Until you can assess your own faults – let me help you with this little rewrite of that quote.






London’s Calling – Don’t Answer

Published July 28, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I knew it would be a total shit show no matter who was directing it.  I was right.  The opening of the 2012 Summer Olympics was Les Miserable meets Mr. Bean meets Dullfest meets embarrassing meets Oh Shit I Fell Asleep.  Here are my actual thoughts as they happened or at least until my television peeled itself off of my wall and left my house out of boredom and disgust.

Okay this cliff song is weird.  We’re British and we’re awesome.  Look how awesome we are.  London is awesome.  We have the Olympic games because we are better than you.  Nanny Nanny Bo Bo.  I’ve never seen arrogance so beautifully shot.  Do they think none of us have ever seen an Olympic event?  They know other people have done this before right?  Did they just say Shakespearean sweep?  They do know that other countries compete right?   Oh look Michael Phelps snuck in.  I could get to London quicker than this opening ceremony. Oh hi Mrs. Costas, where’s Bob?  What has Bob done to his face.  Tom Brokaw looks like he’s afraid of Bob’s face.  Oh shit Tom Brokaw just busted out props like a kindergarten project.  Meredith Viera looks good.  Matt looks like he’s silently signaling Anne Curry saying – fuck you this is how it’s supposed to get done dummy.  Wish you weren’t here.  Did Matt really just say Telly?  Are we three years old now.  What year do they think it is?  We’re not retarded you know. Uhm I don’t care – stop talking. I never knew it was so – hey wait what’s Ryan Seacrest doing there?  When did that happen? Was I having a Coke? Wow our gymnasts are ugly.  This footage is actually unbelievable.  Is that a pony?  Who’s Bradly Wiggins?  Isn’t that the name of a childrens t.v. show?  OMG wtf is happening – are the making milk?  The potato famine is happening.  Now the castrato are here.  Oh wait, maybe it’s a hobbit film.  Danny Boyle is not going to be happy with the amount of shit Meredith is taking through his shit.  Why is that horse out there?  Oh look , one black kid.  Guess they don’t have those in London.  Sherlock Holmes in the house.  I don’t understand the random soccer footage… or is it rugby?  I think Danny Boyle is high as fuck.  They should have just put David Beckham in his underwear out there.  Why is Kenneth Branagh dressed like Abe Lincoln?  What does the tree mean? Is this Dickens? I feel awkward.  Wow that blew. Was that a sonnet?  Oh there’s the Scottish Sheila E.   Dawn of the dead and zombies are coming out of the grass. God I wish I was high right now.  Two black people. Is that the group Stomp?  Shut up Matt. You have no idea what these volunteers are thinking.   Are they resodding London now?  Do they want us to know England has good sod?  Now Kenneth is playing “Who Wants To Be A Millionaire.”  Is that a SlumDog set?  What does this have to do with the Olympics? Okay that is pretty.  Danny Boyle is dead to me.  Oh wait that fire thing is cool.   Kenneth Branagh is so proud. Why is he so proud?  He must be drunk too. Okay we’re fast forwarding again.  Quick somebody get me a random shot of that fat chick.  Okay the rings are cool.  They should have started with that shit.  Those floating fireworks rings are awesome.   Wow, Kenneth Branagh is so proud.  OMG I love Daniel Craig.  Cute corgis.  Is that the fucking Queen holy shit.  What is happening.  Did he use a corgi cam?  I don’t think I’m supposed to be laughing.  I feel awkward again.  This is weird. Daniel Craig hates everyone why is he doing this?  Isn’t this chopper scenario exactly how Jeff Probst comes in for the final tribal council on Survivor?  Is he really going to parachute?  This is way better than that other stuff.  Why is Matt pretending the Queen really just jumped out of a fucking plane. God that outfit is hideous.  I think she borrowed that dress from Honey Boo Boo child. Why are we speaking french.   Ohhhhh shit there’s fucking Camila.  And now some kids in pajamas.  Why are they in pajamas?  The Queen looks pissed – really pissed – oh wait I think she may have smiled. Maybe she was dreaming about banana pudding. The future of Health Care.  Yippee we have National Health you dumb fucks. We save lives and we don’t let children die. Gosh!!! We’re amazing. I want what Danny Boyle is smoking. JK Rowling is bloody rich.  What does this have to do with anything?  Oh btw we wrote everything too – we’re awesome.  All the worlds best people are British.  We’re better than everyone . But we won’t be winning any medals so we’ll take credit for everything else now. Mary Poppins is awesome. Is this the opening for the Special Olympics?  Did the Black Adder just wipe snot on something and fart?

After one hour and twenty three minutes we turned it off.   Can’t wait for The Emmys.

I See Dumb People

Published July 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When half of the room raised their hands to say that English was NOT their first language – I knew I was in trouble. What started as me searching for hot guys while performing my civic duty, has become one very tough lesson in keeping my big mouth shut.  I am swimming in a sea or morons and drowning in the jury cess pool.  If I ever have to stand trial – I will just say guilty and try to bargain down some lesser time because there is no way any of the people being picked to serve on the jury I’m being paneled for could make a rational decision.  I’m shocked they can even get their pants on in the morning.  One man is so clearly retarded – and I mean that in the traditional sense – he should be in some sort of supervised situation.  He has difficulty grasping the conversation at hand – any hand – and the lawyers talk to him like a child while questioning him.  Yesterday the question – “How many children do you have and what do they do?” started with the answer “Wow this is going to take a while” and ended with me making a noose out of my purse straps and hanging myself.  Well I would have if I thought it would make it stop.  Every single person is trying to get out for some reason or another because like me – they all think they’re better than this.  The case involves someone being accused of a DUI.  They wouldn’t take the breathalyzer on the scene.  I say GUILTY.  I don’t need to hear one piece of evidence.  I am the evidence.  In my world if you have a sip of alcohol then get behind the wheel of a car you are guilty.  Sorry but that’s what twelve years of sobriety will get you.  I don’t judge you for drinking – I judge you for driving and drinking.  Everyone does it.  Doesn’t make it right.   So, once I make this grand speech I assume I will be thrown right out of this DNA gone wrong research room.  It’s taken three days so far to pick a jury for this bullshit case mostly because they have us in the actual courtroom for about two hours total.   I thought writers were lazy fucks but these people make us look like massive over achievers.  “Well we’ve been working now for fifteen minutes.  What do you say we take our afternoon break?”  What?  Afternoon break?  We just got back from an hour and a half lunch which by the way is way too long because who needs that much time to eat at McDonalds the only restaurant in this hell pocket of  Los Angeles?  That’s enough time to eat and then get a cancer screening for the food I just consumed.  Can’t we just get in get out and get this over with?  I’m going back for day 3 today.  I am already holding my tongue.  I’m going to try not to yell at the lawyer and tell the judge to fucking keep it moving.  I’m going to stop myself from slapping all of the other jury panelists for the way they conduct themselves and quite frankly the way they dress.  Have some fucking respect and take off your fucking flip flops.  And most of all I’m going to restrain myself from yelling – hey you fucking douche bag who didn’t take the breathalyzer test – pay the fine take the class and stop clogging our mother fucking judicial system.  My friend Eric had the most brilliant idea – let’s take all of the people collecting unemployment and have them serve as jurors.  We know they don’t have that much to do except find another job.  This could be good networking for them – if they wanted to work for a fucking moron.  I myself have lost a week of pay and my head hurts.  Thank you California.

Order in The Court Jester

Published July 24, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The other morning while shopping at “Bed, Bath and Beyond The Realm of Things I Really Need” I was followed by one of those annoying store clerks – you know the kind that may be borderline or full mental patient?  This one was definitely out on a day pass from somewhere.  First he came to ask me if I needed any help.  No, I can read.  Then he started discussing the products with me as if I were to believe he had any knowledge other than the knowledge he’d gained standing around reading the boxes like I was.  I didn’t suspect that he was in the back boning up on all the catalogues and manuals of all the products while on a break with his foot long subway sandwich.  “Oh that’s the Cusineart 4000.  Here’s a little secret most people don’t know – the shredder doubles as an ice shaver and a bikini waxer.”  Why thank you.  Go away.   I engaged my nutty little product professor for a few more seconds then rolled my eyes sufficiently enough to send him on to other business – aka – annoying another customer.  But moments later he was back.  “So, what’s your name?” Heidi, I say.  “Heidi Clements?”  Wow that’s weird.  At first I think – duck and cover!!!!!!!  Then I pause for a second and realize what’s really going on here.  “Oh, are you a fan of my blog?” I ask sweetly.  He looks at me confused and then says – “No, you dropped your coupon back there in bedding.  These things are very valuable.  We don’t mail them out to everyone.  You should hold on to it better.”  And there it was – I am the moron.

I have jury duty today which should be about as much fun as a lunch date with that BB&B worker.  I’ll spend the day in an uncomfortable chair staring at people and trying to figure out what they do for a living.  It’s kind of a fun game but mostly I end up deciding everyone’s an actor or a serial killer.  Not much difference.  I like serving my city and all but I really don’t want to be put on a case because that would cut into me doing something selfish like working to pay my mortgage or buy a new outfit.  The last time I got picked for a case the defendant was Latino so I told the judge I hate anyone who isn’t white and think all ethnicities are criminals.  It’s mean but it works.  I can’t decide what to wear to court today.  It’s a very important decision.  Do I dress like someone who can’t think for herself and get immediately thrown out?  The video I watched in preparation for my court date said “Don’t wear a shirt that says Guilty” which if I had one I would totally wear.  I would also wear one that says Anarchy or Asshole or Shove it Judge or I Hate All Defendants if I could find one of those before my appointed time.  Where’s that store?  I know that if I were found guilty of some crime like murdering a store clerk I would want smart people on my jury but I don’t think we have any of those here.  I guess I’ll just go and sit quietly and pray I’m let go at the end of the day or in time for a nice lunch.  Either way – let’s hope no one recognizes me.  I’m a famous moron ya know.

Gaydar Scented Bath Salts

Published July 20, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The naked guy who was shot after he tried to eat another guys face off was apparently high on bath salts.  Oh well then, that explains everything.  Except the part about snorting bath salts and the part where he ate someone’s face off and oh yeah the part where he was naked – outside.  There is nothing right about this story.  Except that he’s dead.  He is dead right?  We nipped that nutbag in the butt I hope?  Who was the first person that found out snorting bath salts gets you high?  “I need to take a bath.  Or do some lines.  Hey, why not combine the two?”  This person is not only brave – he  (I’m assuming it’s a dude) is a genius.  What a cheap, inventive and possibly soothing way to get high.  And the flavors of bath salts are endless.  A nice cucumber and green tea snort is probably refreshing and relaxing.   Is there some kind of euphemism about bath salts now?  When you want to get high do you say – gonna go take a bath?   God you people are idiots.  I’m sure we’ll find out the genius who just shot up a movie theater was high on something.  It’s probably written right there on his application for a gun which sailed right through the system.  “Likes to snort bath salts and shoot innocent people while trapped in a theater.”   What is wrong with everyone except me?  Can’t you people do what I do?  Shop?  Spend money you don’t have and worry about it later?  It’s so easy.

I went to a charity event last night and realized two things. 1) I am a selfish fuck.   2) My Gaydar is completely off.  These two things don’t necessarily go together but they did last night.  The charity is spectacular – they adopt entire classes of inner city kids and give them the tools and the money to get through school and into a college.  Their success rate is incredible and the whole idea of it was really uplifting.  I didn’t give them a dime.  I didn’t even sign up to help.  I had one thought – the money I spend on them will be less money to spend on me.  Then I thought –fuck – what if they just hand me a kid before I leave?  “Here, you’re in charge of this one, good luck.”  I ducked out faster than you can say – cheap bitch.  I know this will come back to bite me in both my real and karmic asses but – oops.   I did meet a really good looking really funny guy and the entire time I was talking to him I was thinking – I wonder how old I look in this light and I wonder if he’s gay.   I can no longer tell – about the gay part.  Well actually about both parts.  Now, straight men get offended if you think they’re gay but I say this is the biggest compliment I can pay you because if I think you’re gay it means you’re way too handsome and way to smart and funny to be straight.  Sorry straight guys but you have some fucking work to do.  I never did find out.  Insert sad face icon here.  We need to figure out a system that doesn’t involve pink stars because I hear that one didn’t go over too well.  I’m going to take a nice hot bath and think of something to help me figure this one out.   I got my pomegranate melon all lined up on the tub edge.

What Are You Hiding?

Published July 18, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I think it’s time we talked about something extremely serious.  A terrible disease almost all women have in common that no woman wants to discuss. This crippling affliction does not know race, or age, or financial status.  It only knows marital status.  It can also strike a woman with a live in boyfriend.   I’m talking about Shopping Bag Hide-itis.  The signs that you have this horrible ailment are simple.  Here are some clues.  After returning from a shopping trip do you leave everything you bought in your car and wait for your significant other not to be home so you can sneak the bags in?  Do you take all of your new items out in the car and put them on you so as to appear to be old items before you enter the house?  Do you remove all of the tags from your purchases before you bring them home and pretend they are dry cleaning?  Do you purchase something for your husband or boyfriend as to mask your own purchases?  These are just a few of the signs that you have Shopping Bag Hide-itis.  Many women suffer from this and many of them can’t even admit the embarrassing lengths they have gone to – to keep their disease hidden.  There is only one cure.  I have it.  I do not suffer from this for one simple reason.  I am single.  I win.

Running as Ass as I Can

Published July 16, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

How is it possible that I have abstained from alcohol for twelve years but I can’t stay away from ice cream and french fries for twelve days?  If I’m out past 7pm and I drive past a supermarket – there is an inner battle in my head over ice cream that is palpable.  It might also be audible.  I had sweet potato fries yesterday because those are – ya know – diet fries.  You practically lose weight when you eat sweet potato fries.  Not sure who started this lie but it’s a good one.  I can’t wait to find out lemon bars are calorie free.  I love people who eat those nutrition bars as if they had any kind of nutrition in them.  If it comes in a package or box it is going to make your ass bigger.  Sorry.  Those things are not a meal in a bar – they are three or four meals in a bar and they are going straight to your thighs.   The end.  I started running again recently which is basically a permission slip to eat like an idiot.  “I ran today – I can have this cupcake.  It doesn’t even count.  It’s like free calories.”  Right.  Never mind that I run about a mile and a half which is equivalent to running – nothing.  A mile and a half is about one calorie burned.  The air I breathe while I’m running has more calories in it than the calories I burn on my heidithon.   But I do it because I want to live longer.  I want my hips to be the ones I was born with when I turn 103 which is how long I’ve decided I’m going to live.  That seems like a nice age.  If anyone ever heard the music I listen to while jogging I would probably be arrested.  There is more pop in my ipod than the cooler at a 7-11.  If there were calories in my mix I’d die from a diabetic sugary overdose.  Adam Levine sounds best when you’re breathing so heavy you can’t really hear.  He’s so butch.  He’s my running coach.  He’s also thinner than me.  I couldn’t fit into his jeans.  This pisses me off.   He only dates supermodels.  This pisses me off more.   Anyone who thinks they’re going to have a real relationship with someone who had to spend zero time on anything other than their looks is an idiot.  Here’s the real secret from Victoria.  Those chicks are all mind numbingly dull.  That’s the nighty night story I tell myself every time I down a tub of Jenni’s Brambleberry Crunch ice cream in bed.

Big Racist Brother

Published July 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There was only one black chick on Big Brother this season and she was the first to get voted off this week.  Really?  Isn’t that a little too “on the nose” in the racism department?   Shouldn’t hostess extraordinaire Julie Chen have stepped in and told her big brother douche coach – “uhm, don’t kill off the African American first.  This isn’t a horror movie.” Maybe CBS knows something I don’t know.  Maybe black people don’t watch Big Brother.  Maybe the concept of living in a house with a bunch of annoying white people is not something my African American friends care to watch.  I have been watching this show since it started here in America because it is without a doubt the worst show on television and I cannot stop watching it.  I don’t know where they find so many stupid white people.  I would never be on that show because you have to spend a lot of time in a bathing suit and that is something that no one in America needs to see.  The Big Brother house is right next to my office on the studio lot and I really wanted to try and break in or lob something over the wall – like a plot line or a bikini cover up.  I will spend far too many hours this summer watching this show.  I once became friends with Dr. Will.  He’s best friends with Mike Boogie.  The fact that I just used both of those names in sentences should be enough to have me killed.  I am so obsessed with the show that I once went to a taping.  It was super exciting because I got to go in early and  see Julie without her makeup on and her hair in curlers.  At least I think it was Julie Chen.  Holy Shit.   It could have been any Asian woman.  I think she was Asian.  Back when I drank I used to hang out at the Big Brother bar.  This is a place Mike Boogie and his partner Lonnie bought and all the contestants from the show would hang out there.  I was in reality t.v. heaven.  These people could not be a bigger bunch of losers and I loved watching them all up close and personal.  Maybe that’s why I like reality t.v. so much.   Contestants are just like me – ordinary people – only bigger losers because they desperately want to be on television.  That’s a bug I do not have.  The only thing I want pointed at me is a paycheck – not a camera.   So I continue to sit on my couch for three nights a week and tune in a house full of douche nozzles in bathing suits who get excited when it’s time to fight for food and win something called the HOH competition.

Looks like George Orwell was half right.  Big Brother isn’t watching – I am.   And I’m ashamed.

Fat Finding Mission

Published July 13, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“I can’t move much in bed, but I burn 500 calories a session –- it’s great exercise just jiggling around.”   Potter, who had been consuming 10,000 calories a day, hopes to reach her goal weight of 532 pounds with the help of Alex. The two have sex up to seven times each day.

And puke.  I don’t quite know where to start with this one.   There are so many hideously disturbing thoughts in just one little paragraph.  Ten thousand calories a day?  What does that look like?  I ate ten thousand calories last year.  Maybe.  I guess the most upsetting thing in the above quote however is that someone who wishes to reach a GOAL weight of 532 pounds is having sex way more often than me.  This woman is not just any woman either – she’s the heaviest woman in the world – 643 pounds of femme fatal if she sits on you.  And she’s having sex seven times a day.  Which is way more sex than me.  Now in order to have sex more often than me you just have to have sex.  So it’s not exactly hard to have more sex than me.   But still…. That’s a lot of woman having a lot of sex.  Who’s banging that seven times a day by the way?  I’m sorry but how do you find a vagina in that?  That’s one very skilled spelunker.   I don’t think sex is worth that much work but I could be wrong.  I do believe that if you gave most women the choice – a) have more sex or b) lose weight – they would definitely go with the b.  I know very few women who would pick “have more sex” and the ones who do pick “have more sex” are fucking liars.  Unless that sex is oral sex being performed to them on a loop – I think most women would give it up permanently if they could eat ten thousand calories a day and not gain weight.  And still if you gave women the choice – be eaten or eat – they’d pick eat.  If I had a genie that granted me three wishes at least two of them would be to eat whatever I want without gaining weight and the other would be the ability to blink a new pair of shoes onto my feet whenever I felt the need for new shoes – which is on a minute by minute basis.

The truth is, the best diet I know is envisioning people you really hate or people you think are totally gross – having sex.    After reading the story about the fat woman doing the horizontal mambo seven times a day – I no longer want a scoop of ice cream shoved between two brownie cookies.  Having envisioned what this woman may look like jiggling underneath her lover – I may never eat again.

The Dangerous Penis Act

Published July 9, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When pondering the great differences in life between men and women – I present you with just one story that proves men may be retarded.  Sorry.  But it’s possible.  If there was an off switch on your penises I think things would be different but the fact that you can’t shut that thing down can at times be your downfall.  Case in point: my friend who’s a NYC emergency room doc told me about a guy who came in to the hospital complaining that he thought he had a terrible STD.  She handed him a cup you’ve been handed a thousand times in life – and asked him to go give her a urine sample.  He returned with a super cloudy – definitely suspect sample.  She took it to the lab.  The lab called to tell her – that was semen.  And vomit.  Even if we could produce semen this would never happen to a girl.  We have our own issues but thankfully nothing to do with our sex organs or we’d probably explode.  We do have an off switch.  We use it almost every time we hear – “Hi honey, I’m home.”

I went to see the movie Savages last night – which I did not think was a very good movie but mostly because I thought it was a ridiculous premise.  Oh and it had shite dialogue.  I think my fifteen year old Chihuahua Lola wrote it.  Here’s the concept: Two men risk their lives taking on the Mexican Drug Cartel to save a girl.  Ha!  That’s hilarious.   No guy would do that.  Maybe if you stole their dicks and kidnapped those they’d risk their lives to get them back but not some dumb blonde chick who wears hippie dresses and gives a good blow job.  Well maybe if she gave a really good blow job.   Don’t get me wrong – I like boys – I just find derailing them from their one track more and more difficult as I become older and more invisible as a possible train stop.  Somebody should make a realistic love story about two guys dating the same girl.  You know – where they pay her at the end and say goodnight.  I once read that Oliver Stones mother gave him blow jobs in the shower when he was a kid.  So this kind of explains everything.

I’m glad I live in a country where you can pretty much say and do whatever you want without fear of being dragged off and killed or imprisoned.  There is a dog in Belfast Ireland right now who’s been in a cement box for two years because they have a law that doesn’t allow you to own a pit bull and if you do they take it from your home and kill it.  It’s part of their Dangerous Dog Act.  This dog isn’t a pit bull but he looks like one so they took him away from his family and they are going to kill him tomorrow.  I think they should round up the guy from the emergency room who handed a semen sample to my friend.  That’s a dangerous dog.  Not Lennox.

Dead Babies and Bars

Published July 7, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There was a young girl standing outside the supermarket yesterday with a sign and a can.  The sign had a picture of a 6 month old baby on it and it said – “Please help me pay for my baby’s funeral.”  My first thought was – that kid better be dead or you’re totally going to hell for taking money from people.  She’ll totally see me when she gets there for even having that thought.  Maybe it’s the New Yorker in me or the Jew my parents raised but I trust no one.  I look at someone like that and think – are you fucking kidding me right now – I need milk.  I didn’t give her any money but about half an hour later she was behind me at the checkout stand cashing in the coins people had put in her dead baby can and now I felt awful.  I looked at what was on my register runway –  mango’s and magazines – and I handed her five dollars.  Surely if she had a dead baby I wasn’t going to be the one to hold up a funeral.  She thanked me and I thought – you’re a fucking liar.  Somebody needs to do something about the homeless people and children begging for money situation in this country – because the guilt I feel as I drive by them is killing me.  I saw my friend John the homeless man the other day.  He’d gone missing again for a few days and I asked where he was – Vacation.  God I hope he was kidding me.

I went on a pub crawl with my friend Chelsea the other night.   We hit about five bars – the first one she took me too was awesome – then we hit some bars I used to go to when I drank – and that’s when things got ugly.  I haven’t been to these bars since I drank over a decade ago and let me tell you – they haven’t changed a bit – neither has the clientele.  Well – they’ve gotten more drunk, fat, and filthy.  My friend Melissa describes Chelsea as a girl who goes to sleep in a tulip and has a car that runs on muffins.  This is not the kind of girl you take to a shithole.  I didn’t.  I took her to four.  The second bar we went to was almost okay – although some guy grabbed my arm to look at my tattoo.  Apparently drunk people with tattoos feel a kinship with other people who have tattoos in bars which is – oh I don’t know – everyone.  He was hideous.  The third bar we went to had bathroom stalls  filled with other peoples poo.  The fourth I completely blocked.  Then we hit my mother lode – Dresden’s.  Marty and Elaine have been singing there (loose use of the word) for over 31 years.  They still are.  Chelsea was gob smacked.  She wanted to know what was on their heads.  (wigs)  The lighting was a little too bright for what was going on in there and if Marty and Elaine were once any good – they sure weren’t any more. The comedy of Dresden’s isn’t so funny when you’re not drunk.  It’s sad.  When the bass player sitting in with them started hitting on Chelsea – I had to take the Tulip home.  Tomorrow I’m taking her to the supermarket with a sign that says “Please help pay to have my pub crawl erased from Chelsea’s brain.”  I’ll let you know how we do..

