All posts for the month November, 2011

Homeless of The Month Club

Published November 29, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Breaking News!  My pajama jeans just arrived.  It was a two for one deal so I also got those penis enlargement pills.  I can’t imagine it will be hard to find someone to take those off my hands.  It was either that or prozac and if I start taking that I’ll stop being mental and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.  I know I’m the last one to get the pajama jean but I had to find just the right pair – the official pajama jean – the ones that are good for travel, shopping, exercise and more!!  What more is there?  I don’t know, but now that I have my pajama jeans, I’m going to find the fuck out!!  They came with an instructional video so I have to carve an hour out today to watch that.  Maybe it will explain to me why I need European Styling in my pajama jeans.  They say there’s a fit for every figure and you can get up to a XXX which I’ll betcha is the most popular size.   The ad promises that I’ll “look put together all day long” and this is something I had no idea you could get in a box in the mail for two easy payments of 19.95.  I know Chanel can’t say that.

I love having things arrive in the mail.  The absolute highlight of any day is coming home to find a package at my front door – one that hasn’t been chewed to pieces by my dogs who think the mailman has tossed a big paper chew toy over the gate.  They have devoured quite a few “as seen on t.v.” products.  I never did find out what happened to my Miracle Socks.   I’m thinking about getting into one of those something of the month clubs.  They have so many now -Pickles, Dessert, Puzzles.  I don’t know who’s getting the Pickle of The Month but they’re probably the same people getting the Chips and Salsa of the Month along with the Bloody Mary of the Month.  These are real.  I do not lie.  How about Soup of The Month?  It’s real.  Why go to the supermarket or store anymore?  The Breakfast of The Month Club says “nothing starts the day off right better than breakfast” so they send pancake mix or waffles or scones or crepes.  Crepes?  That doesn’t seem possible.  I want to join to find out.  What does a muffin that arrives by mail taste like?  I’ll have to interview Peaches and Tulip if I get this club.

I think it’s awesome that so many companies are making it so easy to become a big fat poor shut in.  After all – how else will A&E’s Hoarders stay on the air?  Without all these people staying home and ordering shit for six easy payments –  there would be no morbidly obese white people living in trailers parked next to their houses that are filled to the brim with shit they bought online.  Where do all these fat people get all of these old cars anyway?  Do they acquire them when they get too fat for one and have to move in to another?  It’s hard to find a skinny hoarder.

Maybe if we started putting the names of poor families and homeless children on line we could convince people to buy one.  For three easy payments you could save this family… heck they’ll move in with you if you want.  Go ahead America – strap on your pajama jeans – shove some Beef Jerky of The Month in your face – and buy yourself a Homeless Person of The Month.  You’ll feel better and I’ll bet A&E will make a show about you.

License to Bred

Published November 28, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have decided to become a Pity Party Planner.  Everybody is having one so I’m pretty sure I won’t have a hard time making money in fact – I should be a gazillionaire within a week.  The entire country sounds like one old jew – pissing and moaning about things that just don’t matter and the way everyone carried on this past black Friday pretty much proves my point.  When you are ready to kill someone for a television – you need a time out.  A big time out.  Obviously the theme of the pity party would always stay the same but there are endless possibilities for how I could switch them up.   I would imagine the pity party honoree would be a difficult client since they are razor focused on themselves and no one else.  If you got one tiny detail wrong you’d have pity party squared and nobody wants that.   The most difficult thing about throwing a pity party for someone is getting other people to show up.  No one wants to hear someone else’s complaining ass bullshit especially if that bullshit is “I didn’t get what I wanted for Christmas.”

The holiday themed music has started here in Los Angeles and I don’t know whether to hum along or stab someone but I have to be honest and say it’s usually the later choice.  Why can’t everyone wait before they start shoving Santa and his sleigh down my throat?  I know Rudolph has a red nose but the concept of letting him play regular reindeer games is lost on me – or being drowned out by all the merriment.  It’s not just the fact that I’m Jewish that makes Xmas a problem – it’s the fact that I’m cranky and Jewish that makes Xmas a problem and go ahead all you non Jews right now who are horrified that I “took the Christ out of Christmas” by using an X.  Christ left Christmas a long time ago – probably the day we started giving each other diamonds and Xboxes.

Everyone is just so darn happy this time of year.  I saw a couple making out at the supermarket yesterday.  They weren’t just showing some affection they were full on dry hump mashing in the cosmetics aisle.  Maybe they are a brand new couple and just can’t keep their hands off of each other or maybe they were just so happy they found the product they’d desperately been searching for like baking soda toothpaste or fluoride rinse or herpes cream but I really don’t need to see this in Aisle 2.  Thank kind of behavior belongs in the meat aisle.  I wanted to give them some sort of citation or at least tell them their behavior was unsuitable in front of children and me.  Thankfully I keep most of these thoughts in my head which is why it is certain to explode some day soon.

I think you should have to have a license to have a child.  If you want to see some parents that should have their children taken away from them you should go to you tube and type in Sparkling Wiggles.  It is there you will see stupid white people egging on their child to say the phrase Sparkling Wiggles, only when she pronounces it – it comes out Fucking Nword.  Isn’t that hilarious!!  These people should lose the right to have children and if they apply for a license to have more children this is the videotape that should play at their hearing.  They will not be allowed more children.  They will probably have a pity party for themselves and I will gladly be their planner and blow up all the balloons that say – “Congrats.  You’re dead inside.”

Is There An App For That?

Published November 27, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

My hair is old.  I don’t mean it’s grey – which it is – I mean it’s old.  If my hair were a pair of jeans – I would have to throw them out or cut them into shorts.  I don’t want to cut my hair into shorts and I’ve already had extensions three times which is a very pricey undertaking but my hair refuses to grow past my shoulders.  Well just below my shoulders if you count the dead crispy ends that I am hanging onto for dear life.  I take hair vitamins and I use the Chaz Dean Wen System but it just won’t get longer.  I’m not sure where the length goes when it grows in because god knows I have new roots every thirteen seconds so something is getting longer.  This seems like a mathematical equation for Stephen Hawking.  He’s still alive and by the way – married- for a second time.  Yes, he was able to find someone.  This makes me feel like a loser.