Channing Tatum’s Magical Ass

Published June 30, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am not the kind of girl you will see on a Girls Night Out.  I never have been.  I point and laugh at other girls on their nights out.  They look desperate and dumb.  Or so I thought.  Last night I joined the GNO club – fuck it – I hosted it – all in the name of man meat.  The first time I saw the trailer for “Magic Mike” I thought – damn Channing Tatum is a good dancer.  The second time it was – damn Channing Tatum has a great body.  The third time I just said – uhm, damn I should maybe see this movie.  I really wanted to see a stripper movie directed by Steven Soderbergh and thought if I saw it I might understand what drew him to the subject matter – at least that’s the excuse I’m going with.  I really just wanted to see a bunch of hot guys take their clothes off – yes I have become that old woman.  So last night – myself and 7 other ladies took in a 7 pm showing of Magic Mike.  We sat in the second row because the movie was completely sold out.  I will never be that close to Channing Tatum’s dick again – and for that – I am eternally sad.  The theater was packed to the brim and not just with women and gays – all of America was taking in this feel naked flick.  One hour and fifty minutes later I am here to tell you – Channing Tatum is my spirit dog.  I want him to sit at the end of my bed naked and guard me as I sleep.  I also want to know his waxer because that mans ass and inner regions were very well scaped.  Channing Tatum’s ass is magical.  It made me want to do things I don’t normally think about.  He is also a spectacular dancer.  There may have been other people in the movie but I don’t know what they did or said.  Oh, there was some annoying chick who was kinda hunch backed and dead pan but I tried to ignore her because she kept talking when Channing was on the screen.   Olivia Munn was also in the movie.  Uhm – huh?  If I think about the plot of this one or dissect it for one single second I will probably be disappointed but I enjoyed it so much I’m going to just focus on the one thing I felt at the end – that was super fun.  Oh and Jenna Dewan is the luckiest woman alive.  Matthew McConaughey has redeemed himself for any bad movies he’s ever made because he throws himself into this role with such delicious abandon I have a newfound respect for him – and his clearly waxed ass, balls, and taint.

After the movie we all went out to dinner and I think I’m now rethinking the whole girls night out thing.  I think I’ll do it again – but maybe invite some boys next time.  Stripper boys.  I’ll bring the dollar bills.

Cock Blocked

Published June 29, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Anyone who tells you there isn’t anything to do in Montserrat – is lying.  I was very busy.   I also now know everything about everyone on the island.  I know what they do, who they do, and where they do it.  There are less than 5,000 people living there so it really isn’t that hard to get all up in everyone’s business.  I can tell you a piece of gossip about almost any of them and I have given most of them new nicknames.  From the people who run The Angry Turtle to Fatty Edgecomb the Realtor – everyone and everything is now known by some new name.  They of course – don’t know this.

Montserrat is the island tourists have forgotten – which is a great thing when you’re looking to really take it down a notch.  I took it down so many notches I needed to use other people’s notches for takedown measurement purposes.  The fact that there is an active volcano on the island may dissuade the average traveler but not my friend Dr. Fred.  He went to medical school there and is now building a magnificent house on the island.  It is the talk of the local Rotary Club (Montserrations) and The Property Owners Association (hideous white people who clearly don’t like black people) and so far his biggest problems are the goats that continually eat his palm trees.  I believe they call this a Rich White Guy on an Island Problem.  In fact, there are so many goats on the Island it’s kind of a BYOG place.  Show up for a party with a goat and someone will make it into a goat water stew.  This is the islands most popular dish.  I didn’t have any.  Once I’ve pet something – I can’t eat it.  And there are goats everywhere.  They are tethered to every tree and rock in Montserrat.  I wanted to ride around and untie all of them.  I want a goat farm.  Freddie and I are thinking about making our own cheese – wrapped in volcanic ash.  People in Beverly Hills will pay big bucks for this kind of a cheese.  We could probably only make one a year though so it would be a very expensive block of goat ash cheese.

The people building homes in the U.S. could learn a thing or two from the builders in Montserrat.  They have Freddies house up and running in no time including carving steps out of a cliff to build a stairway down to a beach.  These Montserrations are not fucking around. The island is lush.  It felt like I was in the movie Jumanji except for when we hit the Exclusion Zone.  That’s where the volcano left a whole lotta ash.  The volcano last spewed in 2007 and now 2/3’s of the Island are uninhabitable.  In fact – you can only visit the exclusion zone during the daytime.  We did. It was like a horror movie set.  I went picking through peoples things that were left behind.  They didn’t leave anything good though – unless you wanted a moo moo from 1972. Those were everywhere.

Montserrat is filled with a cast of characters a Hollywood casting agent dreams about.  My last night on island we had a party mixing Montserrations with Ex Pats – unusual – and filled with crazy.  Jonathon the young chinese music teacher was very upset because his dog had eaten two baby chicks that morning. We told him it wasn’t a big deal since he was Chinese he’d probably eat the dog later anyway – and it was now a DogDucken.  Or DogChicken to be more accurate.  The man who runs a B&B called The Watermelon Club introuduced us to his house guest – Denise – (her name was Cathy) and she kept telling us about how great her hotelier Andy was (his name is Trevor.)  How you can only have one guest at your place and not know each other’s names is really a symbol of just how relaxing it is in Montserrat.  We also discussed the Mountain Chicken problem. This is what they call the good frogs on the island who are being devoured by the bad frogs on the island.  A big island activity is frog popping.  That’s when you drive around and run over the bad frogs until you hear them pop.  We also talked about the Rooster personality disorder situation.  Roosters on island crow all day and all night.  I had one outside my window that really wanted to tell me something but I never did find out what it was.  It was the only animal I wanted to kill and eat.  I also had a lengthy conversation with Dwayne and Dieje about ladies on the island and discovered it’s kind of a rental situation.  I would like to be a renter when it comes to dating.  This seems less headachy.  The whole place is magical and I can’t wait to get back there.  You realize how wonderful a place is when you get smacked back in the face with America and ugly travelers who say things like “Obama is throwing one big party in Washington and I’m sick of paying for it.”  (Redneck.)  Or listening to the girl in front of you whine to her boyfriend about getting her pillow and blanket out of her suitcase. (Jew Bag)  My stewardess on the way home was obsessed with using the words “At this time.”  At this time I’d like you to shut the fuck up cause I’m tired and your voice is screeching through my headset.  By the time my flight was over – the peacefulness and silliness of Montserrat was almost evaporated from my brain – until I opened my suitcase this morning and found the packages of Cock Soup Mix I snuck home.  All is right in the world again.

Life’s A Beach

Published June 22, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“You’re going to Montserrat?  Isn’t that blowing it’s top right now?”  (re: Volcano)  This is the last thing you want to hear from American Airholes right before you board a plane for a highly anticipated island vacation.  It’s akin to asking someone if it’s hurricane season where they are going.  “Yes, it is.  I’m an asshole who loves thunderstorms.”  I’m already having trip anxiety.  What will I forget to pack?  Who will I forget to tell?  What if I miss my flight?  Why can’t I get upgraded? Blah Blah white girl problems.  This time tomorrow I’ll be well on my way into my fifth faux-jito proving I’m a complete non alcoholic.  I always want to be one of those people that just throws a few items in a bag and off I go but I’m not.  My cosmetics case is usually heavier than my clothing bag and my clothing bag usually contains nothing I enjoy wearing and I’m forced to wear the same sweaty t shirt over and over again.  I also tend to overpack the wrong things.  I won’t be surprised if I find a tutu and a pair of sparkly louboutins in my luggage when I arrive on the island.  You never know. Maybe there’s a volcano dance happening and I wouldn’t want to be underdressed for a lava celebration.   I have written the appropriate note to the dog sitter – aka – a novel of insanity.  If anyone other than my dog sitter reads this note it will be proof that I need to be supervised at all times.  It’s three pages long and says things like “Tulip likes to sleep at the end of the bed but needs her squirrel toy under her head.”   And I wonder why I’m single.  I’ve done the appropriate pre tanning at Bulb Beach aka the tanning bed.  There is something very cancery feeling about lying under a bed of bulbs but it’s truly the only way to stop from burning while on vacation.  I have downloaded six books.  Uploaded three movies.  And will offload my brain for a total of five days.  So – until July – see ya fuckers!

Puff The Magic Vagina

Published June 20, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I hear when you get pregnant you get a swollen vagina and that no one tells you about it or talks about it.  Well, why would they?  That’s not even remotely cute.  My newest pregnant friend revealed this the other day and now I’m super glad I didn’t have kids.  I don’t need that on top of everything else that’s swollen.   I’m still trying to suck off the peri-menopausal weight that’s hanging on like it gets a prize.  I keep waiting for the day I wake up and get really depressed that I didn’t procreate but it never happens – even when I’m surrounded by babies all day writing for a television show that’s about raising babies as a single parent.  I love holding the babies and then I love handing them back to the mom when I smell something bad or find myself about to say something using the word “it” instead of she.   I watched that show “Pregnant in Heels” and someone made a smoothie out of their placenta and some Oreos and then drank it while they were still reeling in pain and covered in goo.  That show should have a warning and a lock on my cable box.  The only reason for me to get pregnant is so I can eat whatever I want.  But then I’d have to remain pregnant forever and well we all know what happens when that happens – Angelina Jolie.  Oh, I also can’t get pregnant because I’m old and my eggs have expired.  I think about having kids every time I go shopping and buy something I don’t need like a four dollar necklace from Urban Outfitter that I should just give to the garbage man now because I’m quite certain I’ll never wear it.  If I had a kid I wouldn’t be able to buy anything I truly need because I’d have to save up for stupid things like diapers, or wipes or nannies or a college education.   These things would get in the way of my high top wedge sneaker purchase that I made yesterday because the thought of a life without these was a life not worth living.   Maybe ten or twenty years from now everyone will want puffy vagina lips and I’ll have to spend my money on a plastic surgeon to get them but until then I say – kudos to you pregnant ladies – I hope somebody invents underpants with ice packs in them.

Fifty Shades of Shut The Fuck Up

Published June 19, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If one more person tells me to read “Fifty Shades of Grey” I will punch that person in the face.  They will probably like this however since they like books about S&M and bad shit happening to women in the name of love.  So, I may have to rethink the punishment.  Maybe I’ll make them wear an outfit by Laura Ashley.  Does she still design clothing that looks like couch covers?  Every girl goes through a Laura Ashley stage.  It’s usually around the time they buy painted furniture for their apartments and own an armoire.  Why do I need to read a book about a woman being tied up and raped? I already watch all the Law & Orders – even SVU without Chris Meloni which is also some form of punishment.    I’ve never been a romance novel reader so I’m already uninterested in this book but if you want to write a sexy fantasy book that would intrigue me just call it – Ryan Gosling Wants to Fuck You.   This is what I found inside a sample chapter from the Grey phenomenon – “Our fingers brush very briefly and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire.  I gasp involuntarily as I feel it all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored.” There is no such thing as somewhere dark and unexplored.  We’ve explored it all – without you.

It Clicks The Ignore Button

Published June 18, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Hi, my name is Heidi and I’m a Facebook Friendaholic.”  I’ve been accepting total strangers as friends for about a year now because my inner guilty Jew won’t let me say no.  I have no idea who some of these people are or how they’ve found me but I just can’t seem to press the ignore button when they request my friendship.  It seems rude.  It’s not my blog page either – its’ my personal page.  I’ve never really thought about whom I allowed on this Facebook page until recently when my crazy brain started concocting stories and making me think that I was secretly harboring terrorist views through the wing nuts that have friended me.  What if I get arrested for something on my page because I don’t know what it says?  This is a posting from someone in Indonesia.

“Hamba yang paling celaka adalah hamba yang berwajah dan bermulut dua : ia memuji saudaranya di hadapannya dan menghibahnya di belakangnya, jika saudaranya itu dianugerahi nikmat, ia iri dan jika ia ditimpa musibah, ia menghinanya”

I really hope this doesn’t say – “kill whitey” or “death to Americans” or “quit posting pictures you sea hag”.   I’ll never know.  It’s not like I have anyone in my life who can do a translation.  I almost don’t want to find out because then I’d have to unfriend this person or block them and I also have serious Jew guilt about that. What if they find out and stalk me and kill me.  So, not only do I have no idea what that post says I don’t even know if it’s a he or a she who posted it.  I can’t tell.  There are too many vowels.  I also have no idea what’s going on in Indonesia these days because – as I have so clearly stated – I am a moron.  There’s also a girl from some Middle Eastern country who posts lots of pictures of hands covered in blood – uh oh.  In retrospect this wasn’t a good idea.  I wonder if there is a Facebook Police Department?  They probably already have a giant file on me. What if we find out that Facebook is actually run by the government and it’s all been a ruse to make us feel safe and free when actually they’ve been studying us like lab rats and installing cameras in our computers while we were busy blogging about great places to eat a hot dog while masturbating?   And no – I don’t know of any places to do that but if someone from Tehran friends me and asks me for that I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to find out.  I wouldn’t want them to think I didn’t care about them.  I’m quite certain that in ten years or so there will be some kind of therapy group for people who are addicted to Facebook.  There will be a twelve step program to help guide you through your addiction.  Step one – admit you have a problem.  Step two – leave the house.

Life’s A Beach, And Then You Diet

Published June 14, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’m beginning to get slightly concerned that companies might start putting an age limit on clothing.  Yesterday when I bought a pair of neon yellow cut off shorts I was convinced some snotty 12 year old sales girl would pop out from behind the register and snatch them away from me shouting – “you – to old.”  I’ve been giving a lot of clothing away lately – items I’ve decided I’m too old to wear.  This is a very depressing concept.  One that clearly has not reached Bestsey Johnson.  I can’t explain how I know what pieces are no longer right for a fifty year old– but I just do.  Then again, I wore pigtails to work the other day so it’s not really that much of a system.

I think – like Garanimals – somebody might want to start putting things on tags that will ban certain people from making certain purchases.  I’ve always wondered if designers completely freak out when they see fatties shoving themselves into their Herve Leger bandaid dresses.  God knows Christian Louboutin would probably like to ban the entire Kardashian family from wearing his red bottomed shoes.  Those beautiful thin heels were not designed to support Kim K’s ass.  Nothing was.  If I designed something extraordinary and saw a hideous human being wearing it – I’d make them take it off right then and there like some kind of style Nazi.  I’d pay them for the dress and make them disrobe.  Then I’d give them a robe – from Dress For Less.

Los Angeles is the kind of city that needs to institute a Fashion Police Department.  This is a town where you see people wearing things they shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house in and if they do – they should definitely get a citation. White shoes, spandex pants , shorts that show ass cheeks, and that’s just the gays.  Women here dress like they’re about to hit the pole.  Everything’s out – especially the boobs.  It’s an “I paid for these so I’m wearing them on the outside” kind of an attitude.  As someone who has always had boobs – trust me – they won’t really help you in life – unless you’re looking for a life where no men take you seriously and women hate you.  Fake boobs should not be a choice.  I always wanted to be a member of the itty bitty titty committee.  Shirts hang better and people actually look you in the eye when speaking to you.

I’m getting ready for a little island vacation and that means I have to start searching for the single worst clothing item a woman has to put on – a bikini.  If I could turn back the hands of time and remember just one day where I was comfortable in a swimsuit I would channel that person and take her with me.  I hate how I look in a bikini – it’s really just waterproof fabric to put over my cellulite.  I hate cellulite.  It is life’s most cruel joke.   Standing in a fluorescent dressing room trying on tiny things when you feel overweight is akin to standing naked in the middle of Gelson’s supermarket.   You can’t walk out of the dressing room and see how it looks in real light because someone might see you and there’s always that one weird husband standing way too close to the ladies dressing room.  I may just wear my old suits from when my body looked a little trimmer and if someone walks up to me on the beach and says – too old – I’ll just slap them – with my fat.


Skinny Angels

Published June 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I love when father’s day ads use really hot young guys as the dad to sell whatever it is we’re supposed to buy for our old dads.  I’m not sure what they want our thought process to be – buy this for your dad and you’ll get this hot dad?  Seems weird… and slightly creepy.  I don’t think the word dad should be attached to a smoking hot dude unless your dad is a smoking hot dude and in that case you are probably too young to buy him a present – or – read – or have a wallet.  Every time I think I’m in the clear for remembering some dumb holiday Hallmark invented – another dumb holiday Hallmark invented comes along.  I really can’t keep up.  I need a special calendar and a special bank account.

This is my last week at work so I’ve already begun the parade of paranoia.  I’ll be putting my house on the market by Thursday and selling all my shoes by Friday.  If I could figure out something nice to make out of dog poo I’d be a gazillionaire.  I really should have picked a more stable career like waste management.  God knows those people are consistent – every Tuesday at 6 fucking a.m. like clockwork.  Really? Is that the optimum garbage collecting time?    I’m usually just about to launch into a really good block of sleep when they arrive.  I haven’t been sleeping really well again lately.  It may have something to do with the fact that I’ll be out of work again soon or the fact that I’ve broken the cardinal rule of dieting – go to bed hungry.  I’ve been going to bed with food – lots of food.  I normally don’t keep any in the house but my friend Maureen came to visit so I got some cheese and chips and things.  That cheese and those chips and all of those things ended up next to my bed every night at two a.m.  I took down a cheese plate and an entire bag of cherries on Sunday.  Granted it’s not my normal twinkie takedown but eating late is probably the worst thing you can do when you’re trying to lose a few pounds which is something I’ll be doing until I get back to my birth weight.   I will never understand why everything that tastes good is bad for me.  I hope when you get to heaven it’s the opposite.  Maybe we don’t even eat in heaven.  Maybe that’s how angels stay so floaty and thin – they don’t need food.  I mean, have you ever seen a fat angel?  I wonder what other things from life we’ll find out have been completely unnecessary when we get to heaven.   It would be awesome to find out now that we didn’t have to be nice to everyone cause that act is wearing a little more than thin.  I would also like to know that they won’t be playing any videos of my drunk activities because I may want to start drinking again around sixty or sixty five and I’d like some clearance that anything I do won’t be played back at the Pearly Gates Check in area.

I’m still absolutely terrified of death and every time something goes great for me in life my first thought is – what if that’s all I get before they snatch me?  I think this may be a Jew gene.   The happiness equals death gene.  Sometimes I’ll be driving home from work super happy and think – focus – you don’t want to get in a deadly car accident now – not when you just wrote a really awesome joke – cause that would be a cruel joke.  With my luck some really hot guy I never knew will show up at my funeral and say – I always loved her from a distance.  Then he’ll go back to shooting his fathers day ad and I’ll cry from my cloud.

Lights! Cameras! Wedding!

Published June 3, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I believe that when you kill a bug in your home – it’s bigger juicier meaner bug friends are watching – and will come back and kill you in the middle of the night.   The louder the crunch when you step on it – the larger the group of bugs that will be signaled and warned.  It may not be a rational thought – but it’s mine – and it rings in my giant crazy head every time I approach a beetle, or spider, or something I don’t know is on some endangered list.  I still think it’s illegal to kill a cricket or praying mantis but I don’t know how you’d get arrested for that if you do it in your own home.  I’m sure we’ll find out when we get to heaven – yes that’s where I’m going – that there were cameras on us the whole time and I’ll have to watch the videotape of me on an endless bug kill spree loop.  That’s not gonna be fun.

I went to Chicago for a wedding this past weekend.  It was not your ordinary wedding because the bride was reality television star Jenni Pulos from “Flipping Out” and there were quite a few cameras rolling on the ceremony.  As an alcoholic I don’t travel well – not because I’m worried about sucking down the mini bar – but because I don’t do that well out of my home element.  I tend to hate – oh – everyone I don’t know.  The weekend started out fine enough – until I left my house.  First stop the airport – first problem – giant talker sitting next to me in first class.  I believe this should be one of the rules of first class – no talking. I don’t care that you were late to the airport or that you lost your keys or your luggage or your mind.  Shut it down – I’m busy ignoring you.  The second rule should be – no smelling – as in, dude – get some fucking deodorant.  Max Von Sydow was my flight attendant so I was worried he was going to die the entire way to Chicago.  The couple next to me was slamming Bloody Mary’s like you read about and the smell of vodka was deafening.  It was 7 a.m. P.S – you may have a drinking problem.  Once in Chicago everything went quite smoothly – except for the part where I was afraid to put my feet on the hotel carpet or sit on the bed because I’m convinced if I had some kind of spooge light the whole place would be a splatter of blue. I sense other peoples DNA the second I walk into a hotel room.  The wedding itself was beautiful and the bride truly stunning and so clearly madly in love – but it’s always awkward being the single girl at the wedding.  Couples don’t really engage singles at a wedding – they’re too busy pretending that the romantic ceremony has rekindled their love for one another.  It’s downright nauseating – and I know you’ll go back to hating each other the second you get home.  I don’t dance at weddings so that part of the evening is also weird.  Everyone got up to do the “something embarrassing” dance and I stay seated at the table eating all of their red velvet wedding cake.  How would they know the cake came while they were out sweating to the oldies.  There were two chocolate fountains.   I was asked to leave the area after holding my wedding cake under the white chocolate one.  It seemed like a smart combo to me.

On the way out of town I passed the Chicago Tribune building – a beautiful old structure housing scads of brilliant writers and journalists.  You could sense the decades of talent oozing through the walls.  I thought about the fact that one day that building would probably be gone – as well as all the newspapers in our country.  I’m thrilled the invention of the internet allows me to spread my words quicker than a newspaper – but I’m not breaking a story the nation needs to hear and until you see the headline “Woman Killed In Own Home By Angry Bug Mob” – we should probably keep buying the paper and keep ink alive!

Let Them Eat Cake

Published May 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I know it’s incredibly cliché to think this but I’m fairly certain my neighbors are either running a meth lab, are fugitives, or are seeking asylum in America from inside their own home.   They’ve been living next door to me for over a year and I’ve never even seen them – once.  I suppose they could just be Asian – because those people are awfully quiet.  I have almost seen them – once inside their car leaving and once just as they flew in the front door – and there was a shock of shiny black hair so my last deduction may be my best.  How is it even possible to not see the people who live next door to you?  I live across the street from famous people and you would think they’d be the ones hiding but Alan Ruck takes out the garbage on a regular basis and he’s  Ferris Bueller’s best friend for crap sakes.  I like thinking that something diabolic is going on next door to me – until it’s night time – and then I scare myself and hope they’re inside making syrup, or rice cakes, or both.    I’m kind of a scaredy cat.  I still can’t see Paranormal 2, 3 or 16.  The first one scared me so badly I had to reposition my bed away from the door the way it was in the movie.   I keep trying to decipher if Peaches and Tulip are seeing anything but if they’re seeing ghosts they’re not  barking.  Maybe their scared too.  Maybe if they admit to me that they see poltergeists hiding in my drapes those poltergeists will become real.  I think my biggest fear about things than can happen when I’m sleeping is that I’m woken up by my dogs barking at the curtains or an empty door frame.    I’m so glad I’m not the kind of person who can see a ghost.  I never want to be that person.  I will be perfectly happy to live my life never seeing a big floaty figure at the end of my bed… even if that floaty figure is nice.  I don’t care.  Stay away from the end of my bed.

It’s also a distinct possibility that if I do have ghosts they are simply feeding the dogs to keep them quiet.  Who decided that dogs should eat the exact same thing every day?  Peaches is pissed and wants a menu change on a regular basis and I can’t say I blame her.  If I had to eat duck, chicken, liver, and turkey all made from the same mystery meat – I’d be pissed too.  Trust me when I tell you they are eating food that costs more than mine but this bitch is not happy unless she sees something new in that bowl.  I spent at least thirty minutes this morning trying to think of what I’d eat if I was only allowed one food twice a day for the rest of my life and I think the answer is grilled cheese and fries with gravy and a side of Ralph’s birthday cake.