I think all the minds in the world are very busy these days creating Apps I cannot live without.  My ipad and iphone are filled with pages and pages of things that make my life infinitely better.  Calorie Counter, NY Post, i-fart,  etc.  There are Apps for everything.  Have you heard of the truly ingenious website and app RunPee.Com?  My friend Berman told me about it and quite frankly it may be the greatest thing ever invented in the history of the world and all the heavens.  What RunPee does is tell you when the best time is to pee during a movie.  They have already worked all of this out for you for all of the current movies out there.  Yes I am dead fucking serious.  Not only do they tell you when to pee – they tell you what happened while you were tinkling.  Who needs a fucking cure for cancer people – this is the kind of shit I’m talking about.  This is the kind of technology that wins wars!  All you do is start your RunPee clock when the movie starts and away you go.  For instance… I checked out the RunPee times for Breaking Dawn Part One – a movie so riveting I can’t imagine how or why anyone would choose to tinkle at any point during this poignant vampire drama.  However – RunPee has given you a few choices.    Here’s what it says.

PeeTime starts 37 minutes into movie

PeeTime lasts about 4 minutes

Cue to RunPee: When the aerial shot of the island villa appears after their first night together.

What happens during this Pee Time:

Bella wakes up with feathers in her hair.  You can see that the room is in shambles from their previous nights activities.  She gets up and goes into the bathroom.  She looks at herself in the mirror and replays in her head what last night was like.  Edward comes up behind her and asks, “How bad do you hurt?”  She says to him, ”I’m perfectly happy.  At least I was five seconds ago.  Now I’m pissed off.  I think what we did last night was amazing for me.  I know it’s different for you but for a human it doesn’t get any better.”

Now I know what you’re thinking – RunPee must be insane to pick this little section of scintillating dialogue to miss but that’s just how good this movie is.   They had to work hard to find pee moments.  RunPee makes me proud to be an American.  What I’m curious about now is – how long before RunPoop hits my iphone?  That kind of activity needs some time so a good test movie could be “Jack and Jill.”  I bet that’s a good poop movie.   What I really need is RunEat because it is inevitable that I will not buy popcorn before the movie starts and then I will be mad about it and dream about it the entire time the movie is playing to the point of distraction.  I have missed entire plot lines due to popcorn envy because I never know what time to run out and get some once the movie has started.  I’m going to invent this app.  I will become a millionaire.  I will buy new hair.

Beware The Thanksgiving DuWaWa

Published November 26, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Are you done with menopause yet?” Swinging a pointed finger between my sister Alison and I, this was my brother in law Steve’s pre Thanksgiving dinner chit chat.   And so begins this heartwarming episode of “Heidi Goes Home for The Holidays.”  I flew back east to Boston for Thanksgiving on Wednesday morning.  The whole family tries to gather at my sister Wendy’s house each year and usually it’s when we find out just what kind of mental patientry is involved in our family lineage.  This trip started with my normal packing dilemma.  I hate to travel only because I hate to pack.  I like to have my entire wardrobe wherever I go because I have no idea what kind of mood I’ll be in “fashion wise.”  I would take a few steamer trunks with me if it were possible but unfortunately I’m not Bette Davis in the middle of a 50’s movie with stewards at my beck and call.    I always end up on a vacation with random shit I never wear and have no idea how it got in my suitcase.   I usually dress nicely for an airplane ride because airport workers aren’t just racial profiling they’re class profiling and they will treat you like a douche bag if you dress like one.  If you’re trying to get moved from coach to first class it will not work unless you look like you deserve to have a hot cookie at thirty thousand feet.   I unfortunately chose to dress like a gang banger.  An old white jewish gang banger.  I did not get my upgrade.

The flight was fine other than the fact that the pilot was definitely shit faced and thought he was operating a tour sky bus and did not shut the fuck up for one second the entire time.  “If you look to your left you can see Minnesota.”  Guess what fly boy – I don’t want to see Minnesota.  I want to watch this shitfucking hideous movie Cars 2.   Upon arrival in freezing cold Boston (it was probably 60) I went outside to wait for the car my sister and brother in law had so graciously sent for me.  After the other twenty people waiting for their cars left – a car finally pulled up right next to me.  I was now the only person there.  He was now the only car in the arrivals lane.  He looked at me.  He pulled out his placard.  He started writing one slow letter at a time and then comparing it with whatever was in his blackberry.  C…ten seconds…L… ten seconds…can I buy a fucking vowel?  E???  “Are you writing Clements???”  Hello?  He was Russian.  I guess they’re used to waiting in lines for things but I am more valuable than a loaf of bread.  Finally, we were off.

I truly love hanging out with my family.  We laugh – a lot.  We mock – a lot.  No one is left standing at the end of a Clements Sisters dinner.  Throw in the spectacularly sharp wit of my neice Amy, the cutting humor from her boyfriend Berman and my brother in law Steve, and the “holy fuck did he just say that” moments that always come from my nephew Mike, and we’re talking an episode of Meet The Jews that would most definitely get an R rating.  Basically it’s a room full of people with knives in their mouths and anyone could cut you at any given moment.  Thank god for my brother in law Dean who has assured our passage into Heaven because he’s the nice one.  My mom and dad are now into their 80’s so they’re used to us.  They also don’t hear as well as they used to so this works out quite nicely.

Everyone dresses beautifully for our family dinners.  You do not fuck around with fashion in my family.  Sadly – I am too fat for anything but flannel.  I was the ugly step sister and my buttons were already undone.  Our first dinner on Wednesday night started out fine until Steve launched the Menopause Round Table.  We were all innocently eating our Chinese food which by the way is what all Jews are doing the night before Thanksgiving or on any given Sunday.  If you want to find a jew in a town that doesn’t seem to have any – go to a Chinese Restaurant on a Sunday night and you’ll find every “witz” and “stein” there is.   The menopause question reminded us of Steve’s obsession with wanting to smell 9/11 – which led us to beat that joke again for about half an hour.  Then out of nowhere Mike said “I had a Chinese teacher once who said – the vagina is like a poisonous doll – duwawa.”  Apparently DuWaWa is Chinese for my lady parts.  Okay Mike. Thanks for that update from the odd family dinner exchange files.  Little did I know – this was the calm before the shit storm.

The next night – Thanksgiving dinner – was delicious.  Once again we all gathered around the dining room table and once again we all hung out to chat once the meal was done.   My sister Alison looked at me from across the table and pointed to my dad’s ear and said “What is that hanging?”  And just like when we were kids I felt her silently egging me on to do something bad.  I pulled on the mystery string attached to my dad’s ear and unfortunately pulled out his hearing aid.  This resulted in gales of laughter from Alison.  I had no idea my dad wore a hearing aid.  I was horrified.  I also really wanted to try it on.

The conversation shifted to Hollywood and stars and people were asking questions like “Who’s the most beautiful” and “Who’s the most handsome” and from nowhere my 82 year old dad says “Who do you think is the most SENSUAL.”  And… crickets.   Eventually we all threw in a few answers and thought we were through.  Then came, “What is the sexiest love scene with clothing on?”  Okay this is getting weird.  I left the room to check on my Pumpkin Smoosh desert only to re-enter to hear this question from my dad being posed to the entire table – “Who is the horniest?”  Uhm, I’ll take My Dad Is Freaking Me Out for 100 please Alex.  Yes folks, welcome to Awkward Family Jeopardy!  My brother in law Steve then launched into a conversation about Debbie who lives across the street whom he happens to know has an insatiable appetite for sex and when her garage door is open it’s a signal to men from around the Wellesley area to come get a piece of Debbie. This of course – is total bull shit.  It was even too much for my dad.  Man do we know how to clear a room.  We all fled the area.  We forgot it happened.  We moved in to the living room and watched Bridesmaids which if you want to know the definition of creepy its watching a John Hamm Kristen Wiig seemingly endless sex scene with your eighty year old parents.

Of course it was an awesome holiday gathering filled with the kind of nutbaggery that makes me love the family I have.  We are unabashedly raunchy and rude.  Every funny moment is comedically crushed – and there is always laughter to be had at anyone’s expense.  No one leaves unharmed.  If you want to know who’s being slashed thrashed and dragged through the mud – just look to see who has left the room.  Thank goodness for the innocence of Thanksgiving represented by my niece and nephew Isabella and Jordan – who taught me how to play Angry Birds.  And thank goodness for my amazing family who will always have my back… or at the very least – my duwawa.

To Have Me Killed, Please Press Zero

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Why is everyone Checking In somewhere?   I know we’re friends but do I really need to know where you are every second of the day?  Maybe you people need to check in to a job every once in a while because that will keep you busy.   There are no “check in” buttons for the places I go, the couch, the refrigerator, my bed.  Isn’t this button just a way to tell everyone to go rob your house or steal your car?  What kind of mental patients are following your check in buttons?

I am slowing being driven insane by a TerrorMarketer.   Six, seven, eight times a day, my phone is ringing off the hook with calls from companies that have names I can’t pronounce.  I don’t know what they want and I don’t care.  This weekend it was Caratechea Enterprises –  the latest in a long line of fuckwads that have my home phone on speed dial.  Trying to stop telemarketers from calling your house is harder than finding an Indian restaurant that doesn’t smell like curry and I believe these things are very deeply connected.  I have a home phone just to field calls from assholes who have no problem dialing my house at three o’clock in the morning.  I hate when the phone rings in the middle of the night because I am convinced if I pick it up the voice on the other end of the phone will say “I’m in the house.”  I am also terrified the killer will leave a message on my machine and I’ll hear it while I’m upstairs in bed and sometimes I want to shut the machine off at night but I can’t because Greenpeace is speed dialing me and if the machine doesn’t get it they’ll just keep dialing.  Sometimes I sit there and stare at the call waiting screen wanting to pick up the phone and say “Fuck You Dental Technological Services, I’m not home!”  But I don’t.  They’ll just call again tomorrow.   Some of these callers are unstoppable and have dialing tourettes and the same number will come in rapid fire succession.  If I wasn’t picking up two minutes ago I’m not going to do it now Diabetes Foundation.   If someone ever calls to tell me I’ve won a million dollars or that the government has decided to pay for my house I’ll never know because I won’t pick up and I immediately hit delete on the machine.  I love when a pre recorded message tells my answering machine things to do.  I come home to bizarrely recorded messages like PRESS ONE TO TALK TO A REPRESENTATIVE.  Maybe my high tech machine is doing business for me while I’m at work.  Maybe the dogs are calling people.  I hope they’re having more success than I do when trying to settle something over the phone.  I know my home phone is directly connected to a call center in India and I know they’re laughing at me.

I think that same call center is handling all of my unsubscribe emails.   What really happens when I hit that button on the bottom of an email?   Is there a group of people in Bangladesh just standing around their computer screens pointing and shrieking with laughter at all of us?  “Oh here comes that moron again thinking she’s getting off of the Bloomingdales spam list.  She’ll be back so let’s just keep her on.”  I have unsubscribed to Saks Fifth Avenue at least twenty six times and I instantly get an email from them the second after I do it.   “You are now unsubscribed.”  It’s almost always followed by an email telling me about a sale at Saks.  Thinking that it probably takes a few days to register my unsubscription I do nothing until a few days later there it is again.  Saks Motherfucking Fifth Avenue.  I am on a giant Unsubscribe Ride and I can’t get off.  What the fuck is happening to my unsubscribe emails?  They are like letters from Santa, no ones reading them.  I bet all of these people have the secret spam block that stops this from happening to them and they’re not sharing.

I saw that we’ve developed a car that can drive itself and while I think this is a very interesting idea I believe we should put that on hold until we can develop a robot to answer our telemarketer phone calls and spam emails.   They could maintain our Facebook pages  and make sure that we “Check In” somewhere incredibly important every ten seconds.

Push It Real Good

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


     I don’t know which is worse, the fact that my neighbors had a Van Morrison cover group at their party last night – or that I knew all the lyrics.  It’s a nerd toss up.  I wasn’t invited to the party – which doesn’t surprise me – I’m not very nice to that neighbor.   If you put me in a line up and told him to pick out the girl who lives in the house below his,  he would not be able to pick me.  He makes wine. He once passed me a bottle through the fence like prison mates sharing a shiv. We talked for about fifteen minutes and he said “You should come by some time.”  So later that week Peaches and I took a walk around the block and went over to say hi. He said, “do you live around here?”  I said “no” and went home.  He loves to talk on the phone.  I know this because he does all of his phone talking outside on his deck which he built on top of my deck.  It looks like a giant crib.  He is extremely loud and very busy on that phone.  He might as well just come inside my house and make his calls – that’s how loud it is.   I’m sure he’s a pretty cool dude – he speaks Italian so he can’t be that bad.
     I actually have incredible neighbors.  They are sweet and fun and have amazing little kids and there is screaming and happiness on my street all the time.  It’s like a throwback to when I was growing up and you played outside and got hot and smelly and only came in when you heard your mom calling “dinner.” I don’t think that happens all that much here in Los Angeles but it happens on my block.   There are big wheels and bicycles and helmuts and animals all mingling together.  Except for one neighbor.  She’s mean.  I guess there’s always one.
     Rachel Zoe had a baby.  I honestly didn’t think she had enough body fat to carry a child.  I really want to live in her closet.  It’s filled with magic.  She got a six carat cushion cut diamond ring from her husband for having a baby. Apparently it’s called a “push” present.  I want a push present.  I’ve pushed enough shit out of my vagina in my 51 years to get at least one.  God knows I’’ve had my period enough times to deserve a gift.  I’m not sure who would be the person to buy me one though and as usual it seems like I’ll have to buy it for myself.   I have already bought myself all the things I love most.  Maybe I could register somewhere for something like this.  I think single women should be allowed to have a party for themselves and register somewhere.  I believe that if you turn fifty and haven’t killed someone you should hold a press conference and then have a giant fancy event and get gifts.  I would register at Neiman Marcus and put everything in the store on my list.  Maybe I could do it like Kim Kardashian and host the event in different cities because I’m so fucking important I need more than one coast to celebrate me.  I could start in New York, then Los Angeles and the Las Vegas.  Maybe I could get Ziegfried and Roy to perform  – they would be in my age range.  I could get also nice band.