I have discovered I may in fact have a birthday cake addiction.  This week at work we were writing a wedding story and part of that story was talking about cake and I got so wrapped up in the concept of cake that my poor boss and friend Dan had to stop the writers room and send little Nicola the assistant out for birthday cake.  It was more than exciting for me – it was life changing.  I waited for the arrival of this cake like it was a free shoe delivery from Louboutin… shoes that I could eat.  I was very specific about the cake – sheet – white cake white frosting – from Ralphs.  When it arrived it had three giant icing balloons.  Holy fuckballs.  Our writers assistant Vanessa instantly announced she was afraid of the balloons.  It was all I could do not to take all three.  I had two pieces and while it was good – the cake to icing ratio wasn’t quite the same as I remembered it was from the last time I forced Dan to buy me a bad sheet cake.  I found out the next day that Nicola got the cake from Von’s.  I’m making her move next door to me because I never want to see her again.

Ye Olde Shit Show

Published May 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Remember when you were little and you got caught smoking and your mom or dad would make you sit at the kitchen table and smoke an entire pack of cigarettes in front of them until you got so completely nauseated you never wanted to smoke again?  Well someone needs to do that to me with clothes and shoes.  Maybe if I were forced to put on every item of clothing I own I’d be embarrassed and stop buying things because only a matter of moments after I threw out half the things I own – I started stockpiling again.   I had to – I had so many empty hangers just – well – hanging there – staring at me – silently asking me for things – pretty things.  I decided to give the hangers away too so that I’m not compelled to put new things on them.  I wouldn’t want them to get a complex from hanging around naked next to a fully clothed hanger.   What if they talk at night?

I’ve been trying to look at the upcoming summer the way most people look at a new year since I will most likely have the summer off to sit around and worry about not having a paycheck again.  The joy of being a writer is almost outdone by the fear of something we like to call a “pickup.”  It is fairly equivalent to the boy girl version since the line they use to keep your television show going is usually fairly cheesy but it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside and a little bit like the most popular girl in school.  Our show is so cute and smart and funny it has to get picked up.  I say that ten times before I go to bed each night.  Either way I am sure there will be some time off and free time in Los Angeles is like a vacation because it’s so beautiful everyday. Living in California is almost like being on a resort.  Everywhere you go people are ready to service your every need and the natives speak a language I don’t understand – I think it’s called dumb.   You can go to the beach and see beautiful women in bathing suits or strange street performers like the cockatiel lady who somehow made it on America’s Got Talent last night discussing how she wore a heavily patterned shirt to hide the fact that she’s covered in bird poo.   That made me proud.   I did see a commercial for something that looked like a fun summer outing – The Renaissance Festival.  The original is right here in California – shocking.   It’s called the Pleasure Faire which is only slightly disturbing and makes me think of another thing we are the capital of here in SoCal – porn.  RenFair lasts for over a month and a ticket is only 23 dollars or you can buy a season pass because quite frankly one day at the RenFair is not enough.  Everyone knows that.  May 12th was officially gay day at the fair this year.  I can’t believe I missed that.  I can’t imagine anything more amazing than a gay Renaissance fair.  The show Cupcake Wars is on hand this year to make Renaissance themed cupcakes.  No fucking idea what that means.  It’s actually the Golden Jubilee this year which means that these people have been traipsing around doing this nonsense for 50 years.  If you don’t have the right outfit you can visit Clothiers Row and get something made.  According to the website they carry the softest breeches, the perfect fit bodice and hats that turn heads.  I still have a few hangers left so – see you at RenFair.

Icing on the Shitcake

Published May 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Did you know that armadillos have been linked to leprosy in humans?  About 150 people in the United States contract leprosy every year.  What those people are doing out and about petting armadillos is beyond me.  They don’t seem at all huggable.  I would imagine this or a flesh eating virus would not be fun things to get.  Watching your skin get eaten by your own body would not be something I’d like to have to endure.  I’ve never seen an armadillo so I’m guessing I’m safe.  When they discover you can get leprosy from eating Easter Peeps however, I’m a dead woman.

I lost 13 pounds.  Yes, after a year of being a fat ass, my body has finally decided it likes one diet I’ve been trying – starvation.  Who knew that all you have to do to lose weight is not eat – anything – at all?  If only someone told me that consuming a piece of fruit and four dried peas a day would allow the pounds to melt off of me – I’d have been thinner a year ago.  I’m back in my 27 jeans and my size four clothes.  The size six pants are appropriately swimming on me – which makes me have just one reaction – “Why didn’t you people tell me how fat I was?”  My boobs are still holding on to the extra weight as if a man has told them to so the size two dresses are not in my extreme near future.

The cellulite situation does not seem to be fixing itself so I may actually have to return to the gym but that’s going to have to wait until I’m done with my very busy schedule of sitting around making excuses for not going to the gym.  I’m sorry but I hate working out.  All these people who talk about endorphin rushes and how much they love sweating are either mentally ill or lying or both or in love with someone at their gym and want to see them in the showers naked or doing a downward dog in front of their upturned smile.  I hate the smell of rubber and sweat.  Almost every locker room or workout space I’ve ever been in smells like the inside of a sweaty kids sock.  That’s not a smell I aspire to.   Why can’t running give me the same feeling as eating a cupcake?

I went to Sprinkles the other day to buy cupcakes for my friends because that’s how I eat them now – through other peoples mouths.  I’m like a momma bird without the chewing and spitting.  Buying cupcakes and watching other people eat them is good – for now – but the new S’mores flavor almost broke me down.  For the first time in a long time the Beverly Hills location did not have a line.  I was able to breeze in and buy my dozen cupcakes without much of a wait.  There was a huge line however for the vending machine that sits right next to the store and sells one cupcake at a time.  The people standing are this line are clearly retarded.  Why not just walk three feet to the left and purchase a single cupcake?  I guess everyone just loves a gimmick.  If Sprinkles wrapped my dogs turds in a little box and shot them through a conveyer belt and onto the streets of Beverly Hills – some asshole would buy it.  People love a fad, a trend, something they can tell their friends back in Texas they did when they went on their big trip to Hollywood.  I guess I get it.  Just leave your Armadillo’s home.  I don’t want to see you drop anything while you’re chomping on a red velvet street cake.

Dialing It Down

Published April 27, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Here’s a little “who knew” I discovered at 2 a.m. last night when I couldn’t sleep – Home Shopping Club is selling dildo’s and cock rings.  Party.  It may not have been “THE” home shopping club but it was some dirty version of that network and it was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in the middle of the night since my NYC days of watching Robin Byrd bang her box on public access television.  The segment was called “The Adam & Eve Hour” and these two perfectly normal looking women were sitting around selling items you don’t normally see these types of women selling.  It was like a very special episode of the “Ho Shopping Network.”  Everything looked the same except the products.  The neat trim outfits, the beautifully coiffed hair, and the perfectly manicured French nails pointing at things – it’s just that those things had names like “The Super Head Honcho” and Barbara and Judy were saying things like “Item K23 – her clitoris will never be ignored.”  Wow.  I was waiting for them to whip out the number one selling sex toy in the country – the fleshlight – which is a vagina on a stick – but they never got to that.   I’m not sure why we need a vagina that lights up but I’m sure someone will explain it to me someday.  I do know that you can buy your favorite porn stars vagina in the form of one of these fleshlights so that has to make a girl feel special and a way to compensate her for having to have had hot mold material poured into her vadge.  When I’m having a hard day in the writers room I like to remind myself of some of the other ways people are making livings.

I also started watching “Eastbound & Down” recently, which I am well aware I’m the last person to find out about.  I can’t believe I’ve been missing a show where a lead male character says to his white trash whore girlfriend “Honey I love you but you have clothes like a fucking dickhead.”  That’s pretty much the polar opposite of what we write every day.  I’m starting to think that maybe the sweet smartness of our show is leading me to watch really trashy shit at night, which may prove to be embarrassing at some point.  Peaches and Tulip don’t seem to mind.  They’ll snore through anything.  At least I’m not writing what I used to write which would have been super painful these past few weeks between the death of Dick Clark and the engagement of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.  One was sad, the other was pathetic but the later story was covered by way more magazines than the first.  Sure you created an entire genre of television but is your death really as important as a Hollywood engagement.  We think not Dick.  I guess most people feel Dick died after his stroke and would rather remember him before that hideous kiss he planted on his wife that one New Years Eve in Times Square where he was clearly stroke stuck to her face.  That is a memory seared onto my brain.  I’m not sure how any magazines are making any money because it seems the only people they cover are Brangelina and The Kardoucheians and quite frankly I’m sick of reading about all of them.  I hear those Armoanians just signed a huge deal with the E! network.  In my opinion they take the exclamation point OUT of that network but what do I know – I just bought a cock ring on television.

Closet Case

Published April 23, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Yesterday at approximately 4:53 pm I came to a horrifying realization about my life – I am a hoarder.  It started out as a simple enough spring cleaning – switch out my winter clothes closet for my summer clothes closet.  Now I realize just admitting that I have winter and summer closets immediately labels this an annoying white girl problem especially for someone who lives somewhere where there are no discernable seasons.  That said – I do segregate my clothing and place them into warmer and cooler areas as best I can but I do admit – there tends to be crossover.  I also have a coat closet, a fancy dress closet and a shoe closet.  Maybe I should just stop here.  The problem is, I don’t like to throw things out because the second I do – it seems I want those things again and despite the fact that I haven’t remembered I have high waisted floral pants in leather for the past six years the second I toss them – I remember I had them – and go looking for them – and crumble in a heap that I no longer have high waisted floral leather pants.  Where the fuck are those high waisted floral leather pants.  I found a fur vest from 1989, a dress from when I lived in NYC sixteen years ago, and at least three tops I think I owned before I had pubic hair.  Yes,  yesterday I really was smacked in the face with how much I love clothing and how much clothing I have and how disgusting the amount of clothing I have is and by the end of the day and four closets I really thought – I’ll never buy another clothing item again.  Let’s not even get into the fact about the different sizes I have in everything.  I could easily have opened a store in my house yesterday.  People always tell me to sell my shit on ebay but who the fuck has that kind of time and quite frankly the thought of selling a four dollar blouse I got at TopShop is just embarrassing.  It’s not like the houses of Gucci, Dior and Chanel are having a clothing war in my closets.  I usually buy quantity not quality when it comes to clothing because I can’t decide what style I want to wear on any given day and it’s too costly to buy expensive trendy items.  Shoes and handbags however – are a whole other Oprah.  I could save a small country on what’s happening in my shoe closet.   By the end of the day I had six giant garbage bags filled with clothing and that’s not including the items I plan on giving my friend Nancy – she likes tops. The other stuff was just too hideous to give to anyone.  In fact – I didn’t even drop it off at a thrift store – I just placed it in front of my house. I figured with all the transients that walk by my house in need of bottles and such – there’s a good chance one of them will enjoy a Betsey Johnson dress from 1993.  Nothing would please me more than to see that first thing in the morning.

I got rid of belts that haven’t reached around my waist or hips in years.  I tried them on the only area they fit but they were a bit clunky as chokers.   I even threw out a few pairs of shoes but only after realizing they were so destroyed they’d be too embarrassing to wear.  I did say a prayer and light a candle for those however because it just seems like such a travesty to throw out a shoe.  I also completely dumped my entire ironic t-shirt collection.  These were the hardest things to toss despite the fact that I haven’t worn one in about three years.  I was really clinging to the Hello Bad Kitty, Eat Shit and Die, Jesus Is My Homeboy images on the graphic t’s but I knew it was time to say goodbye. No longer will I be able to offend someone by just taking off my jacket and revealing what’s underneath.  Unless of course I don’t start tossing some of my bra’s from the seventies.  They’re hideous.


Girls Gone Whine

Published April 20, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

One was getting fucked in the ass by a topless misogynistic geek .   Another was a free thinking hippie who drank too much and got pregnant.  One was dating a nerdy douche who’s touch she couldn’t stand and finally there was the girl who got stuck with the asshole who basically ignored her on their date.  Thank you HBO’S “Girls” for giving me this delightful peak into the minds of today’s young women.  If this is the voice of a new generation – that generation needs to do something other than date – because it’s annoying, dull and setting the rest of us back a trillion years.   I remember when I had to stop watching “Sex & The City” because it turned into a show about a bunch of women only talking about men and each episode started to resemble “Wild Kingdom” with these women stalking their prey each week and now it seems we’ve passed that concept down to the next generation.   “Girls” has no hope.  I don’t like watching hopeless people.  It’s not inspiring to me.  I also don’t want to watch a show where men are the only topic except for one small trip to one girls internship.  Everyone is so up in arms that the show is only about rich white girls but I’m up in arms that’s it’s a show about women and their hideous relationships with men.  At least in it’s heyday on Sex & The City – the girls ruled.  They chose who they dated and they fucked over anyone who tried to fuck them over.  They also had jobs.  I am painfully aware that the number one subject amongst most women old and young is “men.”  How to get one, keep one, find one, land one, feed one, date one, dress one etc.  I’m not that woman.  I think if you count up all the blogs I’ve written about men you’ll find two.  There are so many other subjects in the world to tackle for women… especially young women… that I find it difficult to watch a full half hour of a show about their exploits with men.  I hope the girls on “Girls” grow because I am truly proud that I live in a world where a very young girl can write, direct and star in her own television show for a major cable network.   This is great example for other young girls with voices and dreams.

Maybe my biggest mistake in my life is that it’s been ruled by work but my work is very creative and it’s a massive part of who I am.  It’s not that I haven’t had experiences in dating – I’ve had ones that would curl your hair and possibly melt your brains but they’re not worth putting on television.  They’re worth putting in a drawer and shutting.  Even on my favorite disgusting reality show “Bad Girls” when the ladies act like assholes – they’re not fighting over a man – they’re fighting over important things like shoes and drinks and closet space.  I only started having girl friends in my life when I turned forty because it seems that’s when most of these girls finally settled down with one guy and became so sick of him that they stopped talking about him.  I wish girls would find something more to talk about than boys.  I would have more girls in my life if they did.  I’m not saying men aren’t important I’m just saying it’s 2012 girls – get a life.

I’m Your Dream Girl

Published April 14, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I pulled enough hair out of my shower drain yesterday to make a cat.  If I keep collecting that and what comes out of my hair brushes each day, I think I can save a child in Africa.  I don’t know what organization is turning old woman hair into milk or food but somebody should start doing it because it feels so wasteful to me.  Certainly some brilliant person out there could figure out how to turn my hair into a sweater or a shoe or a schoolbook or something.    I know my hair isn’t regenerating at the rate it comes out so I’m not quite sure how the system is working.  I never really look at the back of my head so it’s possible I’m completely bald back there but I think as soon as we have a breeze in California I’ll be able to figure it out.   If you ever see me in a seventies peasant dress and Teva sandals out and about with my hemp bag for groceries and my dream catcher key chain – please feel free to have me killed.  If I have to decided to stop dying my hair and am sporting it’s naturally grey color – without hair product to stop the Jew frizz –  I will understand if you gun me down in a cross walk.  It will clearly be time.   I don’t understand what age I’m supposed to start doing this but I’ve been seeing it more and more on older women and quite frankly it’s starting to scare me.  If there’s some hippie 70’s fairy out there somewhere handing this shit out – and stealing women’s hair dye – I hope they didn’t get my address.   I think it’s important to always dress the age you feel so I wore a tutu dress to work yesterday  – enough said.

I cried four times at the office last night – and when your office is a stage filled with actors, tons of your friends, and a live audience – it can be a little embarrassing – especially if you’re in a tutu dress.  It was just one year ago that my life was in a very different place.  I had just quit a hideous job and I was terrified of losing my house.  I didn’t know where I was going to work or even what I was going to do.  Cut to last night which was my very  first taping of my very first sitcom episode that will actually hit the airwaves this summer.  Yes, some words I wrote were being performed for a national television show and at the age of 51, I had a totally new life experience that was exhilarating.  That doesn’t happen to people often enough and I highly recommend it.  Though it may be easier if you don’t have to do it in front of cameras, and lights.  (Unless you’re me) If you want to wash away a nightmare – experiencing your absolute dream can do it in a flash and this dream has been a couple of decades in the making.  I’m not quite sure how it happened or who I have to thank – other than my dear friend Dan – but today I believe someone is watching and listening and gently pushing.  I only hope it’s a really long dream – and that I continue to deserve it.

On my way home from the show I stopped to give John the Homeless guy on my corner his daily allowance.  He said “You look pretty tonight” – and I cried for the fifth time.  Today I’m fixing the toilet chain that broke, buying dog food, and getting my roots done.  But now I know – a girl can do more than just dream.

Please Pass The Gas

Published April 10, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

You know you’re getting old when the discussion at the Sunday dinner gathering of friends starts with… “well how gassy?”   There I was quietly enjoying my Easter ham and the discussion of who killed Jesus and how it relates to colored eggs and chocolate (that’s what Jews do) when suddenly the conversation turned to farting.  I was torn between being happy to have comrades in arms and horrified that l let the cat and it’s flatulence problem out of the bag.  My friend Richie said “I keep looking at the bottle of Beano in the store, then remember I live alone and think, nah.”  I was suddenly on a need to know basis how the couples at my table were handling their entry into this ass blowing miasma.   Passing gas was hilarious when you were six but the amount of hot air coming out of you after you turn fifty can be a cause for concern and a reason to live alone which thank god I do because quite frankly – I’d need another wing on my house – with really good ventilation – if someone were to move in.  There is no hiding what emanates from my exit area – it’s loud – and quite frankly – satisfactory.  I feel like I lose a few pounds every time I let the farts fly.  But this is definitely how you kill any sexy – complete with sound effects.  Getting old is starting to get old.

At least I’m not famous and forced to age on camera like Lisa Rinna who has decided to become the newest spokesperson for losing your dignity – also known as – the adult diaper line – Depends.  Yes, the 48 year old actress is hawking their latest product – a diaper so slimming you can wear it under a sexy black dress – because no one wants VDL – Visible Diaper Line – on the red carpet.   Quite frankly the Spanks Depends is a genius idea for any woman who needs to suck it in a little and hates running to the bathroom all the time.  God knows I’m too busy sometimes to get up from the couch and would love to just pee in my panties.  Lisa Rinna is excited about the Depends because they make her “boo-tay” look great.  Yes, she used the word “Boo-tay.”  She even dragged her who did that guy used to be husband Harry Hamlin into the disaster.   It’s amazing what people will do – for money – or as Lisa says – charity – which I believe is Bank of America.

Betty White is proving you are never to old to get ass raped by a network that will ride your bones into the grave and make money from your popularity.  She and a group of other people who probably smell like pee have a new show called “Off Their Rockers” – a kind of punk’d for the geriatric crowd.  Poor bitch isn’t going to get a days rest before she gets to lay down for her final rest.  I wonder if she knows she’s working?  Her “Hot in Cleveland” sitcom is on the same lot as the show I work on and we always joke that we could get her to do a guest spot on our show if we could just steer her towards our stage one day and tell her she’s working with some new actors this week.  Would she be able to tell the difference?  Not too sure.  As for her “Rocker” show – there really is nothing more hilarious than old people making fun of other old people doing stupid things on hidden camera and watching young people build an even bigger disrespect for the aged.  It’s hilarious.  If only they could do a bit on farting – we could film it at my house – no extras needed.

Jenny For Your Thoughts?

Published April 8, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Can’t I enjoy a nice meal in a hideously over decorated French bistro in Sherman Oaks without watching two disgusting people do an oral cavity search at the table directly across from me?   Who do I have to tip to stop that from happening while I’m deboning my fish?  It was bad enough that another man across from us was wearing a shirt with a rhinestone dragon on the back.  I wish I could have been there when he was shopping for this item so I could witness his process first hand… “butterfly – no, turtle – no, dragon – yes!  I’m gonna look so good on bistro night!”  I am constantly amazed at what men choose to wear.  Christian Audigier must have known he was tapping into a side of the male psyche no one else had when he created Ed Hardy – the side that makes ridiculously bad clothing choices.   The spit swappers were so deep into their game of tonsil hockey that they weren’t offended by the shirt – then again – they didn’t seem to notice they were even out in public.  This pair was not just kissing – they were mashing – and I was getting very close to regurgitating my meal.  Thank god I didn’t order the soufflé.  If I had to watch them while waiting for that to come out – I would have called the police.  I don’t mind a little affection in public but I’m pretty sure PDA shouldn’t stand for PENIS DEFINITELY AROUSED.  His was.  Ick.

The bartender at this fine establishment looked like the former comic turned talk show host turned murderer Jenny Jones if Jenny Jones was now eighty which got my friend Brian and I thinking – is Jenny Jones eighty and whatever happened to her anyway?  I googled her at the table only to find that she has a website filled with comedy.  I’m not certain she knows about the comedy part but it’s hilarious.  Jenny writes blogs.   Jenny also makes cooking videos while wearing her hair in pigtails.  I think one of her cats must film these videos.   I think one of her cats may also write her blogs.  The welcome page for JennyJones.Com says it best – “if you’re looking for a brilliant thought provoking blog, this isn’t it.”  Gosh thanks Jenny!  There are clips from her favorite parts of her life including her talk show though I didn’t see any clips about the kid who murdered another kid thanks to her and her brilliant staff.  She left that one out.  Maybe it took up to much memory.  This was Brian’s favorite blog.   It was called “Where Are My Tomatoes.”  I read it out loud at the table.  “I went out to check my apple tree today and guess who was sitting right underneath it?”   Brian blurted out “your career?” Jenny also ran a contest on her site.  She posted a picture of ten pears and asked her “fans” to guess which ones were real.  No I’m not fucking kidding.  The winner got swag from her Jenny Jones Talk Show Days which I’m guessing she keeps in a closet next to her dignity and her mind.   She has pictures of food, and cars, and cats and cats and cats, and Christmas cookies and flowers.  Jenny Jones is having a helluva time on her website.  I hope no one stops her.   For all I know she was the bartender at this bistro last night.  I’ll have to wait to see if she posts a pic of the make out artists on her website.


Rick Santorum – April’s Biggest Fool

Published April 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It is April Fools day and every year I say I wish I was more of a prankster.  I would love to pull a few jokes on people though I’d kill someone if they did anything to me.  I desperately desire to be someone who could just shift my attitude for the day and become a big fat snarky liar.  I would love to answer people’s stupid and random questions with complete abandon.  Q – “Is your dog friendly?”  A – “No I just take her out three times a day for a feeding.  She likes fat kids, like yours.”  Q – “Is that your natural hair color?” A – “No it’s a wig, mine fell out.  I have cancer.” Q- “Are you dating anyone?” A – “Yes, but he won’t be out of prison for another twelve years.”  This last one is true.

I think people who win the lottery are big fat liars.  I didn’t buy a ticket this week for the gazillion dollar drawing that resulted in three lucky people getting 105 million dollars in cash after taxes.  That’s a lot of shoes.  I always wonder what they will do.  I love when they say – the money won’t change me – I’m going to keep working at my sanitation job because I love collecting strange peoples garbage and wearing a scent that I can’t get rid of or I’m going to keep being a construction worker because there is nothing more rewarding than creating something with your hands.  I say – give me your money because it will change me.  I know exactly what I’d do if I won the lottery.

  1. Tell everyone I’ve ever met that was mean to me to go fuck themselves.
  2. Buy every pair of Louboutin shoes ever made.
  3. Buy every Chanel purse ever made.
  4. Buy every piece of clothing ever made.
  5. Buy a separate house just to use as a closet.

I may have a problem.  I would of course also give massive amounts of money to charity – a new charity I would establish – called The Heidi Clements Foundation. Perhaps this is why I’ve never won.  God knows I won’t put it to good use.

If only money could change important things – like racism.  I woke up this morning to see a giant white cross burning out of control on the White House lawn.  It was set aflame by Rick Santorum.  If anyone has watched his recent speech making the rounds on the internet and doesn’t believe that he was about to unleash the N word as easily as I say vagina – then I have some magical Easter Eggs I’d like to sell you that were hand painted by Jesus.  Just watch the speech and tell me that he doesn’t blast that word regularly around his house.  It was so simply about to fall from his lips that you know this is a word he loves and uses and respects and relishes.  That man is a fucking douche.  I hate the N word.  I use a lot of words people dislike on a regular basis.  I still say “that’s so gay.”  I often call people “retards.”  I have even tossed a “kike” or two into my conversations over the years – but to be honest – not that often.  I have never used the N word.  I believe if you do – you should instantly be punched in the face – no matter who you are – black or white.  It’s six letters of pure hate.  Maybe the video is an April fools joke?  Or maybe the joke is on us – and that this kind of person has any kind of traction in 2012.

Go Ahead, Say It.

Published March 24, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”  Clearly this ridiculous cliché was written by some douchebag asshole that didn’t want to hear the truth about him or her self.  Who else but a narcissist could come up with this kind of a statement?  Have you ever noticed that the person on the end of this cliché is usually someone who just tore someone else a new asshole or shredded them so badly they’ve been left bloody and bruised?  I’m not saying it’s cool to run up to people and impart your no one asked for it opinion on them and hurt their feelings but I do believe if you want to stop an idiot from sharing their hideousness – you may need to smack them with the honest stick and that stick is often not nice.  Sometimes some people just need to hear the truth.  And sometimes the truth is tied up in a legal document that people have inadvertently signed under duress to get away from a douchebag asshole.  But that’s another chapter in The Book of Moron.   If I followed this cliché I would never be able to write another word.  I wouldn’t be able to say how happy I was that Kim Kardashian got flour bombed by PETA activists.  I couldn’t tell you that the man who killed Trayvon Martin should be buried alive by Skittle flavored bullets and it would be impossible for me to discuss my annoyance at the people who have kept “Whitney” on the air – taking the year of the female comedy writer and shitting all over it before it even made it six months.  We’ll never get back in.  But the biggest thing I would like to write about that I wouldn’t be able to if I only had nice things to say would be – me.  And that’s a fucking problem.  I think it’s important to know your flaws – embrace them and mock them – unless those flaws are – I am a power hungry bitch who has absolutely no feelings for other human beings, fires them willy nilly and only cares about how much money I have and how skinny I am – in which case – you may want to change.  But if that’s not you – then embrace away.

Some people like to make to do lists each day but perhaps we should start each day with a list of not nice things we need to tell ourselves – read them – then fold them up and put them away.  If I did that today – here’s what my list would say:

1)   You are a fat pig because you at 32 pieces of sushi last night.

2)  You need to take a shower.  Spraying yourself with perfume and calling it a French bath is not the same thing.

3)  You really need to stop kissing your dogs on the mouth right after they may have eaten poop.

4)  You need to wash your sheets.  They are disgusting.

5)  If you buy another pair of shoes you will have to sell your house.  By the way – no ones looking at your feet when your grey roots are that big.

6)  You need bigger pants, again.

7)  You really should learn to wash a dish.

8)  You don’t call your mother enough.

9)  You suck at keeping in touch with your sweet little niece and nephew.

Nothing earth shattering here but hey – it’s Saturday.  I’m cutting myself some slack.  I think I’d like to do a little rewrite on that cliché.  How about – If you don’t have anything nice to say – make sure you’re talking to a douchebag asshole who deserves some honesty.  And you know who you are.

Wherever Hugo – There You Are

Published March 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Taco Bell has decided to ensure that Americas morbid obesity rate reaches epic proportions with the invention of the new Dorito Taco Shell.  Yes, you can now get your chicken flavored diced cat and hot sauce someone most definitely spit in or jacked off into – on a nice taco sized Dorito chip.  It’s called the Doritos Locos Tacos – which makes sense because you’d have to be a mental patient to eat a giant orange 9 grams of fat cancer casing for your shredded lettuce and what has never been beef.  I know fast food is cheap and easy but I don’t want a deep fried oompa loompa served through a window to me at any time of day no matter the savings.   I have been known to eat my fair share of fast food especially back in the days when I drank – a lot.  I remember discovering Fatburger when I first moved to Los Angeles.  I can’t tell you the amount of cabs I forced to use that drive up window at 2am so that their car – not mine – would wreak of the hideous mess they shoved inside a bun.   The scent of a fatburger will stay with you for days.  It permeates your clothing and your bowels.  Anything that sticks around for that long after its been eaten – cannot be good for you.  I will still eat an InNOut Burger every now and then but someone deemed this not to be fast food so it’s okay.  Sure you can order a box of patties in a box covered in greasy onions but the fact that you can watch them shove a potato into a machine to dice it up LIVE for your fries means it’s an ACTUAL RESTAURANT.  I’m sure someday we’ll find out it’s a fake potato and that machine leads to nowhere but for now – it’s safe to eat and it’s called the healthy choice.

People have been writing scads of reviews for this new Doritos edition to the Taco Bell family.  It’s as if a review on this kind of food mattered.  These musings about a piece of fried dust are almost as good as the review Marilyn Hagerty from Grand Forks North Dakota wrote about the Olive Garden for her column Eatbeat.  The article went viral thanks to phrases like “the Chicken Alfredo was warm and comforting on a cold day” and “the restaurant is fashioned in Tuscan farmhouse style with a welcoming entryway.”  Marilyn is a goddess.

Have you ever noticed that if it’s not YOUR coffee pot you’re trying to make coffee in your brain is sucked out of your head and you cannot – come hell or high water – figure out how to use it?  I’ve been making coffee in various coffee makers in my home for over thirty years but if you take me out of my home and ask me to make coffee in a pot somewhere else I will instantly prove to you I am a mental midget.  You may even present me with the same coffee maker I’ve had in my past or even one I’m currently using but the second it is removed from my own kitchen and my own counter I will not be able to figure out where anything goes, how much goes in when I do figure it out, and what to do once it goes wrong.   Every time I’ve ever gone to stay at someones house for a weekend or so and I’m up before them in the morning – I’m suddenly terrified to use their coffee maker because I know I will fuck the shit up hard.   I tried to make coffee at work the other day and clogged the entire machine sending grounds everywhere and causing a back up in the filter system that took three people to fix.   I supposed there is comfort in knowing that I will never be able to get a job as a Barista, that the Doritos Taco Shell will eventually go away, and that The Olive Garden does in fact have a nice warm breadstick.    What’s not so comforting?  The millions of people who thought Hugo was the best movie of the year.  But that’s a whole other Oprah.

Seacrest Out

Published March 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I wonder if the people who thought Sarah Palin was the second coming of Christ are now embarrassed.  I’m horrified and I didn’t even like the woman.  I smelled phony the second those floating glasses with no frames hit the stage.  They were as transparent as she was.  I knew the chances of having a smart woman in the political world  who also had really good hair and makeup – were nearly impossible.    You can’t worry about your highlights and be concerned about Iran having a nuclear missile at the same time.  Or in Sarah Palin’s case – you can’t worry about your lipstick and learn how to say Joe Biden instead of O’Biden.  Or learn where Russia is, or what a Supreme Court case is, or what the FED is, or the list is fucking endless.   When it comes to politics – Sarah Palin had the same level of intelligence as her son Trig – yes I just called her retarded – and I happen to think people with down syndrome are beautiful and special.  I just don’t think I’d vote for someone with that handicap to be Vice President.    Thanks to HBO – I’m embarrassed to be an American.  I’m mortified that I live in a country where someone with the intelligence of my French Mastiff Tulip – not that smart – can run for an office that involves making decisions about other peoples lives.   If you didn’t see the movie “GAME CHANGE” and you voted for McCain/Palin then please figure out a way to see it so that you die of embarrassment and never vote Republican again.  Sarah Palin is what YOUR people did to you.  They believed you were stupid enough to vote for a half wit – they believed you were as stupid as Sarah Palin.  I know that in America pretty always wins but wow – that was a close one.  Do I believe everything I watch on HBO?  Yes, and so should you, after all – it’s not t.v.

For everyone who’s ever been concerned that the Kardashian family magic would run out and we’d be left without any reasons to hate money grubbing fat assed dopey Armenian’s with no purpose in life but to take our money well fear no more because Bravo has now given us another group of people to despise – Persians.  “Shahs of Sunset” is a new low even for a reality show bottom feeder like me.   I watched an episode of this last night and I suppose my biggest problem with the show is that it’s mostly about Persian Jews and quite frankly my people – Jews – have enough other people hating us to last a lifetime.  We don’t really need a television show to amp up our level of people despising us.  Is there nothing else to watch on television?  Did we really need whatever block of airtime was available to be filled with another family of fucking shitty people.  This show is also from Executive Producer Ryan Seacrest  – who clearly has no problem shoving shit down our throats.  In fact – I believe Ryan Seacrest is the real problem.   He’s all sweet and American Idol on the outside and all purveyor of disgusting reality shows on the inside.  Ryan Seacrest is becoming the Sarah Palin of Reality TV.  He’s pretty to look at and so we believe that what he has to say means something.  Maybe he’s just the front man and there’s an Oz behind him pulling the crazy levers.  I wonder if he ever gets embarrassed when the credits roll at the end of one of his shows or if he just goes and lays his head down on a bigger pile of money.  I’ll never know – until he makes a reality show about himself, because that’s where the truth lives, on television.

Mad About You

Published March 9, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Kesha – the alleged pop star – has made a new PSA asking people not to club baby seals.  It’s an odd choice the humane society has made picking Kesha to be a spokesperson – since listening to one of her songs is akin to being clubbed like a baby seal.  I’m sure if they did enough research they would even find that hearing one of Kesha’s reported songs is what’s driving people to club a harmless animal in the first place.  And by the way – who’s still clubbing baby seals?  Can’t it just become legal to club these people?  Why are we keeping them around?  There can’t be one single thing anyone on earth can benefit or learn from a baby seal clubber.

This is just one of the difficult questions I find myself pondering after a month of being locked in a writers room with a group of really clever prisoners being fed amazingly great snacks. I find myself reading things on the Internet and saying “when did that happen?”  “How did I miss that?” and I’m not talking about insignificant things like Sandra Fluke being called a whore by a fat bloated untalented pig,  I’m talking about life changing things like missing the Marni sale at H&M and I’m not even sure how I’m going to get over that.  Major fashion shit went down and I was not there for any of it for the first time in forever.  Hearing that there were Marni handbags available is like a cold hard knife to my heart.  I’m afraid to go online and look at the collection because I fear I will fling myself out of my Prius into oncoming traffic.

I’m going to need to launch a few full blown investigations into some other things I seemed to have missed while tip tapping away on what will surely be the greatest sitcom ever of all time ever.  It’s amazing what goes on when you are not connected to your internet and email on a minute by minute basis.  I had no idea that we will change our clocks again this weekend and I was clueless that someone allowed Adam Sandler to make another retarded movie.  Is Nicole Kidman pretending she did not have two children with Tom Cruise and cut off all communication with them?  She seems very interested in her new family with Australian country singer Keith Urban which by the way must be an oxymoron.   Did she just sign her rights away to Conner and Isabella in exchange for not admitting that her marriage to Tom was a sham?  And when is the last time anyone has seen Isabella anyway?  I think she’s in some kind of Hollywood star children witness protection program because she’s the fat less attractive one.  I would like to exchange Dita Von Teese for Isabella.  Less Dita sightings and more Isabella sightings would be enjoyable.  If anyone can tell me why Dita Von Teese is famous I will give them their very own seal killer to club.

If I’m not careful I’m going to miss the new season premiere of Mad Men which I’ve been waiting for since 1962.  I live for Jon Hamm on my television set – especially Jon Hamm as Don Draper. Jon recently called Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton fucking idiots so he has now been elevated to god status.  The fact that he looks like a hot Fred Flintstone will always keep him in a special place in my heart and underpants.   If this show ever ends I will go into a hideous depression.   I am going to film a PSA today to keep Mad Men on the air forever.  I will offer to club Kesha in exchange for a lifetime supply of cigarettes, martini’s and ad men.

Panty Raid

Published March 6, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t think porn leads to rape.  I think American Apparel ads do.  I passed a billboard the other day for the brand and I’m quite convinced that they should be banned.  I don’t need to see a kid in her bra and panties and knee socks spread eagle on my way to work even if the kid just looks like a kid and is of legal age.  If someone posted pics like these ads on their computer they’d be arrested for child pornography yet we’ve actually given the loony tunes who runs the company – awards for Marketing Excellence.       The other day I saw one with a girl in her underwear legs spread straight shot to her uvula.  I have no idea what they were selling but I guess it was vaginas.  The fearless leader of American Apparel shoots the ads himself using young girls and sometimes store employees.  He’s also been involved in several sexual harassment lawsuits.   Shocking, I know.  I guess if the clothes were at least well made enough to make it through one machine wash it would be okay but the shit is completely disposable and cut for people who have no shape to their bodies at all.  I’m thrilled it’s made in America but I’d feel better about buying the crap if I didn’t get an underlying feeling that all of the women in his ads are locked up in some basement somewhere being fed lollipops through cage doors.   I don’t mean to sound like an old woman but I am an old woman so it’s only natural to sound like one.  Get used to it.

Why can’t the universe just let Jennifer Aniston be happy?   Didn’t she entertain us enough during the Friends years to give her carte blanche for the rest of her life?   I mean – Rachel hair was big.  She styled a nation.  What did Matthew Perry do for us?  Nothing… and yet he still gets cut a break despite being a colossal fuck up – drinking drugging and smashing his car into things.  He just got yet another sitcom pilot.  There must be some kind of rule at the WGA that says someone has to write something for Matthew Perry every year.  Sure Jennifer Aniston doesn’t always make great movies but it’s not like she’s putting out “Jack and Jill.”  She’s button nose cute, seemingly quite nice, and never been in a tabloid for doing something awful like stealing someone else’s husband so I just don’t understand why she can’t have it all.  Can’t we be happy for her new romance and hope that it leads to a child so that people stop calling her barren?  I haven’t seen Wanderlust yet but I watched the trailer and I laughed – out loud – six times – I counted.  Who doesn’t love a good nudist colony romp? I know I’d like to spend a week having the same body she has.  I’d be doing naked yoga in front of my house everyday if I did and I’d invite the press to make sure they got great photos of my downward facing dog upward facing perky ass.  It seems like people love bonding over their hatred of Jennifer and while I don’t see a world where the two of us are sharing a pinkberry salted caramel yogurt cup – I do realize that someone else’s success does not equal my failure.  I’m just saying, let’s all get together and give Jennifer Aniston a chance.  Let’s cut her a break.   There’s room out there for everyone to be happy.  Except the guy who runs American Apparel.  He’s a little too happy.  In the pants.

A Religious Experience

Published March 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have decided that I’m going to have a baby.  Not because I necessarily want a child but because I’ve learned that having a baby allows you to discuss poop at all times and in any place you would like to discuss poop – the more inappropriate the better.  I have a scatological sense of humor so I enjoy discussing doody.  Last night I had dinner with a baby and realized if you have one around – the poop chat flows.  While enjoying a nice piece of sashimi I was informed that August Alykhan Brooks Mitha has a butt that is currently working like a soft serve doody machine.  I found this fascinating and was praying his parents would invite me over to see this or at least post a video of his magical ass in action.  Maybe this is what all babies do – I’m not sure – but I want to find out.  We had dinner in Brentwood with August’s grandparents Don and Leslie Tucker who live in South Carolina or as they describe it – a place where meth labs are hiding around every corner.  I was hoping they were about to tell me they were secretly running one and that Breaking Bad was actually based on their lives.  It could happen.  Having parents from out of town is always fun when they come to California because they are always amazed at how shallow we are and by we I mean the people you see dining out at restaurants in Brentwood.  If you are unfamiliar with Brentwood – it’s where all the white people live – in particular – white Jews.  Quite frankly I’m surprised they don’t ask August’s dad Salim and his naturally blonde wife Becky for their papers on a daily basis.  I love eating out in Los Angeles because you get dinner and a movie when you go to a restaurant and last nights feature was clearly a throwback to the sixties because I think I saw one of Hef’s old bunnies  at the table next to us.  How else can you explain a bustier and a choker on a woman over the age of sixty?

I saw a commercial last night for that religion the stars love.  I’ll call it Math-tology because quite frankly I’m afraid to write out it’s real name.  It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this so called religion advertised.  I’m obsessed with Math-tology.  I want to wear a wire and a camera and sneak in to their celebrity center and see if I can get them to admit that they all believe it’s a total fucking farce and that their leader Tom Cruise is gay.  I don’t think he is but the concept of them hiding a diary where he admitted he blew a guy once is the only explanation I have for why he hasn’t denounced these loony tunes.   Hopefully my house won’t be firebombed later today for writing something about them because quite frankly these are some seriously crazy people.  If you don’t believe me, read the article director Paul Haggis wrote about his experience with Math-tology.  I see their followers at my supermarket all the time.  They are almost all white.  They all have bad acne and they all clearly shop at the same bad store.  I believe it’s called “Androgynous R Us.”  I am well aware the world is made up of many kinds of people and I am thrilled that this is so.  I just get the overwhelming feeling that this particular group of people would like the rest of us to go away.  According to the Math-tology commercial, there are more than ten thousand churches and or missions and that 4.4 million new people become Math-tologists each year.  I wish there were less organized religion in the world.  I wish pooping was a religion and Baby August was our leader.

#Oscar 2012 – Americans Need Not Apply

Published February 27, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Here are my thoughts on the Oscars… as they happened.

Pre Show:

Tim Gunn is very gay.   He needs to take the gay down to 11.   Why is someone asking George Clooney who he’s rooting for?  That’s a stupid fucking question.  Tom Hanks and Jess Cagle look awkward in the winners walk.  This is so precious Gaby Sidebay should be doing it with Tyler Perry directing.  Most used words during pre show “over to you.”   This is clearly the first Oscar show ever produced.   Do they think no one watching has ever seen the Academy Awards or a movie?


Academy Awards:

Morgan Freeman – I smell pomp.  Billy Crystal got fat.  Justin Bieber was genius – four words that prove the apocalypse is near.  I think I’ve seen this open before.  Oh look two men kissing.  Is this “Some Like It Hot?”   Oh good let’s make fun of 9/11.  How many old Jews does it take to write an Oscar monologue?  If you are watching this telecast you have automatically been sent a walker.   This song is ridiculous.  This show is killing in Jewish retirement villages around the world.  Is this just the Jewish telecast?   Carl the seat filler should be named Best Dressed.  Guess I need to see Hugo.  I’m bored already.  J Lo is very shiny.  Shiny and Booby.   She’s Shooby.  Who fucked the hot out of Cameron Diaz.  Guess I need to see The Artist.   Why are all the nominees talking.  There’s too much talking.  I’m bored.   Are they showing all these old movie clips so we remember when good movies were nominated?  I like the movies but I don’t care about any of your dreams.  Money Ball is no Field of Dreams.  I had no idea Sandra Bullock was German.  I thought this was the Jewish telecast?  All the old people in the retirement homes just had Nazi flashbacks.  Now I get the Jesse James thing.  Oh goody more movies I haven’t seen.  Oh goody more borscht belt humor from Billy.  Henny Youngman called –  he wants his jokes where he is.  Nick Nolte looks pissed.   Note to Octavia Spencer – a standing ovation is Hollywood’s way of saying “we’re not racist.”  Shecky Green called – he wants his Catskills act back.  The Oscars just made Christopher Guest jump the shark.  Why is Billy Crystal constantly thanking people.  He didn’t win anything.   Bradley Coopers mustache is unnerving.  I just won a sound editing award for best lowering of the volume during this dullfest.   Guess I need to see Hugo.   Miss Piggy equals shark jump.  Hot naked bendy men – okay I’m back.   If  Robert Downey Jr. ever sees the playback of this he’s going straight back to heroin.   Can we get a microphone for this 4 billion dollar production that works?  Why do they have to cut people off?  Chris Rock is Afro American tonight.  Emma Stone saves the Oscars.  Oh look Ben Stiller is playing a douche – or himself.   There is no way a gay Von Trapp is gonna lose.  Guess I need to see The Beginners.  I wish Siri was hosting the Oscars.   Please make Billy Crystal stop.  Why are there popcorn chicks?  What is happening?  Owen Wilson is a weirdo.  Guess I need to see The Artist.  No idea what that French guy is saying.  Why are there so many French people winning – don’t you Jews know they hate us? I wish I could leave and go home now but I am home.   What is happening with Angelina’s leg?  Is it doing that on it’s own.  Why is she doing that?  I don’t understand what’s happening.  Who is she?   That was weird.  Mila Jovovitch?  When did she get in the  Oscar club?  Have they not seen her movies?  Isn’t she just a foreign Sean Young?   Reese Witherspoon just admitted “Overboard” is her favorite movie so she won’t be showing her face in this town ever again.   “Bridesmaids” saves the Oscars.   More French people winning awards.   Guess I really need to go see The Artist.  Meryl Streep is very classy.  I wonder if Tom Cruise gets bummed out that he’ll never win an Oscar.  Guess I really really need to see The Artist.  Lets all move to France and have an Academy Awards show where only Americans win.  That’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back.

The Hot Dog Man Cometh

Published February 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I missed Jewlicious 8 and I’m mad about it.  I think my mailman is a week behind all the other mailmen in Los Angeles because I got the flyer yesterday telling me to come to the Jewlicious Festival at the Queen Mary in Long Beach that already happened.   There was Challah baking, pickle making, comedy, music and star appearances from famous fellow Jews like Mayim Bialik.   Why a bunch of  Jews want to be trapped on a floating toilet for a weekend is beyond me but I don’t like finding things out after the fact.  I have a lot of errands and important things to do on the weekends but I would have carved out at least a few hours to check out the Jew happenings.  I scanned the website to see if there had been any cute men at the festival but it was hard to tell through the massive amount of facial hair which is clearly mandatory.  It should have been called the “Leave No Beard Behind” festival.  I’m not a fan of facial hair unless it’s an evil goatee.  One of the leaders of the festival seems to be a Rabbi Yonah who even has his own facebook page and pictures of his Mishpocha. (family in Yiddish)   He also has his own website and was named a top ten Jewish Influencer by @jewishtweets.  I don’t even know what the fuck that means but he seems like a cool Jew.  I studied Kaballah for a couple of years which I thought was pretty cool until I started realizing that the majority of Kabballists really didn’t believe non Jews could be Jews even through conversion but that didn’t stop them from taking their promotion of Kaballah or their money – i.e. Madonna, Demi etc. I once spent a Yom Kippur weekend with all of the Los Angeles Kaballists at a hotel in SoCal.  I don’t remember a second of it.  I think I was bored into a coma.  I never would have quit smoking or drinking if it weren’t for those two years so for that I am eternally grateful but at some point organized religion for me becomes just another way for human beings to segregate and I don’t like that one bit.    I remember going to one Shabbat service at the temple and pointing out a hot black man to one of the women.     I had seen him every weekend for months.  She said “Oh you don’t want to date him – he’s not Jewish.”  I stopped going pretty soon after that.

I went to have dinner with a friend last night and on may stopped at a 7 Eleven which is basically a really stupid thing to do after dark if you don’t own a gun.  The second I got out of my car one guy asked me for money and another guy started running across the street screaming to get to me.  He was a huge black man dodging cars and yelling “Can you please buy me a hot dog!”  I had no idea 7 Eleven hot dogs were that tasty.  He was barreling towards me and I quickly ran inside the store because all I could picture were New York homeless people who throw bricks at your heads.  I bought him a hot dog and when I came outside and gave it to him he said “What’s your name?”  I told him and he said “Thank You, my name is Terry.”  He was super happy about the hot dog.  I was super happy he didn’t kill me.  He was way up in my personal space.  I felt badly that I had possibly just handed him a ground up cat or rat in a bun but Terry didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would care.   It definitely wasn’t kosher.  People always tell me they don’t give homeless people money because they are just going to use it to buy drugs or liquor.  This is a ridiculous fucking thought.  Unless you are planning to open a rehab center for homeless people – give someone a dollar and hope they use it for food.  Stop judging people who don’t even have a bed.

Sometimes people only take care of their own kind which seems incredibly un-American to me.  Everyone has a parade and a festival and while I don’t think there is anything wrong with celebrating who you are I don’t think there’s anything right with  insulating yourselves from everyone who isn’t just like you.  Go buy Terry a hot dog.  He’s on Sunset Blvd. near Highland.