Ante Up Bitches

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 If you watch the Oprah Winfrey Network do you immediately get cancer and die?  How else can you explain that more than a million people signed on for her internet chat but she can’t get more than five people to watch OWN.  Does your Neilson box and television immediately blow up when you tune to that channel or do you just die trying to find it because it’s around channel 1,762.  I thought Poperah was Midas but so far the gold fairy dust isn’t landing on OWN.  I personally think the problem is that her shows are too happy.  Nobody wants to see that.  We want to see Melissa Gorga shredding her sister in law as Theresa, as Theresa misuses perfectly simple English words like distant, educate and ingredients.  She’s so dopey, I don’t know how she gets dressed in the morning.  I bet that’s why all of her clothes are so shiny – so she can find them.  Maybe that’s why all of her outfits have sparkly medallions on them because that’s how she communicates with her Planet,  Retardra.  It’s hard when you can easily say Melissa is the smart one – thank you baby jesus.  Melissa is inspiring.  She is now wearing a fat suit to see if people treat her differently.  I’m going to put on a Jew suit later and throw money around so I can capture people’s shocked faces proving everyone really thinks Jews are cheap.  Oprah’s still wearing her fat suit but people are really nice to her.  I think it’s because she’s also wearing her African American suit and I hear that one makes people act scared.
     I ate a block of cheese last night.  I didn’t mean to.  It was just there – on the nightstand.   I’m just trying to keep it 100.  (that’s what the kids are saying)  I remember when you didn’t have to say things like – just trying to keep it real – because you actually told the truth.  The cheese was helping me read a book.  I went to bed early because quite frankly Peaches was watching Bad Girls on Oxygen with such fervor that I think I need to start monitoring what she’s viewing.  They don’t have a lock program for dogs on my DVR.   What if she imitates the kids on these shows and starts drinking, fighting and having sex with strangers.  Maybe that’s how she got the herpes?  I really have no idea what she does all day.   She could easily have learned to turn on the t.v. and may be spending her entire day watching Maury Povich to see who the baby daddy is.  I’m thinking about installing a Nanny Cam.  My friend has one for his dogs.  He can watch them do nothing on his Iphone while he’s at an audition or a meeting.  Usually they are just sleeping in their crates but occasionally they get up and run out of the area where the camera is.  That’s when you really don’t know what they’re up to unless you have a second camera outside so it’s kind of a little Blair Dog Project and feels kind of like a horror movie.  WILL THE DOGS COME BACK? I think if I install cameras in my house I’ll see Peaches, Tulip and Lola in a throwdown game of Doggie Poker.  They’ll all be sitting around some card table I didn’t even know I had with all the neighborhood dogs playing poker and drinking all my non alcoholic beer and eating my snacks.  I bet that’s how they came up with that velvety painting of Dogs Playing Poker.  Someone had to pose for it.  I wonder what the ante is at a card game at my house?  Maybe I should tell the girls to start playing for cheese so I don’t eat it at two a.m. in bed.


Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Jerry O’Connell got another tv pilot.  He seems like a nice enough person but he must have pictures of every network executive in Hollywood blowing a goat.  I’m just saying.  The article about O’Connell’s new show said he wanted to translate the “hilarity” of being a dad into a show and started “bouncing around ideas” with a couple of guys.  Hilarity and bouncing are the words you hear right before a show gets cancelled.  But this doesn’t stop the machine that is Hollywood.  Everytime a new article gets printed about someone getting their umpteenth pilot – I want to vomit a little.  I have a friend who has now sworn off reading Deadline Hollywood because it’s starting to feel like he’s reading a suicide note of his own career.  I know as a writer I’m supposed to feel happy for everyone and live under the tenet that there is room on television for everyone to succeed but if they keep making these sitcoms when will they have time to make mine – a hilarious look at a fifty year old who bounces ideas off of her dogs?   My friend Lisa G paid me the highest compliment ever today – she said I write and think like Larry David.  Larry David probably just drove his beemer into a tree but  I am going to buy her a picture of someone she doesn’t like doing something bad to a goat.  She doesn’t need this, but I’m a giver.

     I am people intolerant.  There is no pill for this.   I’m thinking about hiring my friend Mary to be my Minister of Happiness.  She’s always happy.  It’s because she’s skinny.  She doesn’t know this – but I do.  I think if I were thinner I’d be nicer.  My muffin top has a muffin top and it’s hanging over my pants like Archie Bunkers beer gut.  This is not sexy. They say fat people are jolly but I see a lot more happy skinny people in the world.  Maybe fat people wheezing sounds like laughter if you’re not listening really closely.  I try to tell myself every day that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels but the churros dipped in chocolate sauce that I ate last night tasted pretty fucking good.  I should have just stuck them to my fupa because that’s where they’ll end up anyway.  If you don’t know what a fupa is – then you probably don’t have one – so consider yourself lucky.   My friends and I used to shout FUPA!!! Greek style whenver we saw a chick with one – now I am that chick and this doesn’t seem so funny.   If you want to blackmail me – this is the photo you’d need.  No goat. Just my fupa.

Rah Rah Sis Boom Blah

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   My memory is having melancholy flashbacks of someone else’s life.  I drove past my neighborhood high school last night and there was a football game happening and the bleachers were filled with happy people shouting and the band was playing and the cheerleaders were pumping their pom poms.  I thought to myself – gosh – how did I end up here at fifty one?  Why is it I’m still not doing what I want to do?  Is this it?  Why can’t things be like they were back in high school, easy and fun and filled with joy?  Well, I’m not sure whose memory of high school I was having but it certainly wasn’t mine.  The closest I ever came to a football game was getting drunk on Boones Farm Strawberry Hill wine and making out with some kid under the bleachers and then throwing up.  I did try out to be a cheerleader at Susan Wagner High but I didn’t make it past the first round of auditions.  I was not “in” with the right people.  I wasn’t friends with the other cheerleaders who really just picked their friends to be on the squad.  I eventually became the captain of a squad at the JCC – that’s Jewish Community Center – but cheering for a bunch of short kids with jewfro’s wasn’t exactly the same as being a high school cheerleader.  Being a high school cheerleader was the shit.  It meant you were popular.  It meant you were going to be somebody some day.  We did have some great times on the big yellow school bus that drove us to other JCC’s where I would perform masterful cheers in my corduroy jumper with a big megaphone patch on it and white gloves and saddle shoes.  I had a pageboy haircut which was incredibly hard to maintain with my own jew hair but I straightened that shit out before every game.  I remember making out with the only non jew who played on our team.  That’s me – always the rebel.  I think my friend and I fought over him.  I may have even lost that friendship over this guy I barely knew and have never seen since.  His name was John. I wonder where he is now.  I wonder if he’s living his dream life.  I wonder what he remembers about me and what meeting him means in my bigger picture of life.
     I am a person who mocks, pokes fun, snickers, points and laughs at things.  It just so happens that the first thought that strikes me about something is usually a funny one.  I don’t remember if I was always this way or if life has just beaten me into a point of humorous submission.  I suppose that’s a good way to see things but I am not blissfully unaware of all that I encounter.   What are the lessons I am supposed to be learning?  I can’t find my bigger picture right now and I’m starting to get more than a little scared.  Life is such an interesting journey but I don’t think we were put here to just get up and go each day.  I believe we were put here to get up and go “somewhere” and do “something.” Where is my somewhere?  What is my something?  If only I could google this or find it on mapquest.  Steve Jobs could have helped with this but he’s gone now. He knew where his somewhere was.
     Life is such a fantastic journey and I am so grateful to be living mine.  I have wonderful family, amazing friends, people I barely know who cheer me on every day.  I have so much more than so many people and yet – I want even more.  I am greedy with desire.
     It’s almost Halloween, a holiday everyone I know loves.  People get dressed up as someone else and take a temporary moment out of their real lives to be silly and reckless and live out their fantasies as the naughty nurse that lives inside them.  I never get dressed up for Halloween but maybe this year I will.  I’ll be a real high school cheerleader and I’ll rah rah myself on like you read about.

Dating Mr. Pee Pee

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   Why hasn’t George Clooney had that Italian handbag Elisabetta Canalis deported?  I know he has the power to do it and she’s getting very mouthy.   She recently said in a magazine that people actually read, that their relationship was more of a father daughter situation.   Shut the mother fucking front door are you kidding me?  By father daughter relationship do you mean he paid for everything and you whined like a little bitch?  Didn’t he bring your dirty coke whore ass to America and make you a superstar?  Okay maybe she’s not a dirty coke whore and maybe Dancing With The Stars isn’t exactly superstar status but come on bitch – it’s George Clooney.  If you’re lucky enough to get that kind of handsome keep your pie hole snapped shut.  I saw them once at the Golden Globe awards and I wanted to give George some Ajax to scrub down with and de Canalis himself.    She smelled like cigarettes and had tattoos.  (I have 9 shhhhhh)  And by the way – she didn’t look like any spring chicken to me.  George Clooney in person puts George Clooney in photos to shame.  He’s that beautiful.  He can call me when he’s ninety and has saggy nads and I will hop in the sack in a heart beat… as soon as I undo my Depends.  My question is – did she really need to give a national publication this demoralizing quote?  I think there has to be some sort of code if you’re both in the business and everyone doesn’t think you’re a douche… in other words – “A” list equals hands off.  Let’s just part and say it didn’t work and keep it zipped.  He’s never said a bad word about her and from what I’ve heard he certainly could unleash the gates of hell.
     I like to write about people and sometimes I reveal things that might embarrass them so after I get permission I write it and then I change their names except in the case of the Hollywood actor I had sex with who had a tiny penis.  I didn’t get his permission but since he has wiped me from his “chicks I fucked over” memory card – I think I’m in the clear.
     I’m so glad I’m not famous because the stories people could tell about dating me would be enough to keep me on lockdown inside my house for the rest of my life.  I know there are photos I would like to have buried and I know there are stories to tell.  There’s the guy I puked on.  The guy I accidentally peed on.  The guy I fell asleep on while having sex because I was drunk.  (I think there are quite a few of those.)   There’s the guy I ditched while on a date.  The guy I pretended I was English and had to leave the country in the morning.  And the guy I almost killed on the back of a Vespa.  I’ve tried to cut off almost everyone I’ve ever had a relationship with but one has recently come back so I’m on extra good behavior in case he decides to talk.    He could do some damage. Someone recently wrote an article about online dating and used me as one of their examples.  They said they went on a date with me and that I “announced” that I wasn’t interested in a relationship and that the experience left him feeling sad.  I say – be glad you got out alive.  I didn’t know we were on an official date that I was part of a dating blog.  I thought we were two writers meeting for a drink.
     There’s a guy in New York City who calls himself Mr. PeePee who has vowed to masturbate inside every Starbucks in the City and photographs himself doing it.  I’m sure there is some woman out there who will find out she used to date Mr. PeePee and pray to god that when he talks to the press he doesn’t tell people about her.  Hopefully Stacey Kiebler didn’t date Mr. PeePee because quite frankly – George Clooney has had enough bull shit for now.