The Liquor Pig

Published February 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When I get to heaven I hope all the things I lose on a daily basis will be waiting for me in one fluffy white place.  This would mean that my cloud room will contain pens, socks, keys, and my invisalign mouth trays.  Not much of a swank palace but it works for me.  I found one of my 7000 dollar mouth trays in Tulips doggy mouth the other morning.   That’s the same mouth that gets within inches of her own poo and her Auntie Peaches ass.  There really isn’t enough boiling water in all of the land to get that thing back in my mouth.  Not sure if she thinks she has an overbite situation brewing but I didn’t want to tell her it’s not as much fun as it looks.  In fact – if I ever have a sleep over again – the night trays are going to have to be dealt with – because I’m not shoving one of those things in before I get it in – if you know what I mean – and you do know exactly what I mean if you watch Snookie.  She likes to get it in.  A lot.  I’m thinking about building a smoosh room in my house.  It will look exactly like my bedroom but it will only be used for sex.  I think if you have a smoosh room in your house it will cut down on that annoying guessing game you play with your other half – “I wonder if he/she/it wants to do it tonight?”  A smoosh room removes any kind of question and any kind of dignity.   I guess when you’re so drunk you forgot to wear underwear or your brain – it doesn’t really matter what kind of room you end up in at the end of the night.

One of the things that bums me out about no longer being allowed to drink without the fear of being arrested, waking up in a pothole or dying are all the cool things they’ve come up with to get people drunk since I announced I was a liquer pig.  Lower calorie beers have lead to gluten free beers and crazy vodka lemon drinks.  Everything’s infused with something and nothing is just a simple shot of anything.  More vodka’s have been invented in my lifetime than cures for anything which makes sense since everyone’s shitfaced.  Today I passed a billboard that said “Lights, Camera, Absinthe” so I guess now you can purchase booze that contains something that used to be considered a dangerously addictive psychoactive drug.  That pisses me off.  Who wouldn’t want to drink that?  Hey lets get so drunk we have no idea who we are! Absinthe was actually banned in the US in 1915 but I guess it’s back – in a big way.    Back in the late 19th early 20th century Absinthe was the choice cocktail among artists and writers.  Ernest Hemmingway, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Vincent Van Gogh loved the shit and look how good things worked out for them – after they died.  Why anyone would want to add this to their lets get so fucked up I can’t see my hands repertoire is beyond me.  Absinthe seems to be another lame thing to add to Demi Moore’s party bus list.  She can suck up a whippet,  smoke a little salvia and then finish off a bottle of Absinthe.  Why not?  Isn’t that why someone invented rehab?

I haven’t been to rehab but it seems everyone’s doing it or done it or doing it for the fifth and sixth time.  It’s either so much more fun than real life or it doesn’t work at all.   I think I’d rather lock myself in my smoosh room with some pens and draw fake mustaches on the gorilla juice head i just banged while he’s sleeping.  Shit – I just revealed my Saturday night plans.  Busted.


Wrap It Up

Published February 23, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Zac Effron dropped a condom on the red carpet at the premiere of  “The Lorax.”  He was passing his publicist something from his pocket when it fell to the ground.  Zac must be getting some serious twatalupe if he feels the need to have condoms on him at all times including the most inappropriate of times like the premiere of a children’s movie.  Who did he think he was going to meet there?  One of Brad Pitt’s kids?  Hey that Shiloh is looking hot even if she does dress like a boy.  I don’t know what “The Lorax” is about but I don’t think it’s an audience participation movie that involves anything you might need a condom for.  Maybe he wanted to make balloons for the kids in the audience?  Maybe he’s so busy he was going on a date right after the premiere?  Imagine being the girl he was hooking up with that night who today is finding out that he planned to bang her the entire time.  That’s awkward.  Even for a celebrity.   Thankfully it wasn’t a used condom and yes that could happen.  Who does that?  Famous guys who don’t want random chicks they’re banging to steal their spooge and implant it after they leave.  This is Hollywood.  This shit happens.

Back when I was having sex no one wore condoms because there was no disease.  It was also really hard to get to each other’s homes because we lived so far apart and not everyone had a horse and buggy.  Back then girls took the birth control pill which now seems like a really hideous idea and I can’t imagine it didn’t do massive amounts of damage to their systems.  How could it not?  Here take this – it kills all kinds of shit including shit that could lead to you needing a swing set.  I never took the birth control pill because the list of side effects terrified me.  Headache, Dizziness, Nausea, Breakthrough Bleeding, Decreased Libido, and Mood Swings.  What the fuck is Breakthrough Bleeding?  I didn’t want to find out.  Nowadays there’s the Nuvaring which I don’t understand at all.  It’s described as a ring you put in your vagina that prevents pregnancy for up to three weeks.  Apparently it has hormones in it that stops you from producing eggs.  How on earth can this be a good thing?   This has to lead to some sort of retardation and I mean in the woman not the eggs.    I bet if men got pregnant there would be a slew of new approaches that didn’t involve putting crazy shit in your body.  No man would shove some weird circle tubing with chemicals in it inside their scrotums.  Unless of course that tubing gave them unlimited orgasms and then the shoving would be happening at a break neck speed.   I know I’m not the first person to think – how come no one has ever invented the birth control pill for men to take?  The answer to that is – hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha.   The birth control industry is a multi billion dollar industry which  leads to me to think that maybe the world needs to take a giant pause in the fucking department.  Let’s all stop thinking about sex for two seconds and focus on something else.  If you’re having trouble clearing your brain just visualize scrawny Zac Effron wrapping up his hairless penis in a condom.  That oughta do it.

Bridge To Nowhere

Published February 21, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have a hot dentist.  He is young and sexy, a former Naval Officer and a Jew.  The last two are almost impossible to find together in one person.  Jews don’t enlist – at least not American Jews.  My dentist is the kind of dentist that makes you want to dress up for your appointments.  This is no sweatpants and uggs session – this is a Gucci dress and heels.  There is only one problem with my dentist – he’s a dentist – the single most barbaric job in the entire universe.  Hitler could have learned a thing or two from dentists.  A dentist is someone who enjoys inflicting pain and scraping food barnacles off of teeth.  This is not a sexy job.  Every time I walk in to the office the voice in my head plays the scene from the Dustin Hoffman movie “Marathon Man” – “is it safe – driiiiiiiiiiilllllllll.”  I could just be going in for a teeth cleaning but the cold sweat that occurs the second I hit the fifth floor offices is pavlovian.  I always delay the start of my session by grabbing that giant plastic toothbrush with the bathroom key and pee about sixteen times.  By the way – really?  Can’t we just have a regular key chain.  We’re adults.  We’re not going to lose it.   Must I carry a toothbrush from the movie “Big” with me for added humiliation?  Isn’t it bad enough that I’m going to be drooling all over myself and my paper fucking bib within the hour?    I’d like to see Adrianna Lima in the dentist chair drooling all over herself.  That would make me feel better about me.  If I could rewind a portion of my life it would be the parts where I ignored my teeth and didn’t floss enough.  I would spit out those hard candies I loved cracking with my super hard young teeth.  I would pay attention to my gums.  Sadly – I needed a bridge repaired yesterday – and it was two hours of my life that resembled a scene from the movie “Saw” in fact – it was all five “Saws.”   There was blood,  screaming,  chair gripping, and I believe in the end – tears.  My hot dentist used tools that could have only come from a Conan The Barbarian movie set.  He hammered chipped and pulled with what I can only assume were pliers and he kept shooting me full of novocaine but it didn’t matter – I felt like I could feel everything.   In a course of two hours I was transported from Brentwood to Buchenwald and the charge was 45oo dollars.  That’s why you marry a Jewish dentist ladies.  In fact, is there any other kind?  Maybe my death camp comparison isn’t that far off.  Maybe it’s payback.  Think about it.

Does anyone in the entire world think that the Daily News headline “Chink in the Armor” about Asian basketball player Jeremy Lin isn’t racist?  I’d like to meet them.  They are the most gullible person on the planet and I would like to sell them my dog run and tell them poop is the new oil.   I mean – I throw a racial slur around like a lightweight Frisbee but I don’t run a New York newspaper.  The guy who wrote the headline apologized saying he didn’t realize he was offending anyone and that it was a phrase he has used hundreds of times over the years.  I say – hahahahahhahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahhahaha – you my friend are a massive douchetard.  That is some crazy shit even for a New Yorker.    Sadly, it’s a word I know all too well because back in the sixties that’s what all Jews used to describe Sunday Night dinner… let’s go for Chinks.   I’m not proud.  It’s just a fact.  The whole story is proof that we as a nation are so far apart from where we should be as human beings who support and nurture each other not tear each other down.  America needs our own in house superstructure.   I’m gonna ask my hot dentist to build us a bridge.

Little People, Smelly World

Published February 16, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night I came to the heart stopping realization that God really is listening to my prayers because for the first time ever there is a little person on the new season of Survivor.  I love little people.  I would love them more if I could call them midgets but I’m okay with the pc term they enjoy because I enjoy them just that much.  Peter Dinklage is a hero to me and not just because he can act his normal size ass off but because he gets chicks – in fact – he got a wife – a hot full size wife.  I have never met a male little person that had a problem with his height and I lived in New York so I’ve known a lot of little people.  I had one drinking buddy that was a dwarf back in the day and we used to get shit faced together every night at the bar.  I loved him.  He had a girlfriend.  I was single.  I fell off my bar stool.  He did not.  I don’t know if they hand out more confidence to little men when they’re born or it’s the knowledge that you won’t live a long life that drives them to be tough but I know a few regular sized dudes who could learn a thing or two from an under four footer.   Except Verne Troyer.  He took his shit way too far.  There’s a video of him doing stuff to a full size chick and it’s at a 13 on the creepy meter.  I don’t think I could date a little person.  I would feel like a child molester and I couldn’t wear any of my super high shoes.  I’d rather just date a really hot tall kid.  Some people have a real fear of little people.  I say if someone is too short to see my wrinkles – bring him on.

Remember back when dating was popular and you would interview someone over a steak and find out what kind of tricks they could do or weird body talents they had.  Nobody does this anymore.  They just read about them on Facebook or Google them before the date and never end up talking about important things like can you tie a knot in a cherry stem with your tongue or remove your bra at the table without anyone knowing.  Nowadays they just invite them to the South Street Seaport for drinks and get accused of raping them in an apartment before they go back to their now inappropriately named television show Good Day New York.   That chick should be run out of the country.    I never did like dating because it just felt like a hideously long interview but I think I’d rather do that than post a picture of myself on a dating site.  People seem to be really desperate these days and that makes me feel kind of sad.  I posted a picture of my dog Peaches on the website OKCupid and she’s had over 16 responses from what appear to be very old men who think maybe she just has a depilatory situation.

There was a commercial on last night for a new 12 hour fresh breath strip that completely eliminated morning breath.  This to me is not a good idea because morning breath is just one of the old fashioned ways to figure out just how much you care about someone.  If you can handle that and being trapped in the same bathroom when they’re dropping a paint peeling poop – it’s love.  Jeff Probst once told me that the only thing he wished about Survivor was that people at home could smell just how bad the contestants smell after a few days.  He said it’s beyond ripe and the hardest thing he does is keep a straight face when in close proximity to the players.  I love when they fall in love on that show because that’s all I focus on now.  The stench.  That’s love.  I hope the little guy gets a girlfriend this season but they say God doesn’t give you more than you can handle and that may just be too much for me.

Good Vibrations

Published February 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I just read that pumpkin seeds increase a woman’s libido.  Unfortunately I read this after I consumed a massive bag of them last night and became convinced that if I left the house to walk the dogs the pumpkin seeds would drive me into a lustful rage and I would hit on anyone who came my way which would not be a good thing on my block because everyone is either married or very hairy.  It does explain a lot about my youth though because I’ve always been a big fan of pumpkin seeds.  I guess if you’re looking for a good time a glass of wine and a pack of seeds is a lot cheaper than oysters.  So much has changed about sex since I first started having it back in the days of merkin’s and cod pieces and I mean just on the technical front.   I keep seeing an ad for Trojan Twisters that quite frankly I’d be afraid to put on my penis if I were a guy.  I don’t even know if it’s a condom or a vibrator but anything with the word twister in the title really should be reserved for something that happens in Kansas not in your pants.   I know lots of women like vibrators – in fact say that they can’t live without them – but if I were a dude I’d hide them from my girlfriend or wife because once you get used to “The Hitachi Magic Wand”, “The G-Swirl”, “The Rabbit Habit” and “The Water Dancer”, there really isn’t much point to having “The Mouth Breather.”  Just sayin’.   I have a vibrator somewhere in my house.  I just can’t remember where I hid it.

Seconds after I turned on the coffee pot this morning I forgot that I turned it on and went back over and flicked the switch again – thereby turning it off – which I of course didn’t realize because the printing on the on/off switch is so small I can’t read it without my glasses on which I don’t have handy first thing in the morning because I can’t remember where I left them when I fell asleep.  I am blind without contacts or glasses and I need reading glasses on top of my contact lenses anyway which is just another thing for me to lose.  I really wish I could see.  People who have lasik always say  “Oh my god I had no idea leaves on trees looked like that?”  What the fuck did you think they looked like?  Toasters?  I will never get lasik surgery because I will be the one person who has a laser on their eyeball when an earthquake hits and all I will hear is the eye doctor say – oops.  No – I’d rather stumble into the end of my bed and knick my shin in the exact same place for the 290th time just this week.    I went to get my eyes checked yesterday and I did find out I’ve been wearing the wrong contact lenses for about  a year so blindness is just around the corner – or cataracts – which are also very sexy.   My dog had those and she fell down the stairs a lot.  She once fell out of the house –  so I have that to look forward to as well.  I went to take my friends Brian and Nick out for dinner the other night and when the bill arrived I realized that I didn’t have my wallet with me.  I remember at some point before leaving the house thinking “don’t forget to grab your wallet” but once again that thought was replaced seconds later with – where’s my lipstick or what purse should I use – or is that dog shit I smell?  I did the panic dance at the table as my face flushed with red.  How embarrassing.  I was truly mortified.  But not so mortified that just three and a half moments after I pulled out of the parking lot I pulled in to the supermarket to grab some things, hit the check out , and oh fuck I don’t have my wallet.  How can I forget something that happened three and a half minutes ago?  What is happening to me?  Do I need to just move to Florida now?  I feel like I should at least get the diapers out of the way.  I lose my slippers on a nightly basis yet they always show up in the same place after I’ve checked there two or three times.  I think I have a slipper fairy.  She has a fantastic memory and terrific eyesight.   I bet she eats pumpkin seeds.

Houston We Have A Problem

Published February 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“I’m at the airport in New York, where are you?”  So said the voice on the other end of my phone that I answered in my bed in Los Angeles.  I had left for the airport the night before on my way to the Hamptons for a long weekend.  At least that’s what I thought.  Somehow I was back in my own bed.  Hmmmmm.  Perhaps there are airport security tapes of what went down at American Airlines that night before but I’m not asking.  The year was 1999 and this was far from the first incident.  Two other memorable moments – arriving at the airport in a limo to pick up two friends visiting for the weekend bleeding profusely from my wrist because I had broken a wine glass in the back seat while getting shit faced on my to the airport and didn’t realize I cut myself.  The blood was pouring out of my hand as I traipsed through baggage claim and hugged my friends.  The look on their faces was pure horror.  Their first stop in Los Angeles was the emergency room where I got ten stitches.  Another fantastic memory is waking up in my apartment to the sound of the LAPD banging on my gate.  I answered the door in my pajamas to find my friend Joey and two cops.  “What the fuck is going on?” I demanded to know.  “I just wanted to make sure you were alive.” said Joey.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”  “Because I left you in front of The Staples Center two hours ago to go get the car to drive us home and you disappeared.”  Hmmmmm.  I was at the Staples Center?  How the fuck did I get home.  Joey never spoke to me again.  And yet after that – I still drank.   It ended in the year 2000.  I would not be where I am today had it not.  I had to quit on my own.  You always do.

Last night Hollywood proved to be the most disgusting place in the entire world.  In fact today, I am ashamed to call Los Angeles home.  It was not a complete shock that Whitney Houston died at the tender age of 48.  She had been an addict for years despite her proclamations that crack is whack.  No one could help Whitney because apparently Whitney didn’t know she needed help.  At 3 o’clock in the afternoon Whitney died in her bathtub at a fancy hotel in Beverly Hills.  At 7 o’clock that night – everyone she’s ever known in the industry that made her a star – partied the night away while she remained in that bathtub a few floors above.  Sure they were sad at first.  Sure they sang tribute songs to Whitney.  Clive Davis – Whitney’s biggest mentor in life – held his annual Grammy eve party at the Beverly Hilton hotel and said “Whitney would have wanted the music to go on.”   I think she would have wanted the music to go on in her life – while alive – not at a party in the hotel where her cold dead body was lying – but maybe that’s just me.  Having people walk a red carpet where camera crews were waiting to interview them makes me feel sick and sad.  Today are the Grammy Awards and Whitney will be honored for the gift she had and the joy she spread through her music.  We will brush her demons under a carpet until Monday when all the entertainment outlets and news organizations will print headlines like the one I used today.   Her life will be rehashed in hideous detail and everyone who knew her will say they tried to help.  That’s the problem with addiction.  There is only one person that can help you – you.  So in honor of Whitney Houston today I write not so much from my usual moronic place – but a place of pure joy that I overcame my demons – well most of them anyway.   I’m still a cynical bitch whose first thought upon hearing about Houston’s death was – thank god I don’t have to cover this.

I’ll Have The Spotted Dick

Published February 11, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Which one do I sign?”  Like the old Jew I’m becoming – this is how most of my evenings out at restaurants end.   I get my credit card back in that plastic booklet with more paper than my accountant files at tax time.    I am forced to play receipt roulette over and over again.  Which one is mine?  Which one is the restaurants?  And what is the meaning of the shorter random third one?  I feel like all the eateries in all of the land have gotten together and said – every time a table of chicks comes in and splits the bill 7 ways – let’s bury them in paper.   I do not enjoy this.  It’s not our fault we like to share.   I am an even bill splitter.  I don’t drink but I don’t care if you do and I pay for it.   If someone at a table starts doing the – “what did you have again?” – and itemizing the bill figuring out which meatball was yours and which salad was mine – they are guaranteed never to be eating out with me again.   Last night the ream of receipts arrived lady style – with the amount of tip figured out for you at the bottom.  You got to pick which percentage you wanted to give and it had calculated how much that percentage was.  One of the choices was 25% and had the waiter not come to our table with his dick out – I would have considered this amount.   Victoria, Julie and I were just trying to enjoy a nice Vegan meal at a local Echo Park restaurant when our hipster waiter with Abe Lincoln sideburns came to the table with his zipper almost all the way open and his penis almost all the way out.  At least – this is what the girls told me.  I did not look because I believe I would have vomited on sight.  The whole place looked like they were holding a casting session for a new show called “I Have Skittles Colored Hair.”  It was like a fucking rainbow in the place on top and a funeral on the bottom with almost everyone in black.  Kind of like a Marilyn Manson convention.  There was also a lot of eyewear because apparently if you eat vegan you have poor vision and must wear Buddy Holly glasses.  I never understand why people who like the same things dress alike.  There are girls who only dress like Betty Paige and boys who only wear biker gear.  I like to keep people guessing with my choices in clothing.  It’s hard enough getting bitch pegged when I open my mouth but at least they can’t decide who I am just from walking into the room.  One thing I truly do not enjoy about Vegan restaurants and health food stores is the smell.  It’s akin to death mixed with mildew or a root cellar that’s gone unattended for a very long time.

People who poop in restaurant bathrooms should be arrested.  The fact that you can’t wait a mere hour to dump at home base is just disgusting and unfair to others.   Offloading while dining out is proof that you are a narcissist.  Unless you are suddenly struck with some hideous form of food poisoning while eating – please refrain from deboweling in my neighborhood bowl.  There is nothing I hate more than walking into a restaurant bathroom right after someone pooped and not even because of the blinding stench but because I know the next person into the bathroom is going to think I’m the one that left the paint peeler in the porcelain.  I wish there was a sign you could turn on the front of the ladies room door that said “It Wasn’t Me.”  In fact, I think that should be printed on the back of a receipt that arrives tableside.  At least then I’d know what one of them is for.

Feeling Saucey

Published February 10, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce ever stops coming in that brown paper wrapping you will know the world is coming to an end and everything you love is over.  Every time I buy a bottle – which is every 16 years – I am thrilled that it is still fairly close to the original packaging. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside which is a twofold problem.  1) I don’t really do warm and fuzzy.  2) It’s a condiment and probably shouldn’t make me feel anything.  I love condiments.  In fact – I collect them.  I don’t have salt and pepper shakers from around the world or snow globes from the states I’ve been to but if you need a mustard – I have fifty.  I am in fact a condimentaholic.  My friend Victoria is constantly opening my refrigerator when she comes over to see what nutbag substance I’ve added to my never gonna use it repertoire.  I have some supremely weird shit in there and some of it dates back to other homes I’ve lived in.  I am so attached to my condiments that I pack them up and move them like lalique figurines that are irreplaceable and by the way who’s collecting that shit?  If you have a shelf in your house with expensive glass frogs on it then you have too much money and by the way you’re weird.  I have no room in my fridge for actual food and sometimes I have to play Sophie’s Choice with the pickles.  Straight Dill always loses.  My spice drawer is also a vision of lunacy.  I have three cumins.   Enough said.

Sometimes it’s a little mind boggling to think of all the things that have been invented in my lifetime like computers, cell phones and cars.  I remember my first Motorola flip cell phone.  I thought I was the fucking shit.  It was the size of my head and the battery died at the end of one single phone call.  We carried them around like gunslingers on the streets of NYC.  We’d whip them out at restaurants to look cool.  It looked like we were holding shoes up to our heads.  The microwave did not exist when I was growing up.  You had to do the unthinkable with your food – wait.  The computer was also nowhere in sight during my first job.  I used a typewriter, whiteout and mimeograph paper.   Flat screen televisions were invented in my lifetime and cost ten thousand dollars when they first came out.  My old television was the size of a Buick.  It had a back end bigger than Kim Kardashian.  Other things that have happened since 1960? – ATM machines, CD and DVD players, soft contact lenses, and boob implants.  Okay so there’s one thing we didn’t need.  It’s impossible to imagine living life without these things and I don’t really remember what my life was like before they came to be.  Did I have dirt floors and wear a bonnet?  Did I sleep in one bed with my six brothers?  Did I go to school in a covered wagon while my mother suffered from consumption and laid in the back sweating with a rag to her head while we roamed the country?  By the time I’m 80 describing to people what a Prius is will sound like I come from another planet and every story you tell will sound like “when I was your age we had to walk to school” even though it will be more along the lines of “when I was your age people died from a disease no one wanted to cure because the drug companies made too much money” or “when I was your age 12 year olds were bullied to death because they were different.”  Change is good.  Change should happen in all aspects of life -except my Lea & Perrins.  I pray they never take away that little brown bag.

August Baby It’s You!

Published February 7, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

All Madonna needed was a nice pair of flats and everything would have been okay.  Instead I spent the Superbowl halftime watching my drunk grandma dance at a Bar Mitzfah with all the young kids.  I had to stand in front of my television because I couldn’t sit down and watch the Madonna show – it was just too uncomfortable.  It felt like watching the Hindenburg – exploding before my very eyes –there was nothing I could do to stop it – and parts of it were firey and beautiful.   Madonna was doing the white girls overbite – she was dancing like Betty White.  What happened to my Madonna?  Heels.   I have always loved the material girl.  We used to work out at the same aerobics place back in the day in NYC when she was just starting out and they would actually play her songs in our class and she would sweat it out right along with us.  Much like I think all female comics should hail Joan Rivers – all female singers especially Lady Gaga should hail Madonna for what she has accomplished and how long she has remained relevant in a world that wants to forget you the second they see your vagina getting out of the back of a cab on your way to a Hollywood party.  Madonna is a legend.  Madonna invented reinvention.  Unfortunately the legend needed some sensible shoes Sunday night.  That M.I.A. chick is appropriately named because that’s what she needs to be from now on.  Who flips the bird anymore?  Babies?  It’s so incredibly passé and juvenile.  She probably mooned someone out the back of her limo on her way back to the hotel NBC was paying for.   She definitely doesn’t wear underwear.  I can tell. If she tried out right now for American Idol or America’s Got Talent or The Voice or Holy Shit Who The Fuck Is Watching This Karaoke Contest – she would be thrown off, gonged off or buzzed right off the stage.