Be Better Than The Gap

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

     Saturday was the saddest day of my entire adult life because I finally had to admit once and for all that I will never get to fuck Ryan Gosling.  I’m just too old.  This is one of the most depressing moments in a woman’s life – realizing the days of banging hot boys with six packs are over.  We spent countless hours of our youth looking at men we can’t have and dreaming about our futures with them if only WE were famous but now the future is here and Ryan Gosling is not in the picture and the death of  the thought of him really just symbolizes the death of the thought of all hot things in my life’s second half.  I’m not sure who will be in my fantasies now but his six pack will most likely be a one pack and it will probably be filled with gas.
     I had to stay in all weekend with the blinds drawn because I’m pretty sure I saw the Jenny Craig truck circling my block.  I think they went through my garbage and found the receipt for the Gap pants I bought in a size 8 or maybe in Los Angeles you get reported when you hit a certain weight and they come round you up.  Either way it gave me an entire weekend to swim in Lake Me and catch up on some chores like dying my own hair while watching a dvr filled with stupidity.  I had to keep the television at volume 11 because my neighbors pool filter is making a high pitched noise that only dogs and I can hear and it hasn’t stopped for 4 days in a row.  I think the neighbors may be dead but I don’t want to leave the house to find out.
     When did they get purses on Survivor?  I was so overwhelmed with their new hand bags and googling how to get my hands on one  that I may have left the hair dye on too long because it’s pretty obvious now that I’m not a real redhead. God definitely did not create this color and neither did one of his angels – unless it was the gay angel who’s obsessed with Nicky Minaj.  I decided to save some money and do the dying myself and now I know why I pay 300 dollars to get my hair done because it’s going to cost me 321 dollars to get it undone.  Lets just say the color on the box is not as close as it appears to an actual color.    If there were a carpet the drapes would definitely not match.  Ever look at women and wonder what kind of wax situation they have going on downstairs?  I do.
     Normally people are surprised to find out that my red hair isn’t real but they’ll know for sure now because the only redheads this color are My Little Ponies and those Strawberry Shortcake dolls with scented hair but mine  just smells like cancer.  I remember the day my mom dyed her own hair back in the 70’s and burst into tears when she took the towel off screaming “Oh my god your fathers going to kill me.”  It was pretty much the same color mine is now but thankfully no one’s going to yell at me for it or make fun of what a moron I am.  Peaches, Tulip and Lola may be laughing but I don’t know what a dog laugh sounds like so who cares.  Dying your own hair can be a fun game because there’s always a big reveal after you get out of the shower and undo the towel turban on top of your head.  You never know what color it’s going to come out and you get to put on your big surprise face which in my case turned into a major RuhRoh but oh well… tomorrows another day and the drugstore is filled with boxes of colors.   I almost bought one of those ready made hair towel turbans at Bed, Bath and Lazy Ass but then I realized it really wasn’t that strenuous an act twisting my own towel on top of my head.  I wonder who the first person was to do this and how did they pass this look along.  It’s really kind of genius when you think about it.  It’s not the look that’s gonna land you a Ryan Gosling but good hair can go a long way.  I’m going to take Ryans advice today and not think about my hair or how old I am and I’m just going to focus on what I really want and how to get it. I’m going to be better than the gap.

Abercrombie & Bitch

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

     Can anyone explain Ke$ha to me?  I am confused by her existence and I’m pissed off I have to type a dollar sign where there should be an “S” for stupid. She’s called a singer, songwriter and rapper and I know she had some catchy little ditty your kids listened to about drinking Jack Daniels for breakfast and banging black guys but I can’t be sure.  I hear her “Get Sleazy” tour was a huge success so I’m pretty certain the world is about to end.  If she has a new album coming out soon I’ll have to mark the date in my calendar so I know when I WON’T be buying her deranged cd.  I would call it music but it isn’t.    If Kesha being successful isn’t the fifth sign of the apocolypse than Liza Minnelli on the Home Shopping Network is.   Liza with a Z for Zoloft was hocking sequin jackets and tank tops while ranting and rambling about a broken knee and how the clothes don’t wear you, you wear them, or something like that.  It was hard to hear over my laughter.   I think she needs an L for Librium.
     I can hear my bones scraping against each other and I think it’s because I don’t drink any water – and I mean any – unless you count what is used in a cup of coffee.  Even after I run I’m not thirsty.  I would be amazing on Survivor.  Except for the part where I’d starve to death.  I’m already planning on making DRINK MORE WATER my New Years resolution and I already know it won’t last for more than a month.  Isn’t it amazing how at the end of the year everyone says “last year sucked but this next year is going to be amazing.”  I’d like to meet the person that says “I hope next year is exactly the same as this one because it was awesome” and then I’d like to punch that person in the throat.  I make the same resolution every year – along with – lose weight and save money.  So far being a skinny rich bitch who slugs water back like martini’s has eluded me but maybe 2012 is my year.  I just don’t want to have to go to the bathroom every fifteen seconds and I’m not allowed to wear Depends without being frowned upon so the whole concept of staying hydrated annoys me.    I also saw a commercial on t.v. for a pelvic swing that has something to do with Menopausal incontinence and vaginal replacements or something vile that means I’m going to start tinkling in my underpants any day now and nothing says sexy like the smell of urine on a woman.  I can’t help but think if I start drinking massive amounts of water I’m going to speed up the tinkling in my panties situation and I’d really like to stave off that one for awhile.
     My belts don’t fit anymore so I guess my hips are widening for childbirth.  I’d like to inform my body clock that it has picked the wrong time for this to happen and that the pregnancy bus pulled out a super long time ago and the only one pulling up now is short and yellow.  I had to face the embarrassment of going to “Abercrombie and I’m a Really Old Woman” yesterday because I’ve decided I’m bringing sweat pants back.  It was hard to focus over the stench of cheap perfume and the pounding music.  I think the concept of these stores is to make you feel young which didn’t quite work on me.  I had my hands over my ears and I was squinting the whole time because they keep the lights so fucking low.  I think they do this so the kids don’t see old people like me buying all the same clothes they wear.  I always start self disclosing at the register about the kids back home I’m buying these clothes for as the wide eyed cashtards smile and not listen to me. The store is like a giant maze and it took me forty five minutes just to find a place to pay.   I kept sweeping back past the same flannel shirt and hot pants mannequin and next time I go I’m definitely bringing a block of cheese to drop bits as I go.  No one there’s gonna eat it.   Those kids who work there haven’t eaten in years and I’m not sure who’s on those naked posters but if the worker bees looked like that I’d move into a cubby hole at Abercrombie and live there.  Did you know they do not sell anything black at that store?  They say it’s because black is a formal color.   I’m sure African Americans around the world are rejoicing over this analogy.  “Yay for the first time ever black isn’t being associated with something bad!!!”  We’re formal!!!  And just as they’re celebrating a Ke$ha song comes on equating her boozing to being just like P Diddy and bang – it’s over.

I Remember Louis

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

     There is a valet driver at The Grove right now who thanks to me may never be the same.  I had checked my car at the outdoor mall of the shopping dead and didn’t realize my radio was still tuned to Howard Stern who I guess was in commercial when I dropped it off.  Well when the Prius came back to me it was blaring a song about pussy and the driver looked at me like I was a fucking lunatic.  Not everyone listens to Howard.  I feel badly for these people.  One of the things that amazes me about Howard is his seemingly total recall about childhood and quite frankly – every single solitary painful second of his horrible life… his words not mine.  Being an alcoholic has made me afraid to remember. So many things that happened when I was drunk needed to be apologized for and I woke up most mornings feeling awful about something I had done.  Now when I see someone from my past I automatically go to that “uh oh” place even if I wasn’t drinking at the time of our friendship.  It’s hard to describe but I am literally terrified of my own memory.  I have blocked out so many things from my past and I don’t remember what I remember.  Was I nice to this person?  Did I date that person? What kind of an interaction did we have?  It’s almost as if I didn’t exist before the age of 40.  I have no idea what kind of person I used to be, as a drunk, or even before.  There are a few choice memories from here and there but on bulk – it’s pretty empty.  Even my childhood escapes me but thanks to one friend – it just came rushing back and once again – I remember why I like to forget.  Three letters arrived in the mail this week – from my old pal Paul. Two of them were letters I wrote to him.  One was from a girl named Cathy that I don’t remember who I guess fell in love with him.  One of my letters was a cheese ball poem I wrote about our friendship.  I would quote a few lines from it here but quite frankly I’m not in the mood to throw up right now.  I was super fond of writing poems back in the day – that much I remember.  I wrote poems for people as gifts.  I’m truly horrified now at the thought.  Gee what a special present to receive the lines… “ Though my pen might not speak too frequently, in my mind I will write a thousand letters.”  And barf.  I was so trying to solve everyone’s problems and heal my friends with words.  It’s so funny that all these years later the healing words have all been replaced with cynicism and sarcasm.  I showed me!!  The letter I wrote to Paul is single spaced and looks as if a mental patient typed it.  It rambles on and on and on and holy shit it’s exactly like my blog.  This incredibly important document says things like “ My mom found my pot pipe and I thought I was dead shit so I said it was one of my friends.  Then to top it off she found an empty bottle of Boonesfarm.  That was the straw that broke Joan’s back.  I’m so uterus”  I told him what kind of boys I like and then typed “tell your friends you have a nice girl who’s gorgeous.  They’ll get over the initial shock after a few dates.”  So my self esteem was in full depletion mode even then.  Other gems from my early humor…”We don’t have enough to say to fill a roach clip” and how someone can “roll over twice while eating shit.”  Clearly I have not changed one single bit… even though I read this and think – who is that girl.   Hopefully I’ve gotten slightly funnier
     I wonder if other people have trouble remembering as much as I do.  This week I got a really nasty posting from someone I’ve never heard of.  I guess I inadvertently posted a blog on an old friends page who had died one year before.  It was the anniversary of his death and amidst all the beautiful thoughts was THE BOOK OF MORON.  Well I am a moron after all.  His name was Louis Schwed and he was beloved.   My mother had told me about his death and others as she loves to do each and every phone call.  At first I couldn’t quite remember if I had a friendship with Louis. Because of the nasty posting – I went back onto his page – and looked at all the photos and thought – Oh my god I can’t believe Louis is dead.  I remembered.  The squint in his eyes when he smiled… and how sweet he was.  As far as I knew, I hadn’t seen him since he was a kid.   Now he’s gone and all this time later I feel really sad, but grateful he was so loved.   So fuck you to the douche who wrote a nasty note on my posting – you could have easily said – “hey heidi, you may want to remove your post from Lou’s wall.”  His name is Corey David Levitan.  He’s a blogger for MSN.  Feel free to write him and hate him.  Shit, maybe I even knew him once.  I don’t remember.  And to Louis – We all remember you.  I wish you could see your Facebook page.  You are so very missed – and heaven’s lucky to have you now.

Doody Delivery

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

    Is an elective liver transplant a dumb idea?  My health plan runs out in March so I’m thinking of having a bunch of stuff down now.  I’ve never had any kind of major surgery and there are probably a few parts that need replacing so why not have a couple of clean up operations while I’m still covered.   I’m sure I can find some doctor out there that says my kidney needs to go.  There can’t be only one Conrad Murray in Hollywood.  I wonder if having a new liver or kidney gives you a new lease on life.  I know it would be great for the diet situation.  There’s only so  much hospital pudding one person can take before they start dropping pounds.  The only major snag in this concept is the hospital gown.  My ass cannot be seen in any kind of fabric window and I don’t want my butt touching hospital sheets that can’t possibly be rid of whatever hideous DNA was left behind.  There isn’t a washing machine hot enough to delouse what I’ve seen walking out of a neighborhood emergency room.
     There are two other things in life I’ve never done – rape a ten year old boy in a shower and shit in a bag.  There is a special place in prison for those who do the first, though locking Sandusky up at the Bunny Ranch with a bunch of grown naked women is probably a worse punishment.  As for the second, I have come very close to pooping in a bag.  I’m not proud of it but if it happened I wouldn’t die of shame.  I never thought about shitting in a bag before but now the concept of a paper bag poop has been raised on more than one occasion.
     There is a restaurant in Hollywood called Pizzeria Mozza and every time I eat there I get what I like to call Mozzarhea.  The second I climb in my car I have to go – bad.  I don’t know what it is and I don’t know why I keep repeating this – I guess the pizza is just that good.  One time I was so freaked out that I was going to shit the car that I called my friend Brian and asked him what to do and he said “do you have a bag in the car.”   “No why?”  I asked.  “Cause you can pull over and just go in that.”  Wow.  He came to this conclusion in like a second flat and never in a million years would I have thought of this.  I wonder what that looks like from the outside of the car?  “Oh, no need for assistance I’m just shitting in a bag.”  “Am I leaving the parking spot?  Well yes, after I shit in this bag.”  I had to go so badly that day I didn’t think I could hold it in.  I was white and sweating and screaming on the inside but I finally made it home to poop in porcelain… the way god intended.
     A friend of mine says he knows a couple that both have major doody issues and have both had to go in their cars.  I really want to meet them.  These are my kind of nutbags.  The best story I’ve ever heard though is from my friend who was recently driving his son to a playdate at a friends house.  The minute they got in the car his kid said “daddy I need to go number two.”  The dad said “we’ll be there any second honey can you hold it in?”  Well holding anything in is not something children know how to do nor do they care to learn when they’re young.  Holding anything in is an adult practice.  They pulled up to the friends house finally but the phone rang and the person who was holding the playdate announced “I’m running late, I’ll be home in ten minutes.”  Ruh Roh.  So there they were stuck outside in a car with a kid who had to go – BAD.  “Daddy it burns it burns.”  Oh shit.  Literally.  So he scooped up his kid, found a bag in the back seat and took him behind the bushes where he held that bag under his kids butt and had his kid shit in a bag.  The only thing that upsets me about this entire situation is that there is no photographic proof.
     So if you ever have to go while driving and find yourself shitting in something other than a toilet – be comforted in knowing – you are not alone.  As for my friend – it was a Jenny Craig Diet Food Delivery bag.  So ironically  – for the first time ever – what was now in his bag probably tasted better than those cardboard hamburgers they hand out.