I don’t have any talents that would get me on one of those shows.  I can cross one eye at a time but that’s more creepy than contest worthy.  I have an interesting way to cure hiccups but this is more of a medical oddity than a talent.  I wish there were an X Factor show for writers.  I’d write the fuck out of the competition and read the shit out of anyone on that stage and I know Simon would say “Well done Heidi” and Paula would do that weird circle clap that proves her mom and dad were brother and sister and I’m sure I could make that Pussycat Doll cry because apparently everything makes her break down into a pool of tears.   I’m not sure about how L.A. Reid would react because that is one cool cat and he definitely does not suffer fools – especially white fools like me.  He is swank personified.  Only a guy that cool can get away with having a nickname that stands for Los Angeles – perhaps the capitol of uncool.  However  – when L.A. announced that I was the winner of Xfactor –  I would take my five million dollar prize and buy myself a Starbucks so I would always have somewhere to write.

My friend Becky just discovered she has a talent she never knew existed.  She could sustain labor for 347 hours before giving birth to a beautiful baby boy named August.  If ever you needed proof that dreams come true – that proof is Becky Brooks, Salim Mitha and baby August Alykhan.  He is the picture of perfection.  Daddy is ecstatic and Mommy – one of the most beautiful girls in the world – is about to take on the greatest chapter of her life and discover she has another talent she’s been waiting to showcase forever – being a mom.  She will teach him Rock n Roll lyrics of which she knows all, she will recite movie lines to him I thought only boys knew, and she will tell him that when she was younger the old woman they’re watching dancing on the hologram on the wall was the second coming of pop music.  Remember that Lady Gaga.  Respect.


The Elephant In The Room

Published February 5, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am terrified of Snuggle The Bear.   Every time the creepy little furbot does his creepy little shuffle and starts talking in that baby voice I am reminded of how many times I tried to use that exact same voice to get my way with men.  Snuggle The Bear reminds me that I was once a giant loser asshole.   It’s not a thought that embarrasses me – it just pisses me off.  In fact – there is very little that embarrasses me as I get older – which I’m quite certain means I am about to give up on life.   When you are younger – everything rockets you to a place of insurmountable shame.  The older you get – the less you care.  This is possibly the only good thing that comes with being an older woman.  The sagging flesh, cellulite, gas, grey hairs and mind boggling amount of men who no longer notice your existence would be the bad things.   Last night my girlfriends Suzanne, Karen, and Lisa B tried to embarrass me while at dinner in Glendale.  They lied to the waiter and told him it was my birthday.  He delivered an ice cream sundae with a sparkler bigger than me shoved in it and forced the entire restaurant to sing happy birthday.  This did not phase me in the least.  If I’m already eating at an Armenian restaurant in Glendale that is lit up like the surface of the sun on a Saturday night with four girlfriends than I do not know the meaning of shame.   I was also wearing nude pantyhose.  Further proof I do not get embarrassed.  I have started telling people that nude hose are all the rage and that I am a trendsetter.  So far, I walk alone. Crickets.

I just found out that a friend of mine is pregnant and I almost feel badly because I’ve been telling everybody she looks like Miss Piggy and I don’t want to stop saying it just because she’s with child and no it’s not Jessica Simpson although she too looks like Kermit’s gal pal at this point.  My friend really does resemble this particular muppet however and it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s popping out a carbon copy of herself.  Thankfully she lives in another state so I don’t have to feel embarrassed FOR HER.   I am always stunned at the rate with which ugly people feel the need procreate.  It’s almost as if they don’t know they’re unattractive but don’t they have to know?  Doesn’t the ugly battering start when you’re a kid in school?  Haven’t horrible people been telling them they’re hideous since birth?  Maybe they have children so that together all the uglies will outnumber the pretties one day.  I knew not to have children because they would have gapped teeth, jew hair, and cellulite by the bucket load not to mention low self esteem until they turned forty.  I did not want to unleash that kind of ugly on the world.  I am positive that Hollywood will start putting a cap on ugly.  It can’t be good to have too many of them in this town.  It would taint the city.  This is not a thought that would embarrass a pretty person.  They would gladly wipe out ugly.  They only talk to each other anyway.  Have you ever seen a group of famous people that have one ugly friend?  I think not.

I wish the Republicans running for President felt some form of embarrassment or shame.  Maybe it would shut them the fuck up.  Strapping your dog to the roof of your car, planning to build a community on the moon, or wearing a sweater vest when you’re over the age of ten should turn you red in the face which is weird since that’s the color of their party and party is a weird name to use because it is the exact opposite of what these people plan for America.  I don’t think the elephant is the right symbol for the Republican party and I’d like to offer them another – Snuggle The Bear.  If it walks like an asshole and talks like an asshole…

Not So Pretty Woman

Published February 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If your wife catches you signing in to your Ashley Madison account – she should legally be allowed to blow your cock off.  Over 12.5 million people are signed up for this disgusting website and while I could be horribly wrong I would imagine 12.2 of them are men.  There are no pictures of hot men on the website – just nearly naked fully stupid women.  How do I know they’re stupid?  Because God divides.  The motto of the company is “life is short have an affair.”  Fuck you.   The newest jingle I hear every morning on The Howard Stern Show has lyrics like “I’m an Ashley Madison man doing what I can to save my family.”  I don’t even know if I believe in marriage but I’m going to become the biggest supporter of monogamy if these people don’t shut the fuck up and get off of the airwaves I listen to.  Why can’t we be like French people and just fuck other people while our wives are out buying more Chanel?  Why do Americans have to advertise their failures as human beings?  Ugh.  The founder of the company is a 39 year old dude who sounds suspiciously like one of my people – a Jew.  I’m revoking his card.

It’s not easy being a woman.  We have to deal with things that men don’t want to know about involving body parts they can’t stop thinking about.  Case in point – my niece – who had an incident yesterday you might be reading about in the L.A. Times this morning under the headline “Woman Shot in Boob at Julia Roberts hotel.”   Without going in to too much detail that would further humiliate her – I had sent her to my boob doctor to have a tiny thing checked out yesterday morning.  It was all good.  At 2pm it was not.  Amy was picked up at the famed Beverly Wilshire Hotel – where they shot Pretty Woman and Tom Cruise likes to dine at Wolfgang Pucks Cut restaurant –got into the car to go to an interview with an Oscar nominee – and looked down to see that her DVF dress was suddenly covered in blood.   Unless this was a new trick frock from Diane’s collection – there was a problem.  She is so dedicated to her job that she thought – I’ll just button my blazer and go but when the amount of blood pouring out of your lady parts exceeds a bullet to the brain – you gotta change direction.  Next thing Amy knew “she was sprawled out in the hotel lobby bathroom with her dress hiked up around her boobs and half the hotel staff knowing what her vagina looks like through tights.”  She had to be taken up to her room in a wheel chair to change and finally made it back to the doctor who said – oops must have hit a blood vessel.  I almost murdered all the doctors.  This is not how we do things in Hollywood.  Poor Amy was horrified and is now embarrassed that the hotel staff had to witness a blood bath where celebrities like to have brunch.  I tried to make her feel better and tell her they probably don’t even notice incidents like this at that hotel – after all Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty used to party there back in the 60’s.  These people have seen some shit go down.   I’m sure if I research it I’ll find out this hotel is where the Donkey Punch, Cleveland steamer, and Dirty Sanchez were all created.  Where do you think all the hookers that don’t tuck their penises hang out in LaLa land.  It’s like this at all of our fancy hotels.  The lobby of the Four Seasons should just let the escorts who work there have free rooms.    If Amy walked out of her room right now and door knocked the people next to her she would for sure find some douche in bed with someone who wasn’t his wife and if she’s lucky before she checks out today I will have a law passed that allows her to shoot that douche in the penis – and then her little catitrophe won’t feel so bloody awful.  For now, she will go back to a place no one will notice if you bleed from your boob – my real home – New York City.

Light, Bright & Tight

Published February 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Thanks to Maroon 5 singer Adam Levine – I have just been self diagnosed with ADHD or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder or Total Bullshit Made Up Disease.  I saw a PSA starring the hottest and smallest man in rock and roll urging me to take a quiz and find out if I too suffered from ADHD – so I did.  I scored a 15.  Scoring between 12-15 means I am ADHD Possible.  Holy fuck nuggets who knew?  It said I should not take the results as a diagnosis of any sort or a recommendation for treatment but it would be advisable and beneficial if I sought further diagnosis.  Well shut the front door I’m calling my doctor today.  If Adam Levine can score me hyperactivity drugs the way he scores hot vagina – I’m in.  I’m not sure how I feel about this disease.  Maybe it exists – or maybe you need a time out.  I know the brain is a confusing place but it seems like we find new ways to explain what we used to call a tic every day.

“17 year old Lydia Parker is now speaking out about the medical mystery that’s shocking the nation.  Lydia is one of 12 girls from an upstate New York High School who have all suddenly been struck with uncontrollable body movements that have been compared to Tourette’s Syndrome.”  Ruh Roh.  I’m going to go out on a limb now and say that news is definitely not shocking the nation.  Apparently they can’t stop shaking and jerking and it’s making their lives a living hell.  Holy Shizz.  I saw this riveting report on the most mysteriously high rated program – Inside Edition.  The sound was off at first so I thought it was an SNL sketch.  It’s almost impossible sometimes to tell the difference.  How that show is still on the air is proof that America is filled with white trash.     It’s been running non stop for 327 years which is exactly how old Deborah Norville is.  Les Trent broke this story.  He definitely has a picture of that Dorian guy in his closet.  As for these kids flailing around the television screen – a doctor examined them and said there is no way they are faking it but I call bullshit.  This is Faux-rette syndrome.  It’s the same as those nut bag high school whore girls who all wanted to become pregnant at the same time and started banging some homeless dude who thought he hit the jackpot.  I think everyone just wants to be part of a Lifetime Movie.   One doctor believes the girls are suffering from Mass Psychogenic Illness, which is a rare mass hysteria that is psychological and linked to stress and fuck I know what that is and I know the person who gave it to me.  If someone famous starts getting what Lydia has – there will be a telethon and a star packed PSA that will have it’s own theme song.

There’s an old expression you used to hear around news rooms back in the day – “If it bleeds it leads” – meaning the bloodier and more gruesome the story – the higher it goes in the show – most likely the “lead story.”  In Entertainment News we say – it’s “A Block worthy.”   We love when a celebrity is struck with some disorder because it helps in our whole build them up knock them down rebuild them plan.  Kim Kardashian has psoriasis,  Tom Cruise is dyslexic,  Howie Mandell is obsessive compulsive.  Etc. etc. etc.  Quite frankly I think Kim’s skin is just staging a coup and trying to leave her body.   I think when I’m famous I’m going to develop an affliction or more likely an addiction.  I’m going to make sure it’s hideously embarrassing for people to report.   I will get someone equally famous to write me a theme song and together we will make a PSA.  I will call it ABA – or Anal Bleaching Addiction.   I will not go into hiding.  I will take camera crews with me every time I get up on all fours at Pink Cheeks to have bleach poured on my anus.  I’ll be in the first segment of Inside Edition  and all the producers in the office will say Heidi Clements – welcome to the A Block.

Let The Fur Fly

Published January 24, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There should be a warning that comes on at the beginning of The Bachelor that says “please take your herpes medication now” because I am quite certain you will catch an STD just from watching one single episode of this parade of vileness.  You have to want to be on television really badly to end up in this dating pool of mentally deficient DNA.   I don’t care how old I sound but if there wasn’t a phrase that signaled the world is coming to an end – there is one now – “please accept this rose.”

I took a test this morning and found out that I am 48.6 years old, which is weird because I feel 49.2 years old on most days and 47.3 years old on really good days.   The quiz was designed to help me determine my real age and prompted me to “Live life to The Youngest” which already made me want to punch the quiz in the face.   Most of the questions were pretty normal but quite a few of them already had answers checked off when I popped into them.  For instance – the question about marital status had a little tick in the box next to “Never married, living alone” and while it was visible only to me – it also said loser right under the box – like a hologram.   High cholesterol was checked off to.  Duh.  It asked how often I participate in group activities like religious services, clubs, social groups and craft groups.  Unless they count Wicken meetings that was zero for me.   I want to know what the significance of these are for prolonging my life but I’m pretty sure that going to a book club with a bunch of wine soaked moms who love romance novels and need to discuss why Tristan left Felicia would have taken ten to twenty years off of my life.  My favorite question was – How often do you reach orgasm during sex?  I started to think that there was someone on the other end of the computer with his dick in his hands on this one just tricking me into an answer because really – if orgasms are going to make me live longer – than I am fucked for not being fucked.  Big time.  My favorite question however was the one I’m sure made me 48.6 and not 38.6.  It said “Check the statements below that are true. Answer honestly according to your own feelings.”  Ruh Roh.  This was the list of statements I was to choose one or two from.

1) I think many people use their bad luck to get sympathy and help from others.

2) It takes a lot of discussion to get people to believe the truth.

3) Most people are only honest out of a fear of being caught lying.

4) Most people will use somewhat unfair means to get or keep what they want.

5) Most people only make friends because they’re likely to be useful to them.

6) I’ve met a lot people who were supposed to be experts but who were no better than I.

7) People often demand more respect than they’re willing to give to others.

8) I think most people would lie to get ahead.

9) None of the above.

The only one I didn’t check was 9.   The quiz also asked me how many natural teeth I have so quite frankly it was a bit odd but I think the proof is in that I have some trust issues with humans and I’m pretty sure I’m too old to change how I feel.

Last night before I went to bed I made fur coats for my dogs Peaches and Tulip.  I used the massive amounts of their own fur that is lying around my house.   I could knit two entire dogs out of their shed hair but I don’t want PETA to come after me.   If my cleaning lady ever quits I will kill myself and despite my hatred for having everything covered in a coat of their coat – there is nothing that could make me love them less.  On the other hand, if a man had back hair that dropped off onto my couch – he’d be waxed or he’d be living outside in a crate.  If  a human being did any of the things my dogs did I would get rid of them instantly.  My dogs fart, shit in the house, burp, slobber, eat my shoes, pee on my couch, and vomit on my good rugs and yet they still get to sleep in my bed at night and I desperately try to spoon them despite their objections and despite the fact that my arm still hurts when I lie on my right side because Peaches broke it in three places dragging me off of my feet to eat a small dog back in June.  If a man did any of these things I would not find it cute and if one broke my arm he’d be in jail or dead because my friend Brian would kill him.   I need to change.  I need to become more tolerant so that I can date someone because I really need help paying half of my mortgage and I’m going to need a wheel up to the canasta table later in life and someone to restock my adult diapers when I get low.    I think these are good reasons to settle down.   If you see me on J date later don’t tell anyone my real age.  It’s 357 – in dog years.

I’ve Had Enuffington

Published January 23, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Somebody give The Huffington Post a big fat prize!  This wondrous website has brilliantly figured out what’s missing from my life and put it together in an uplifting little offshoot site called HuffPost 50.  I thought my level of disgust and capacity to be insulted had been reached with the creation of HuffPost Women – but now this new Huff-n-stuff promises to make me want to throw a noose around my neck and have Peaches kick the chair out from under me.  HuffPost Women already had some terrific articles I was ignoring like “The Ten Cities With The Most Sensitive Men” and “Dumped Via Text.”  I ignored both of these articles immediately because I don’t care where the sensitive men live.  Nobody wants to date a cryer.   Why not make me a flow chart of where all the assholes are – oh wait – I can do that one myself.  As for the dumped by text – if you’re a woman getting broken up with by a cell phone communication than you must have asked for it.   Either you talk too much when he calls and he couldn’t get a word in edgewise or you picked the wrong man.  Try dating down a little – like someone too young to spell or get approved for his own cell phone credit line.  This way he’ll have to ditch you in person.    Lower your standards people.   In case this site wasn’t dopey enough for you – HuffPost 50 promises to be a treasure trove of ideas for someone like me who is the typical 51 year old.  Two of the articles I found intriguing were “How to get your Doctor to love you” and “How to get your grandchild to stop lying.”  I have to say I’ve never really worried about how to get my Doctor to love me.  For the most part I try to focus on how to get him to give me free drugs.  Maybe this is what I’m doing wrong.  I don’t have any grand kids so that article can just go fuck off.  If someone could figure out how to get people to stop lying to me that would be a bonus.   Where’s that article?  There was also a fabulous cringe worthy story called how to embrace your grey roots.  Listen up everyone, the people running this website are without a doubt smoking the fattest crack bowl in the history of mankind.  There is nothing sexy about grey hair.  I will continue to spend money getting rid of my greys and when it becomes grey pubic hair I’m calling the police.  None of these articles can help me.  I need someone to write a story that tells me how to use the word “foolishness” more or how to kill someone with just my eyes.  That would be useful to me.   Where’s the story about how to turn gas into electricity – and I’m not talking about the kind you get at the pump.  Nobody really wants to hear about life after fifty.  Even the newest shows about this age are produced for the web only which is ironic because most fifty year olds only know how to go on Facebook and then they even screw that up when they write a dumb embarrassing post on your wall because they thought they were sending you a private message.   “Hey Heidi – remember when we fucked?”  Uhm yeah.  Now my mom knows too.  Thanks Uncle Tim.

Yesterday I went to see a movie that made me super happy I didn’t have kids.   It is every fear I’ve ever had about having children all rolled into one.  It’s called “We Need To Talk About Kevin” and it’s so fucking dark I needed to come home and roll around on the floor with my dogs for about an hour to wash the creepy off of me.   It’s basically about a mother who gives birth to a monster and how she still manages to love him after he takes out an entire school of kids, her husband and her daughter.   Sorry I forgot to say spoiler alert.  I kept thinking – what would I do?  I’d like to pretend I’d disown the loon and move very far away but my kid Peaches bit someone once pretty violently and I didn’t turn my back on her.  I can only hope that if something like this happens to me I’ll be able to consult a website like HuffPost Murder because I will need somewhere to turn for guidance and a “like” button.

The Golden Moron Award

Published January 22, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It’s becoming increasingly difficult to tell the difference between a Hollywood hipster and a homeless person.  They both seem to be shopping at the same unnecessary hat store.    Yesterday I handed a guy in a ski cap a dollar outside the supermarket.  He was waiting for his wife to come out.  He was pissed.  I say take the dollar.  You can always use it to go get another hat.  I enjoy freedom of expression – especially in clothing – I just want to know whom I’m supposed to feel sorry for and whom I’m supposed to point and laugh at.  I don’t like being confused.  I also don’t carry that many singles on me so I don’t like wasting them.  I always feel like I’m at some weird awards show in the middle of the street and the homeless person is making an acceptance speech because they always thank Jesus when I give them money.

I spent the morning at the Apple store yesterday due to an unfortunate accident with my iPhone.  Some asshole dropped it on my wood floor and the screen shattered.  It’s exhausting only having myself to blame.  I’m going to get a boyfriend today so I can pass off some of the finger pointing or I may just get a fake mustache and beard so that when I look in the mirror in disgust someone else is looking back.  There was an old man at the genius bar while I was there waiting with a printout of questions he had for the computer whiz.  It was three pages long.   I’m pretty sure the first one said – how do I turn this thing on.  I felt really badly for the old guy who was just trying to keep up with technology but even worse for the genius trying to help him.  These guys are complete saints.  I don’t know how they know what they know but they are the most helpful people in the world. They never get mad or yell.  They must smoke a lot of pot.   They deserve an awards show.

Last night in Los Angeles was the 62nd Annual Golden Mic Awards.  Yes, for the 62nd year in a row the sold out show given by the Radio & Television News Association of Southern California handed out trophies to men and women in categories like Best Weather Segment and Best Traffic Report.  Here’s how you report those two categories.  1) It’s sunny.  2) There’s traffic on the 405.   I was hoping there was a Best Sigalert category but I hear they killed that one due to time.  There was however a “Best News Broadcast under 30 minutes airing between 4pm and Midnight” and even a “Best News Broadcast Under 15 Minutes.”   I’m not sure where that one airs.   For those of you who have been laughing at the Left Coast for years – today I laugh with you.  We are moronic with our Awards shows.  Tom Brokaw was honored.  I bet he wanted to kill himself.  I bet I know where his Golden Mic is right now.   I saw some videotape of the awards dinner.  It looked like a ballroom inside a cruise ship and I’m pretty sure I heard the band form the Costa Concordia playing.  I don’t want to knock anyone who got an award –  but aren’t we just rearranging deck chairs on the Titanic when we start handing out trophies for  “Best Use of Sound in a Sports Report?”    The News Ship is going down people.

I’ve decided to jump on the trophy bandwagon and today will be hosting the first annual Moron Awards in my living room.  I’m still firming up the categories but I already have a stellar list of presenters like the entire Kardashian family, Captain Francesco Schettino,  all of the Republican Presidential candidates, and my neighbor who always puts his trash can out in front of my house where I park.  Joe Paterno had to drop out at the last second.   He was not only going to present but he was set to receive a lifetime achievement award.   Apparently you can die from extreme shame which is bad news for me who spent the entire night watching Lifetime movies and being jealous of people who win awards.  I’d actually be thrilled to get any kind of award.  I would proudly display a Golden Mic.  I’d put it on my mantle and every morning I’d tap it and say – is this thing on.  Then I’d chuckle.  It’s the little things.

Vagina Found In Bag

Published January 20, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Los Angeles is obsessed with the story of a severed head found in a bag near our famed Hollywood sign.  Word is the police think it’s an Armenian head although I’m not sure how they can tell unless there was a massive amount of nose hair and the smell of Drakar Noir wafting from the plastic bag.  I’m dying to know what kind of grocery bag it was found in because I want to know if I’m shopping with killers.  What if the kale I had for dinner was  touched by the hand that left a head in the Hollywood Hills?  And now it’s not just a head – they’ve also found two hands and two feet.  A dog walker discovered the bagged head while walking her nine dogs.  This is my biggest problem with this story so far.  These lunatics who traipse packs of killer dogs all over the hills is more terrifying to me than finding a Trader Joe Organ bag.

The concept of human remains found in Hollywood is most troubling to police because that’s where Brad and Angelina live.   You can’t have heads in bags found where celebrities live with their heads up their asses.  These people cannot know about real shit happening in their own backyards.  Murder and mayhem cannot be touching their property lines.  What’s the resale on that house going to sound like?  Christina Aguillera and a head in a bag lived here.  Granted there were probably ten heads found in trash cans in Compton last week alone but fiddle dee dee no one famous lives there.  This story is like the Black Dahlia all over again.  Some douche nugget producer is probably already casting the Lifetime Movie version of this right now.   I hope they get a Kardashian to play the head.  I won’t be taking Peaches and Tulip to the Hollywood Hills dog park any more although I really stopped doing that the last time Peaches tried to eat someone.  She didn’t like the noise her little dog made – and so she brilliantly tried to take out the bigger party – the owner.  Oops.

Today at work I bled through my pants – four times.  For those of you who didn’t just click off in complete disgust or choke on the vomit that rose up in your mouth – this means that as I move through my 51st year of life – I still don’t know how to use a tampon.  I’m sitting there minding my own business having just been to the ladies room fifteen minutes earlier and blam  – it was like being shot in the vagina.  I gave birth to a ten pound blood baby but I couldn’t shove it in the trash bin like a high school prom girl would have and I now had a pretty uncomfortable version of J Blood skinny jeans on.   This is not the way life is supposed to go for me at this point.  I’m supposed to be thin and fabulous and moving into some nice menopausal space where everything is a little sweaty but okay.  I’m not supposed to be wandering the halls of a television show with a bloodbath between my legs.  I have never wished so hard to be empty inside.   I need period Depends.  Preferably in pink.  Do they make those?  We are now talking about 38 years of menstruating, four days a month, 12 months a year.  It’s a bloody mess and I seriously can’t take it anymore.   I’m tired and nauseous and my stomach is so distended it feels like it’s going to explode and quite frankly it did – four times – in the office – in my pants.  Ugh.

Today I’m wrapping up my vagina in a Ralph’s plastic recyclable bag and dumping it under one of the O’s in the Hollywood sign.   Maybe the cops will think it’s part of the severed head story and quite frankly after all these years of torture this thing should be front page news – at least once.

Poop T.V.

Published January 19, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Mark Wahlberg was clearly hopped up on goofballs the other day when he revealed to the world his biggest secret – that he could have stopped the planes from crashing into the World Trade Towers on 9/11.  That’s how good an actor he is.   Walhberg said “If I was on that plane with my kids, it wouldn’t have went down like it did. There would have been a lot of blood in that first-class cabin and then me saying, ‘OK, we’re going to land somewhere safely, don’t worry.’”  What’s most offensive to me about this statement other than his poor use of the English language is that his kids would have been in first class with him.  Kids belong in coach or as I’ve said dozens of times – in the overhead bins with a nice fluffy pillow and a bottle.  The only thing more annoying than a terrorist in the first class cabin is a child.  This statement almost makes me understand why the government wants to censor the internet because I’m sure there are about twenty three websites about to go up called “Shit Mark Wahlberg Says” causing me to rip all of the hairs out of my head one at a time.  I wouldn’t mind this whole SOPA deal if they just went after the right people… like the ones who tell me what they ate on Facebook complete with pictures.  You’re lack of ingenuity when it comes to food is depressing me.   I know what grilled salmon looks like.  I don’t need a photo essay.

People are up in arms right now about the little girl on “Modern Family” who dropped a bleeped out f bomb on t.v.  By the way the word she used during taping was fudge.  I immediately of course wanted to adopt her.  If I could buy a cursing child I would.  If not, I would totally teach my own two year old to curse.  She would be my favorite party guest.  I would take her everywhere as my amazing fucking child.  When people at the supermarket pissed me off I’d poke her and she who would look at them and say – “fuck you – you cunt.”     That’s how you shut someone up.   Want to win a road rage argument – have your kid flip the bird to the guy in the other car.  Ding Ding Ding you win.  The Parents Television Council aka The Annoying People Who Have No Lives And Don’t Live In The Real World Council are chastising the show for allowing this episode to air.  For the love of god and all that is holy – find me a family that hasn’t gone through the issue of a kid learning a curse word by accident and I’ll find you a family that lives in a root cellar with no television and no outsiders who have actually never left the shack they live in and have a lifetime supply of canned food.  Why can’t the PTC focus on truly offensive television?  Where were they all those years “Yes Dear” was on?

All I know is I hope this group of fuckwits doesn’t come after the new Suzanne Somers show.   It’s called Suzanne Somers Breaking Through and one of the first things she’s breaking through about is poop.  She wants everyone to go ahead and look at their Number Twos.  This is something I can get behind – literally.  Suzanne is going to tell us what color it should be, how many times a day we should do it and what kinds of foods will help us with our shitacular lives.   How can we live in a world where this kind of topic could be censored when I want to replay it on the internet?  What is the world coming to?  I wish the government would focus on things that really mess up my life like the fact that companies are really chintzing out on tampon strings lately.  I had to send in a search team to find mine this morning.  I guess I should have just called Marky Mark.

Driving Miss Crazy

Published January 18, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

In a shocking new study conducted just this morning by me in my slippers – I have uncovered that Pinkberry Yogurt may in fact drive you to kill.  I don’t know if it’s the plain, green tea, mango or peanut butter but you may want to back away from all of the bizarre who would think of those for yogurt flavors.  The man who founded the chain of yogurt that has no yogurt in it was arrested for chasing down and beating a homeless man with a tire iron.  He actually had to leave his Rolls Royce in the middle of the street to do this.  His name is Young Lee.  My old hairdressers name is also Young Lee.  I am praying there is more than one of these in Los Angeles.  I really like my old hairdresser and I don’t want to visit him in jail.  I go to Korea Town to have him cut my hair but that’s my limit on travel for Young.  The story is that a person begging for money near an off ramp of a highway here in Los Angeles almost lost his life when he asked the Pinkberry King for money.   Maybe he was begging using a TCBY cup?  I keep thinking about my homeless friend John who has his own corner.  What if someone did that to him?  Police don’t really know what led to the exchange but I do.  Road Rage.  Here in California it’s our national angry bird.

If you want to kill someone in a truly torturous way, put them in the drivers seat of a car in Los Angeles in rush hour traffic.  It is unreal and surreal.  It is inexplicable just how awful it is.  It will make you scream to no one and bang your steering wheel like you’re in a secret casting for the movie Taxi 2.  It’s the kind of scene that would send Mother Theresa and a station wagon filled with nuns over the edge.  My friend Don says it’s one of the main reasons he won’t move here.  I now can officially say – I don’t blame him.  I don’t drive during rush hour all that often but yesterday I got stuck in Santa Monica at 5 pm.   It started as a real Sophie’s Choice.  Do I take the highway or the roads?  Pick the wrong way and you die.  I chose the streets.  Turns out either choice would have killed me.  It was like the  final scene in the movie Field of Dreams, stuck in a long snaking line of traffic that literally did not move for one and a half hours and there was no prize at the end.  I had to pee.  I was starving.  The radio portion of Howard Stern was one I had already heard – three times.  I kept craning my neck out the window to see what the hold up was but it was a black hole with red lights.   I had stopped to get something for dinner right before I got in the car to journey home.  I had no idea it would become breakfast.  The smell of turkey meatballs wafted through the car my entire drive slowly sending me into a frothy rage.  I turned the glove box upside down looking for something to eat them with but a Bic pen cap just didn’t cut it.  I dropped one on the floor and still haven’t found it.  I will be adding a cutlery section and entire serving area to my car.  I’m also turning my drivers seat into a toilet bowl.  If I had only purchased those new pull up Depends I would have been fine.  I have never been so jealous that boys can pee into things like bottles.  It took me three hours to travel 11 miles.

I can safely say that I will never be on the road during rush hour again but I will continue to stop and give money to a homeless man or woman on the road no matter how many assholes behind me beep because I am slowing them down.   If you are one of those people you may want to think twice before ticking me off.  I now carry butter knives and can fork you to death.


The Pajama Man Cometh

Published January 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’m pretty sure my ADT man is a member of the Russian Mafia or a serial killer.   I didn’t look to see if he had the mafia rose tattoo on his chest – because I was too busy looking for his blade and glock.  The guy was about 6’5”, bald, and had a very heavy accent.  I have no idea what he was saying but there was a lot of beeping.  He was kind of hot.  Not skunk man hot – but pretty sexy.  I guess he could have been a reality show star from that Russian Dolls show.  I tried to let this distract me instead of the visions I was having which involved me being tortured for information.  I don’t know what kind of knowledge that would be, but it didn’t stop the hamster wheel inside my head from spinning.   It’s my nature as a Jew to be untrustworthy of people and so I followed the Russian Mafia Alarm Man everywhere in my house and when I didn’t see him for ten minutes I immediately thought he was in my bedroom trying on my panties because that’s what creepy ADT killer men do right before they gut you and make Russian sausages out of you.  Peaches and Tulip were out getting baths so Lola the Chihuahua was my only protection which is like holding a a spoon up to a killer and saying – back off man – a spoon wearing a Paul Frank doggie sweater.

It’s kind of ridiculous the amount of men I let into my house to do stuff I’m not allowed to do.  There’s the ADT guy, Marvin the gardener and his entire crew, the Termite guy, the Phone guy, the Locksmith guy, the Water guy, the DHL, FEDEX, and UPS guy.  They have all stood in my house while I look for a pen or a check or a credit card and possibly scoped the place out to steal my valuables like my Ikea dishes, my CB2 mugs, or my very valuable dog hair covered everything.  I would like to know the kind of process these companies go through when it comes to clearing the people who work for them.   From where I stand it doesn’t look like a very difficult process and can’t possibly be more than filling out one piece of paper that says name and phone number.  I doubt there’s a box to check that says Serial Killer.   I’ve had some major loonies in my house.  The problem is – you can’t tell they’re insane until they’re inside and then what do you do?  Club them with a juicer?  Who do you call  when something does go down?  I can barely get ADT to respond when the alarm does go off and that’s kind of their job.  I know back in the old days it was a popular theme for lonely women at home to have sex with the dudes who showed up at their house but if I ever had sex with the cable guys that  have come to my place I’d be arrested for interfering with the mentally handicapped.

The television show “Work It” was cancelled this week after just two episodes.  The show was a horrible new take on a horrible old show called Bosom Buddies because that’s how desperate we are now – we’re creating new shows from shitty old shows.  It featured two men in drag.  High-larious.   In one write up about the show it was called “controversial.”  The only thing about this show that was controversial was that it was incredibly unfunny.    How come nobody has ever done the show where two women dress up as men in order to fit in to their world which means getting higher paychecks, fucking the office help, getting constant promotions where the work is inferior and pee standing up?  That would be a cool show.  Women shoving socks in their suits and hanging out at board meetings to talk about women’s asses is something I believe is missing from the network lineup. Maybe it already exists or maybe I just gave some development executive the idea of a lifetime!!!

Tomorrow at my office is the first annual EXTRA pajama day.  Everyone has to come to work in pj’s.  This is how to make everyone equal.  See what they wear to bed.  I will be bringing Sergei the ADT man because I can’t get him out of my house.  He sleeps in feety pajamas – with one eye open.


Dead Girl Tweeting

Published January 13, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If you listen very closely right now I’m pretty sure you can hear Justin Halpern the writer behind the twitter phenom and sitcom “Shit My Dad Says” screaming from the anal tearing he has to feel each and every time another douchetard comes up with another way to say Shit My Whatever The Fuck Said.  The first time was probably flattering.  The second time may have seemed cute-ish.  The third time was definitely annoying.  And now as we reach number 7,642 – it’s got to be down right fucking ponderous not to mention a hideous reminder of what was.    Maybe he doesn’t feel this way at all.  Maybe he’s okay with the fact that his brilliant idea got turned into a network version of itself and got cancelled and now he has to listen to all of you verbally rape him daily.  Maybe he has sixteen other dads and so he has sixteen other great ideas and doesn’t mind the constant minute by mind numbing minute reminder that he came up with the whole Shit Being Said thing.  I don’t know.   I’d be pissed says the girl who changed the uber popular Book of Mormon into The Book of Moron.   If I see one more Shit Somebody Said I’m going to take someone out.  I also don’t care what you’re listening to on Spotify all day long.  I can’t hear it.  I don’t want to know it.  You’re slowly driving me insane.  That’s what I’m listening to on Spotify – the sound of my ears bleeding from your spotify status updates about shitty music.  I’m going to start a site called Poopify.  It will update you every time I poop.  You will be thrilled.  You will imitate me and tell me when you pooped.  The interweb will be filled with people updating other people about their poop.  It will be amazing.  It will be craptastic.

I was watching a fantastic t.v. show tape today featuring a truly remarkable psychic medium.  For protection purposes lets call him James Van Capital of The Czech Republic.  He was counseling a woman who’s boyfriend had been killed and he was telling her that the boyfriend was right there with them at that very second.  She was pretty destroyed from his death and this medium was talking so fast I felt like he was battering her with his words.  He was clearly on speed dial with the dead guy and the dead guy would not shut the fuck up.  “He used to play the guitar right?”  Crickets.  “You keep his earrings with you at all times don’t you – in fact you have them with you now.”  Crickets.  Then – “Well I was thinking about bringing them with me but I didn’t. “   “Yes, I knew that. He wants you to know he sees the big furry dog jumping on the bed.”  “Uhm – we didn’t have a dog.”  “Okay – he says the wings tattoo you got is a great representation of what he meant to you.”  “Actually I got a heart tattoo.”  “Really, pull your sleeve up?  Let me see.”  I wanted to call security.  This guy could not get one thing right until he said – “You have a notebook that you write in and you brought it with you and wrote on the plane ride here, and he was with you.”  The control room went silent.   I don’t know how he knew but he knew.  The guy was most definitely there.  Everyone was very excited.  All I could picture was that Twilight Zone episode where William Shatner kept seeing a gremlin on the plane wing and I thought there are dead people we used to know flying around on wings watching us.  I love anything psychic or medium or channeling or any of those people who talk to people who can’t talk to us but I started thinking about how creepy it would be if your dead loved one was just always there watching you.  Maybe it would be comforting.  I’ve been blessed in life not to have lost too many people, yet.  I think if I fell in love with someone and I lost them I would be not be able to be fixed.  That would be a deep kind of broken for me.  Especially since at this point I will have waited fifty one fucking years to find him.  If I left first – I would haunt the fuck out of him.  I would make sure he saw me or felt me every chance I could.  I would log on to his computer at night and fill his Facebook page with status updates that say “Heidi is listening to Tears in Heaven on Spotify.”  I would open a twitter account called Shit My Dead Girlfriend Says and he would smile.

Whore to Door

Published January 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I drove behind a Mary Kay Cosmetics car on my way to work today.  I had no idea someone was still doing this for a living but I guess there are a lot of shut-ins in desperate need of lipstick and foundation.  Perhaps if you’re fused to the couch you at least want to be wearing a nice blush.  It wasn’t a pink Cadillac like back in the day, it was a dull grey van, which I found super disappointing because if you’re going to sling nail polish and eye liner out of the back of a trunk – that trunk shouldn’t look like it also holds chloroform and dead kids – it should at least be attached to an atrocious Pepto Bismol colored gas guzzling automobile.  I don’t know that I’d hand my face over to a woman in a plain grey SUV with a logo I could barely read.  There are quite a few Mary Kay’s I don’t want telling me how to apply makeup – Olsen, Latourneau, etc.  The company slogan is “enhancing women’s lives” which it says right on the car .  I believe this may be a bit of an oversell.  I enjoy my Giorgio Armani foundation quite a bit but I don’t think an application has ever enhanced my life.  Maybe I’m using it wrong.  Maybe I need someone from Armani to come show me how to use it.  That would never happen.  I’ve never had one of those in store makeovers because you end up looking like Cruella Deville or Madam and then they pack you up “your bag” of makeup items and you have to sell your kid in exchange for the goods.  You never know how to put it on the same way anyway and if you don’t write it down you won’t remember what product goes where and you’ll end up with eye liner as lip liner and that’s not a good look as my friend Kelley who put hers on in the dark one day by accident can attest to.  I counted my lipsticks this morning.  I have 43.  That’s not counting glosses of which I have 16 or lip liners of which I have 27.  I have been in search of the perfect pink for 36 years.  Maybe I need to switch to Mary Kay.

I love the fact that in this day of getting every thing you need on line there are still companies willing to come to your house to get you hooked on their product. The way this country is going though those Mary Kay ladies will just be selling from their cars to yours but I guess we should always look our best even when our back seat is our bed.  I wish my supermarket would come to my house and use chefs to come to my kitchen and cook a little something for me.  How do you feel about edamame?  Don’t know?  Chef Ralph will be over at three to cook a little thai peanut chicken and see how you feel about it.  In fact, if I could do all my shopping at my house I would be thrilled.  Buying pants from the back of a van would certainly cut down on the sick feeling I get every time I see myself in my underpants in fluorescent lighting.  The only thing worse are the group dressing rooms at Loehmanns and let me tell you I have seen some choices in undergarments that were not only terrifying – they were confusing and possibly life altering.

I feel a little disappointed by Google today.  It’s the standard red blue yellow and green Google.  One of the highlights of my day is seeing what the logo on the search engine will look like.  It seems to be different every day and I think that must be an awesome job if you work for the company – the person who gets to remake the Google.  If you go back and look at some of the designs they’re kind of remarkable.  They’re officially called Google Doodles and the original doodler was a kid named Dennis Hwang who now has an entire team of people who help him create his logos.   I sent Dennis a letter this morning and asked if he and his team could work on Mary Kay’s image.  I haven’t heard back but I’m sure they’re busy creating a look for tomorrow which is National Make Your Dream Come True Day.  It’s also Blame Someone Else Day which is I guess what you do when your dreams don’t come true.  Unless you’re a Mary Kay Cosmetics gal – and then every day is a dream because you’re enhancing someone’s life.

The Salad Tosser

Published January 11, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

In a sign that can only mean the end of the world as we know it – Hostess has filed for bankruptcy.  I may never get to eat a deep fried Twinkie and I’m really mad about it.  The end of individually foil wrapped Ring Dings and Yodels was almost more than I could bear but now there will be no more Ho Ho’s, Zingers, Sno Balls and Ding Dongs – not to mention Fruit Pies?  What is happening to my America?   What kind of life am I supposed to look forward to if I can’t at least envision living in my car while eating a Hostess Cupcake?  My youth is disappearing right before my very eyes not to mention the cancer cells I’ve most definitely derived from these products but I don’t care – I want my fucking Suzy Q!!   I don’t know who to write to about this injustice but there is seriously something wrong with America when the Donette could disappear from store shelves forever.  Apparently the company is 860 billion dollars in debt so whomever hasn’t been paying for their mother fucking Twinkies – start forking over the cash now before I have a completely oil based filling breakdown.  If you have to grow up in this country without the joy of biting into a completely manufactured carcinogenic cake filled with a heart attack than you may not grow up to be any kind of American at all.

Dilemma – this morning at the supermarket a woman said to me “You have gorgeous hair.”  She then launched into a three minute conversation slash argument with herself.  Do I take the compliment?   Crazy people are constantly telling me things – paying me compliments – and I don’t know if they are having one moment of sanity when they look at me or if this is the continuation of their crazy.  Maybe they went nuts from lying to total strangers all the time and I’m actually making them nuttier?   The amount of lunatics inside my supermarket is astounding.  It’s like a mental ward on some days – brightly lit with music playing and people wandering around the aisles muttering to themselves.  I always feel like I’m buying mustard in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s nest.  I go to the supermarket everyday because I can’t figure out what I want to eat more than one day out and my new job at work is making salads.  Oh how the mighty have fallen.  Actually it’s a job I created because I finally get to cook for someone.  I am the salad master.  I can make a salad appetizing enough to make it your prison meal – the last meal you ever get before they fry your ass.  That’s a good fucking salad.  Every day I march into the kitchen with my giant bowl and knife and cutting board and a bag of ingredients I picked up that day at the supermarket and by 12:30 Lisa G, Theresa, Jeremy and I are feasting on something pretty darn good.  It’s becoming an addiction – a crouton cult if you will.  All we do is talk about what will be the salad lunch and it’s becoming the only thing we talk about.  I’m desperate to up my salad making skills because you can be talented at what you do but if you can feed people you will never lose your job.  It’s like an episode of Survivor in the office every day and I’m the Ozzie hitting the ocean to bring back fresh fish.  I went on the internet at work yesterday to look up new recipes and got succotashed… that’s when you try to watch porn or puppies being killed and the company deems the material to dirty to view at work and a Sylvester the cat cartoon pops up and says Suffering Succotash that site is no good you disgusting piglet who likes to watch a man blow himself at your desk.  All I did was type in fresh green salads which obviously translated into salad tossing which trust me I keep that activity inside my prison cell.

Today in honor of the Hostess Holocaust I will be making a deep fried twinkie salad.  Lunch is at 12:30 if you care to join.  But you gotta toss it yourself.

Politicking Me Off

Published January 8, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

In the biggest DUH statement of 2012 so far – Kristy McNichol has announced she’s gay.  We know Kristy.  We’ve always known.  Buddy likes chicks.  I have zero problem with this – in fact I’m super happy we live in a world where it’s almost okay for Kristy to make this announcement – but it is an election year and if something completely crazy happens and one of these Republican candidates makes his or her way into the Oval office – all bets are off – and all homosexuals will probably be shipped to their own island.  It will be like Survivor with better clothing and really good restaurants.  What I know about politics can fit inside a thimble so I decided to do some research this morning and read about the candidates throwing their hats and mental instability into the Republican ring.   I started with who has already dropped out – just to make sure I understood how nuts they were.  Herman Cain couldn’t keep it in his pants but I can’t count that because I don’t know a powerful man who can -especially one running for or already in office.   However, Herman Cain is a shockingly dopey dude.  He once said “stupid people are ruining the country.”  I guess he thought stupid people should be running the country.  Now he’ll never get his chance.  Oh well.  Bye bye Herman.  Sarah Palin and Michele Bachman both dropped out and the only reason they were in in the first place is because they were pretty.  My favorite thing Bachman did was wish Elvis Presley happy birthday on the anniversary of his death.  She also thinks you can “suffer” from mental retardation which I guess makes sense since it’s something she suffers from.  I almost want to elect her for the fun of it.  She would be awesome to mock on a daily basis.  She makes George Bush look like a human being.  America loves a hot candidate.  We will put sexy in the White House over an actual viable candidate every time.  If Ryan Gosling ran – we’d elect him.  Hot can run a country.  Hot is what makes America a great and powerful leader.  Rick Perry is not hot – he is also extremely dumb.  He doesn’t know the voting age, he thinks we are at war with Iran, he doesn’t know what century the American Revolution was in, and he doesn’t know how many Supreme Court justices we have.  Then again, I don’t think I do either.  I have three things to say about Rick Perry.  1) He’s dumb 2) He’s an idiot 3) I can’t remember the third but it doesn’t matter.  Rick Perry has a degree in animal science – so if we ever elect a president of the animal kingdom… Peaches and Tulip said they’ll vote for him.  Maybe he should have a chat with Mitt Romney who strapped his dog to the roof of his car and said PETA doesn’t like him because his dog likes fresh air.  No Mitt – PETA doesn’t like you because you’re vile.   He’s out.  This Mitt belongs on a baseball field… not the White House Lawn.   Jon Huntsman scares me because he has the handsome factor and he’s adopted children from China and India.  This is dangerous.   Rick Santorum is completely unstable.  He is pro life, anti gay, and actually wanted to legally punish people who didn’t leave New Orleans when hurricane Katrina struck.  He also said he will be awake and ready when an important call comes in to the White House at 3 a.m. because he will already know what’s going on in the world so apparently he’s not just psychotic – he’s psychic.  I hope he sees that the White House is not in his future.  Ron Paul thinks sexual harassment victims are also at fault because they didn’t leave the harassing situation and that AIDS victims should be blamed for forcing innocent citizens to pay for their health care.  He’s a fucking loon.   When asked if he ever actually sees himself in the Oval Office he said no.  Okay so he’s not a total idiot.  Newt Gingrich is a penis.   His sexual deviance may or may not be overlooked but his stupidity can’t.

I’m embarrassed by all of these people.    My parents were democrats so I was basically raised to be one as well.   That seems to be how it works for most people.  I know everyone is unhappy with what Obama has or hasn’t done and he has pretty much been dubbed the pussy President and for once not because of affairs but because of his weakness.  It’s going to be an interesting year.  I still don’t know a dam thing about politics other than my tax situation sucks and everything I own is worth less than I paid for it.  I would like someone to fix that.  I don’t want to hear about your hideous views against homosexuality and I don’t want you to think it’s a good idea for you to decide when I terminate a pregnancy.

One of the greatest minds in the world  – Stephen Hawking – recently announced that there is still one big mystery in the universe that continues to perplex him – Women.    He must never have studied Republicans.

Pop Goes The Rodent

Published January 6, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There was a large dead black rat next to my drivers side door in the parking lot at Trader Joes yesterday that I saw on my way back from shopping which means – there was a large dead black rat next to my drivers side door when I arrived that I clearly didn’t see and walked right past and probably stepped right over and what if it jumped out of it’s dead state and bit me.  Vomit.   I don’t know how Michael Jackson ever wrote a song to a rat.  I don’t care how cute Ben was.  They are such a level of disgusto that I can’t even think of it now without getting the complete heebie jeebies and hives.  I wanted to immediately toss everything in my bags because I know exactly where dead rat walking must have been before he ended up next to my car  – inside Trader Joes  –  gnawing on my freeze dried mangos and steel cut oatmeal or whatever dumb Trader Joe name those people come up with for some delicious food item that makes me feel dumb when I buy it.  Yes, Trader Joes is another place I feel like an asshole when I have to ask for something.  “I can’t reach the Trader Tater Tots.  Can someone help me?” Nothing is simple.  I had to ask the parking Valet to come get the rat so I could get back in my car but he looked at me as if I asked him to remove a boulder from my roof or my bladder.  He had dopey white gloves on so I don’t know what the big deal is.  Actually, I don’t know why they have a parking lot guy anyway.  All he does is stand there and wave you in to a clearly open spot.  A mental patient and I can do this on our own.    Then again – the guy looked like he had just been rescued from a Thai teenage hooker sweep.  He literally just pointed at the rat and laughed at me so I had to get in through the passenger side door which meant hiking up my pretty dress and hauling my fat ass over the hump in the middle of the seat.  So the opposite of sexy.  What if the guy watching the security video of the parking lot in the back of the store thought I was cute.  What if he was about to ask me on a date just then – it could happen – and this deterred him.  Once I got in the car and locked all the doors and rolled up all the windows, I started to pull out and noticed there was a couple in their car waiting to pull in so I did them a kindness and said “there’s a large dead rat over there.”  They could have fucking cared less.  They wanted their Joe Bananas, or Joe Cakes, or Joe Cigarettes real bad.  They may have wanted the cleverly Mexican themed line of food – Trader Jose.  Nothing says racist like a Trader Jose Taquito.  If you ever walk out of that store paying more than twenty dollars – then you have bought enough groceries for an entire year.  The place is astounding.

I heard a report on the radio the other day that a man was suing the makers of Mountain Dew because he found a dead rat in his soda can.  The Mountain Dew people actually had the nerve to tell the man that it was impossible that he found a dead rat in his can because there is no way a rat body could have remained whole inside a sealed can of their delicious Mountain Dew.  In fact they said, the rat must have crawled in after he opened it because the rat carcass would have been completely dissolved by their soda pop had it been in there since canning.  Holy stomach tearing – anyone who drinks soda after hearing that – clearly wants to die.   Right now that cola you’re sipping on is boring a hole through all of your innerds like you read about.  Try the battery acid.  It’s delicious.  I thank god my parents didn’t let us drink soda.  We were raised on Kool Aid which I’m quite certain was powdered cancer mixed with water but it was a drink I grew out of.  I hear Diet Coke is more addictive than crack and heroine and cigarettes and  louboutin shoe purchasing which leads me to the conclusion that it has to be terrible for you.  All I know is when I drink a soda I could burp the National Anthem in one fell swoop.  That shit is gassy and I know gassy.

The concept of rodents in food is as old as the concept of a rodent up Richard Gere’s ass and both types of stories have the same effect on me.  I don’t really believe it until I see it with my own eyes and while I was horrified by my Trader Rodent – he didn’t look like he had been inside anyone’s coke can or inside anyone’s ass.   So there’s that.

Leave Your Hateful Message After The Beep

Published January 5, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I went to a Plastic Surgery Convention yesterday called Neiman Marcus in Beverly Hills.  I know I’m not supposed to be shopping but there’s a big sale on and I’m a Jew and I’m quite certain I’ll be arrested if I don’t show up or have my “I’m a Proud Hebe” card taken away.  I think the big stores send out some kind of mating call or spray Los Angeles with the scent of corned beef and chopped liver on rye because I was literally drawn there like a magnet.  My friend Lisa had to pick up some clothes she ordered – also known as – things she’ll be hiding from her husband Gary – and Theresa needed some nice dresses – also known as – things we’ll never see because she has to wear them under a giant sweater because our office is a meat locker.  I just took notes.  Well I may have bought something.  Don’t tell Bank of America or either of my two mortgage companies.  Or my husband – who probably died in Vietnam or lives in London.  While waiting downstairs to go inside – an eighty year old woman and her Asian helpmate wandered up – well shuffled up really.  She was done head to toe in what could only be called a sailor look.  Not really a sailors outfit but everything had the mariner theme – down to a little white hat with anchors on it.  She had on all the makeup they have at all of the counters in Neiman’s and nothing was going to stop this woman from getting inside that sale and teaching it a thing or two.  On her way in – another 80 year old was on her way out.  Her hair looked like strawberry cotton candy and she waltzed out like it was Dancing With The Stars and the Valet was her partner.   She stopped and whipped around and said to the other octogenarian “you look marvelous.”   Sailor Sade said “I do?”  Now I don’t know if her cataracts were so thick that she actually has no idea what she is wearing or she has incredibly low self esteem but if it’s the later than that’s it I’m totally done.  If I’m not feeling great about myself by the time I get to be that age – count me the fuck out now.   I really hope that by the time I’m eighty – when someone tells me I look good my response will be “You bet I look marvelous.  In fact , I’m fucking spectacular.”  Women spend our whole lives judging ourselves and worrying about what we look like.  If I can’t at least look forward to the fact that by 80 I will finally have it together and proudly sport elastic pants at the canasta table – then I’ve got to start making some counseling appointments immediately.

I came home to the most hilarious answering machine message I’ve ever heard.  And yes, I still have one.  It was hilarious because it was not left for me and I’m sure the person it was intended for would not have found it the least bit funny.  It was meant for someone named Darren  – who I’m pretty sure is going to be thrilled he didn’t get this call.

“HI DARREN IT’S  (female name withheld).  LISTEN, WE NEED TO HAVE A MEETING.  I UHM, LISTENED TO THE MUSIC AND I’M NOT HAPPY.   (translation: Darren you are a fucking stupid asshole)  YOU NEED TO PLEASE COME OVER HERE.   (translation: I need to tell you in person what a fucking stupid asshole you are)  THE VIBE THAT I GAVE YOU IS DEFINITELY NOT COMING THROUGH AND I’M REALLY CONCERNED.   (translation:  I knew you weren’t fucking listening to me when I told you what I wanted you dumbass douche.)  SO PLEASE CALL ME BACK.  I LOST MY PHONE – WELL I DIDN’T LOSE IT BUT MY PHONE GOT WET AND I DON’T HAVE YOUR OTHER NUMBER.   (translation: My kid dropped my phone in the toilet again and I’m having a nervous breakdown.)  I THOUGHT WE WERE ON THE SAME TRACK AND THEN I HEAR YOUR MUSIC AND NOT – NOT ON THE SAME TRACK AT ALL – UHM PLEASE CALL ME BACK ASAP.    (translation: I may get fired if you don’t fix this.)

She left her number but I didn’t call her back and let her know she reached the wrong moron.  Maybe if she presses pause she’ll rethink that message.  I can’t tell you how many phone calls like this I’ve had over the years and they really do wear on your ability to believe in yourself.  Yes everything is subject to criticism especially creativity, but come on – at least say it in person.  I’m super happy I was able to stop this one from getting to Darren.   I hope I get to meet him one day.  I’ll take him shopping at Neiman Marcus in my best sailor suit and I’ll tell him I think he’s fucking marvelous.

Two Girls. One Barf.

Published January 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Is there a Facebook police force out there because I am stalking total strangers and their photographs and I don’t want to get cuffed and carted off because I wasn’t up to snuff on the social etiquette of social media?   I am pointing and clicking and laughing and sighing and judging the fuck out of all of you people out there.  “Why did she wear that sweater – to the beach?” “I can’t believe he thinks it’s okay to kiss his dog like that.” “Doesn’t she know they all think she’s a whore.”  “Why do ugly people have kids?”  I absolutely love looking at photographs of people I don’t know.  I particularly like finding a hot guy on someone else’s page and then tracing it back to his page and then clicking through his photographs only to find out he is not the hot guy in that one shot but the fat guy in all the other shots.  Who puts one great pic of themselves in their profile and then leaves the rest of the crazy fat old no makeup tired ass loony shots up on their page anyway?  Oh wait – me.  I look like a mental patient in a tutu, with a killer dog, in a field, possibly where I just buried one of the men I found on Facebook.  Which is probably true to form anyway.  The second someone friends me – I’m off and running – flipping through the photo albums of their lives and making up crazy stories in my crazy head about what all the photos mean.  I’m glad no one can tell whose photos I’m pouring over – at least I don’t think they can but I do wish there was a way to find out who was reading my shit and what they were doing while they were reading it.  I wish there was some kind of creepy alert that goes off when a nut bag starts virtually drooling over all of your stuff or giving your picture the finger or raising an eyebrow in disgust although right now I am that nut bag.  The first step is admitting it.  The second is staring at the photos. The third is cutting out a mural of heads and pasting them over my bed.  I haven’t done that yet – but it could happen.

I need a new button on the Facebook page – an “I like this but I don’t necessarily care what your friends think” button.  Maybe a thumbs up with a little face on it and tape over its mouth.  I want to comment on people’s pages but I don’t always want the barrage of shit that comes from their friends.  I don’t know them.  What if they start secretly going through my photos when they see my name come up?  What if one of them builds a weird shrine to me with candles under it?  What if they are judging my comment and laughing at me?  Isn’t it amazing that the things I worry about are the same things I do to other people?

I love this social media world we live in but there are two things on you tube I never want to see again – that 2 girls 1 cup video which I still don’t believe is real and that guy who blew his brains out on the highway.   I remember the day I first saw the poop video and every frame still plays in my head and still creates bile in the back of my throat.  If you haven’t seen it – I’m not sure I can recommend it.  Lets just say you need to enjoy the sight of doody coming out of a girls ass like soft serve ice cream into a cup that another girl then eats.  It’s more like P-You Tube but yes,  that’s the internet.  I saw the video years ago and shrieked in disgust but I’ve always been curious what happened to those two girls.  I really want to interview them and find out what they’ve been up to?  Maybe they’ve been making new videos but haven’t posted them.  Two girls one box?  Two girls one pan?  Three girls two cups?  The possibilities are endless and I may never find out – unless of course a friend of a friend of a friend is friends with them on Facebook and then – let the stalking begin.

I Didn’t Ask For The Anal Probe

Published January 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Who’s going to the Debbie Allen Dance Academy?  I passed one Saturday night in an area called Baldwin Hills here in Los Angeles.  I guess you could call it the African American Beverly Hills.  The big difference is I’d actually want to live there.  Everyone isn’t white and annoying.  Beverly Hills is the opposite of what I enjoy and it looks like a set for a cheesy movie called Jewtopia or Plasticalifornia.   Unfortunately it’s where all the good shit is.  My favorite shoe store, my favorite salad, my dentist – duh, and my favorite future plastic surgeon are all in Beverly Hills.  But, Baldwin Hills had actual people I had conversations with and I’m not gonna lie – I think I want to take a class with Debbie.  Dancing is the one form of exercise I haven’t tried yet.  I am fully intrigued by Zumba but I know I’ll just be doing the white girls overbite in the corner and be embarrassed.  For all the ranting I do I’m horrifically shy and always think everyone’s watching me make an ass out of myself which I truly hate.   I used to drink to get that accomplished.   For now I just run on my treadmill and listen to uber cheesy pop music.  If anyone ever saw my play list I’d have to lie and say I robbed the ipod from a 12 year old.  That would be less of an embarrassment.  My taste in music is anything I can sing – another cause of embarrassment.  Despite the fact that I was the star of dozens of Camp Indian Head musicals like West Side Story and Dam Yankees – I can’t hold a tune.  That may have something to do with a favorite phrase of my youth – “get mommy a scotch and a cigarette.”

Justin Bieber has 16 million twitter followers.  Ashton Kutcher has about 8 million.  Isn’t this a sign that the world is coming to an end?  It’s already crystal clear to me that we are a dumber nation.  My friend Chris says just stop anyone on the street and ask them to name two Kardashians which they will within ten seconds.  Then ask them to name the Vice President and his wife and watch them put on their big “duh” face.  Now I’m not going to lie, if you go deeper than that on a governmental level with me like supreme court justices or state senators I too will show you just what kind of a moron I am but I at least know we have a Supreme Court.  Most Kim Kardashian  followers can’t even tell you how many states there are.  I follow all of these people on twitter because I keep hope alive that they will one day say something earth shattering and amazingly smart.   What a moron.   I am starting to worry that the sound of their idiocy is going to drown out the rest of us.  I’m sure there are other life forms in outer space pointing their long silvery fingers and laughing at us.  Perhaps one day we’ll find out that Kim and Justin are alien life forms put here to suck the brains out of our heads.  It’s working.    I’m not sure if I’m convinced there are such things as aliens.  I kind of want to believe it but I definitely don’t want to be one of those people they swoop up every year and give an anal probe.  Unless they drop in and tell me how to turn cupcakes into a weight loss product I’m not all that interested in meeting them.

The neighbors pool filter has now been whirring like a jet engine for two months and I’m pretty sure it’s talking to me like David Berkowitz’s dogs did back in that Summer of 1977 and I may become the Son Of Peaches killer.   I can hear it in my bed when I’m trying to sleep and out on the street when I’m getting into my car and I’m slowly being driven insane and I keep thinking I’m gonna drive up there and give those people a piece of my mind but then I never do.  I watch far too many horror movies to go into anyone’s house I don’t know.  I’ll end up hog tied to a bed while someone with a chainsaw and a skin dress dances in the dark corner telling me I’m going to die while playing Never Say Never over and over again.

Nailed It

Published January 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I think I’m slowly being poisoned to death by the UV light at the nail salon.  Am I risking my life to have nails that last two weeks without chipping?  It’s bad enough that I always feel like I’m in that Seinfeld episode when I get a manicure.  I know they’re talking about me and I don’t know what they’re saying.  I want to bring a translator with me so badly but I’m sure I’ll just find out that they’re saying – “Can’t we just have pizza for lunch?”   One time I knew exactly what they were all cackling about because the girl I got – got new boobs – and every fifteen seconds she had to go in the back to show them to everyone.  It was torturous.  I already hate sitting there for an hour – and this particular manicure lasted a lifetime.  I always get the girl who has to answer the phone so she gets up every fifteen seconds.  It’s always a different girl and she’s always the phone girl.  Maybe that’s what they’re saying when I walk in.  “You take her and get the phone if it rings.”  I finally switched nail salons after ten years when I kept getting the old woman my friend Brian calls The Butcher.  I always walked out of there covered in bloody nicks.  My friend Robin took me to her place called Pampered Hands which is amazing.  It’s like a Manicure factory or Nail Mall with hundreds of colors to choose from but it’s too far from my house and everyone knows you have to have a local nail salon and a “girl.”  These new Gel Manicures haven’t been around for very long so it’s difficult to know what will happen ten years from now after bimonthly trips to the salon where I shove my hands into what could possibly be a death trap.  I would look it up on the internet to see what happens from too much UV exposure but I’m sure it will lead to something that will terrify me like anal leakage or a necessary decapitation.  Going to the internet to find out what’s wrong with you is a guaranteed way to totally freak you the fuck out.   I saw a man at the nail salon yesterday who was way more woman than I’ll ever be – maybe she’s been getting gel manicures for years and that’s what happens?  The bottom line is I’d probably keep having it done because the invention of something that stays on my nails perfectly for two full weeks is so brilliant I have to have it done.  Ask any woman what happens the minute she has to go somewhere and she’ll say – Ugh I have to get my nails done.  You never have to get your nails done when you do this process so it has to be something that will kill me in a hideous disfiguring way.

It’s only the first day of 2012 and I already have a million questions.  Who is Jeremy Kyle and how did he get a talk show and where was I when he got one and did all the promotional ads that I have seen none of?  I found this show yesterday and it’s some dude with an Australian accent bashing black people for having too many babies.  Granted that was just one episode but everyone knows that if you have a daytime talk show and you want it to work in the ratings it will become Who the Baby Daddy in six weeks or less.  I don’t care how smart you thought the show was going to be – that’s what the audience available at that time wants to see.  It only took Anderson Cooper about six weeks before he had some midgets on.  Katie Couric will be doing live paternity tests within two months.  It’s just the way it is.

When did DJ’s who spin records become rock stars?  I saw a concert the other night and it was a DJ named Deadmau5 – pronounced Dead Mouse – who wears a giant mouse head and stands on a stage and spins records.  He’s a gazillionaire.  People were going insane standing in the audience cheering and dancing.  Apparently he’s been nominated for quite a few Grammy’s.  What happened to the days of watching an actual group or band?  Is that done now?  Am I that old that now kids are willing to just watch someone spin records?  Fuck I’ll get my turntable out of the garage and start mashing my Hall & Oates with my Chicago albums – throw in a little Neil Young and maybe I can make a mint too.  I bet if I could train Tulip and Peaches to spin I’d be richer than my wildest dreams.  I’ll have to doll them up first.  Some gold chains… Cat heads… and definitely polished nails… just not Gel… they’d never sit under that UV light and they can definitely tell when people are talking about them.


I’m Classy You Fuckball

Published December 31, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I wore a skirt to work with fishnet stockings yesterday and every time I got up it felt like my butt was showing.  It’s like that moment when you leave the ladies room and you feel a woosh of wind on your butt because you tucked your skirt into your tights by accident.  Maybe it was the air whipping through the netting or maybe the skirt was too short but it was awkward the entire day because I kept reaching around and touching my own ass to see if it was covered because the last thing anyone needs to see as their last image on their way out of 2011 is my year of eating dangerously ass.  Maybe it was a sign from above telling me I’m too old to be wearing the outfit I chose but I can’t help myself if I don’t feel my age.  I clearly don’t act my age as referenced yesterday when I told a new Facebook friend he may not want to read my blog for fear he’d learn things about me that may make him feel awkward at work when he has to face me every day.  It can be uncomfortable when you know that they know you asked Santa for a new vagina or that you once ate food out of your garbage can or that you’ve peed in your sleep or any of the other too much information moronic like things I’ve revealed when I vomited words into my screen.  It is because of these thoughts that I warned this new friend to read at his own risk.  He said – “Why because you’re worried you’ll be knocked off that classy pedestal I put you on.”  Now if I weren’t a grown woman I would have burst into tears at that and while he claims he didn’t mean it the way I took it – it was a knife to the heart and it really made me think because this is something I’ve been told my entire life by people who don’t fully know me.  If you are a potty mouth tell it like it is woman – you are not considered classy or charming or any of the other things any woman – even a woman like me – loves to be.  I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve been asked what charm school I went to followed by a giant guffaw.  People love to tell me that I’m hard on the outside but they know I’m a giant softie on the inside thirteen seconds after they’ve met me.  Actually if you get to know me you’ll see I’m a softie on the outside as well.  Telling the truth, having no filter, and or cursing – does not remove my charming button.  Peeing in the street does.  And I haven’t done that since college.  I may want to wait fifteen minutes before I drop an F bomb or talk about nipple hair on people in 2012 and while it’s impossible to change the way I enter a life – I’d like to enter in a less car wreck kind of a way.  I’m just one of those people you really need to know before you know… ya know?  Maybe I’ve been given this personality to prove to me that I myself judge people way too quickly.  If that’s the case – gotcha, I hear ya, I’m in, check the done column, I’m going to press pause on what I really think about your personality for at least 20 minutes – fifteen tops – actually better say ten I’m kind of impatient.

I had dinner with my friend Chris last night who asked me what I was doing for New Years Eve and I said “sitting on the couch watching War Horse on dvd” and he said “I hear it’s slow, sad and epic” which is weird because that’s exactly what my year has been minus the horse and Steven Spielberg.  I’m still waiting for him to show up at my house and buy something I’ve written – Speilberg not the horse.  The horse is busy over at “Two Broke Girls.”   I won’t be making any real New Years resolutions but I will be thinking about who I am and where I want to go next and yes – how others perceive me.  An acquaintance of mine has a website that tells women what men really think and while I spend an hour a day staring at his website and thinking about how many ways I can say fuck you who gives a fuck what men think of me and stop telling women whats wrong with them douche knuckle  – I guess I do care how I’m perceived – so I’ll be signing up for Charm School first thing Monday morning.

Pluck You!

Published December 30, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

36% of all women polled told Allure magazine that they would give up sex for a month in exchange for not having facial hair.  60% of women “I” polled said they would do the same for a pair of Louboutin shoes.  75% said they’d give up sex for a month for a Chanel handbag and 100% said they’d give it up for a year for an unlimited shopping spree at Barney’s or Bergdorf Goodmans.  They did however want to keep their toys.  0% were willing to give those up no matter how good the goods were.  Now my independent poll may not be as scientific as Allure magazine but who the fuck asks women if they’d give up sex not to have facial hair anyway?  Who’s reading Allure magazine that made the editors think this was a common poll question?  The Kardashians?  I mean – are we talking the stray mole hair or are we talking beard and mustache because I may have a lot of issues but thank god that is not one of them and trust me I’d admit it if I had it.   There is only one kind of hair women do not want to talk about – ever – nipple hair.  I have had many conversations with many women about many subjects some of them far too disgusting to repeat and not once did anyone ever bring up nipple hair and I know for a fact everyone has had to deal with one or two in their lifetime.  There is nothing more horrifying than a nipple hair.  Gag now.  I get it.  I’m not admitting to having any myself but I know a girl who knows a girl who told her about a girl that once knew another girl that had one or two hairs tops – but just once.  The last thing you want to do on a sexy night out with a guy for the first time is unstrap your bra and unleash your boob beard.  Hideous.   Embarrassing.  Most definitely not leading to a second date and men will pretty much put up with anything for sex – but not a follicle filled fun bag.

Last night  I went for my appointment with Chaz Dean and I really should have brought some pajamas and a pillow because this was not a hair appointment it was a hair marathon and let’s just say in hour four I thought – gosh I could really use a cookie right now and a gun. This man does not fuck around.  I even let him cut off my hair security blanket  – those dear old dead fried ends that I’ve been holding on to since the first war.  The experience was amazing and my hair is healthy and the staff is spectacular but I just have one little question – if we can put a man on the moon why can’t we make a hair wash sink that doesn’t break my neck and possibly leave me a paraplegic with incredibly shiny hair?  I don’t understand how we haven’t fixed this sink situation.  It’s like being tortured and water boarded in an extremely nice spa complete with scented backdrop while listening to Enya.  The struggles we women go through with hair and dieting and trying to filter our catty comments that pop into our heads twenty four seven all to make ourselves more presentable is quite ridiculous although my male friend Carlo has now put himself on a major diet after splitting his pants wide open at a bar called GYM.  Can you say irony?   Yes men suffer too.  As for me – at least I know I’m doing these things for myself and not for the three people I currently have a crush on.  And by crush I mean – I don’t speak to them and they don’t speak to me and that is why I find them attractive – for now.  Thankfully only one of them reads my blog and if the other two ever find it – it will pretty much solidify my solitude.  The farting in cars, shitting in bags, and other assorted details of my sordid life really aren’t going to do much in the romance department.  I don’t care how many glossy finishes Chaz Dean puts on my hair.  Once the nipple hair comes out – it’s all over but the crying.

Noah’s Arc de Triumph

Published December 29, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

My entire life needs to be portion controlled.  Everything is done to excess.  I need to have all the food taken out of the refrigerator and the pantry.  I need all the credit cards taken away.  I need my iTunes account shut down immediately before I buy Season everything of everything.  It’s always been all or nothing for me.  Especially when it comes to shopping.  Credit card to me equals free.  If the cash doesn’t immediately come out of my wallet or off of my debit card – I look at it as a free item.    Being able to just point and click on my computer is becoming more than a bit of an issue and makes me so giddy I’m starting to worry about myself.  The fact that I can lie in my bed – delete season three of “The Wire” and immediately purchase and download season four makes me happy to be alive.  I feel badly for other people my age who don’t embrace technology.  Technology put a new skirt in my closet in less than 48 hours.  We will soon be able to point our remotes at Lady Gaga’s meat dress on television and order it from Saks Fifth Avenue with the click of a button.  This is something to embrace, and then cook and eat.

I just noticed that Facebook is reconnoitering the ads on my wall again.  Lately they’ve switched to old people promotions.  I think it happened when I turned fifty one or when I was too busy posting something important like “just ate a sandwich, now off to a nap.”  There are the usual ads for things no woman should live without like Weight Watchers and Kim Kardashians Shoe Dazzle but now I noticed a new one for Cedars Sinai Hospital aka where old Hollywood stars go to die, and something for on line gambling.  This is all I need, to start playing the slots on line.   Next thing you know I’ll be in some kind of moo moo and house coat and my hair will be blue and I’ll be on some greyhound bus to Vegas with a bucket of quarters and my best friend Marlene who weighs six hundred pounds and has one of those jazzies that you sit on and drive around and her basket will have her bucket of quarte