I See Fat People

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 When did everyone get a neck pillow?  Isn’t sporting that hideous foam stuffed inner tube the same as wearing a giant sign that says – “I’m a moron with a fanny pack for my neck?”  Every Tom, Dick and Douche had one on my flight back east and this I would like to point out – is just one of the problems of the Coach Class.  First of all – there is no class in coach.  There are only weird semi smelly people with too much stuff.  I used to be one of those people who laughed at the coach class while eating my hot cookie in a pod on a 777 airplane but being unemployed sent me back to steerage and I was not happy about it.
     Now I used to really love a good plane ride.  It gave me time to
ponder life’s really important questions like “Why is Rachel Bilson a style icon?” but I wanted this flight to be over – stat. My aisle mate was wearing mom jeans and his name was Bob.   The bathrooms were apparently cleaned with a new product called URINE and I had to cover my nose while peeing and sitting in the pee of the woman who went before me who forgot that sitting isn’t mandatory while urinating.   These were not the friendly skies of first class.
     My seatmates were also cause for concern.  I wasn’t sure if the man in my row was with his daughter or his kidnap victim.  She looked dirty and malnourished and he was chomping on a box of Good ‘N Plenty – the standard snack food of all pedophiles.  She flipped open her Macbook and revealed stickers of Amy Winehouse and the word “survival” plastered on the outskirts of her screen.  She started watching Marley and Me and sped through all the kissing scenes and I thought clearly this was a sign she’d be “interfered” with and I thought about alerting the stewardess to have airport security waiting but was overcome with the urge to steal the candy from the now sleeping “daddy.”  I love a good stale box of Good ‘N Plenty.  Eventually I realized the poor thing wasn’t all there when she started laughing at Ben Stiller in Night at the Museum. Everyone knows this is not a comedy.  We fought over the armrest.  She won.
     I was heading back east for a family gathering in Friendship Maine and I learned some very important things about the town and Maine in general right off the bat.  The “Croc” is the National shoe and the Whoopie Pie is the National treat and I believe these two things do go hand in hand.  The Croc is clearly the sturdiest shoe made by man because the hideous but colorful plastic clogs I saw were holding up people who have obviously been working hard to make the Whoopie Pie Maine’s number one snack.   I have never seen so many fat people in one place in my life. “The Biggest Loser” needs to pull into this town in a hurry and just set up a casting booth outside the Hannaford Supermarket. Holy poundage bat man it was mind boggling.   I also learned that anyone with a Subaru and a kayak was a lesbian and that a family fight at the local ice cream store Friendship Scoop was no laughing matter because they changed the once sweet sign in front of the store to now read “Whoopie Pies 8 for a dollar/ Liars go to hell.”
     My sister Wendy and brother in law Steve’s place in Friendship is – for me – a slice of heaven.  It encompasses two of my favorite things – the woods and water.  Situated in a dense tree filled area on the ocean it is by day peacefully stunning – and by night fantastically creepy.  I remember the days of my youth sitting around a campfire at Camp Indian Head as counselors told the tale of Cropsey – the man so ugly the townspeople burned his house to the ground killing his wife and children and maiming him forcing him to spend the rest of his life – and death – tirelessly roaming the woods killing children.  I’m not sure who deemed this a good story to tell little kids but every jewish kid I know – knows this tale.
     This weekend’s big acitivity in Friendship was “The Bake” and while a few people who shall remain nameless did take the pot – this is not what I’m talking about.  I’m referring to a clambake – and quite frankly – the New York Times needs to cover this puppy because I’ve never seen anything like it.  There was lobster, clams, haddock, hot dogs, potatoes, onions, and corn all covered in seaweed and foil and baked on an open fire on the beach.  Some Jews don’t eat shellfish.  We Jews made up for them.   There was some major S’more-ing and a drive by pie-ing or two and by the end of the night I was pretty sure I was gonna burst through my big girl pants.
     The best part of the weekend however were the intellectual conversations we had.  I learned my brother in law is desperate to find out what it smelled like at ground zero on 9/11.  Odd.  He said everyone talks about the smell and he just wants to smell it for a second.  We beat this to death for about ten minutes with every joke ranging from the obvious “eau de terrorist” to the cruel “burning flesh and steel.”  (I know – too soon.)  But this is how my family deals with every subject – with humor – taking anyone and everything down.  We also learned that said brother in law thinks Ashton Kutcher is the same person as Kato Kaelin when he asked if Ashton were part of the OJ trial and I’m pretty sure this was the Bake talking because my brother in law is one of the smartest people I know.  We had a very deep conversation about nursing homes where I learned that my sister does not want to be placed in one because she does not want to be pushed around in a wheel chair by someone who hates her and will possibly beat her and my niece Amy hates eating around fat people because she is terrified someone will have a PHA (public heart attack).
     My clothes still wreak of Bake and I survived four days without the internet though we did discuss U Porn intensely and I showed my family the incredible You Tube video of the paraplegic girl who raps a song called “My Vagina Ain’t Handicapped” on my Iphone.   Ahh the wholesome family weekend.  I flew home coach where the only hot cookie I was gonna get was the stray oreo trapped under my fat cologne stenched seat mates rear end.   I now have a lovely blue neck pillow and while it did not make my flight feel like first class, it was a fantastic addition to the suck ass seats.

Coffins Aisle Five

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 Do you have changes in mood and behavior, thoughts of suicide, a fever, stiff muscles, confusion, uncontrollable muscle movements, high blood sugar which can lead to coma or death, cataracts, increased cholesterol, weight gain, seizures, dizziness while standing, drowsiness, impaired judgement, trouble swallowing and decreases in white blood cells which can be fatal?  Well, you are either Jewish or taking Cymbalta.   I’m depressed just reading about what this anti depression drug can do to me.  The only thing it doesn’t say it could cause is anal leakage but at this point that sounds like party time compared to Cymbalta’s list.  Remember those anal leakage potato chips?  They were asstastic.  Who is the person eating Olestra right now?  You are a moron.
     Going to Costco can send me into a deeper depression than missing the shoe sale at Saks.  Yes, that abysmal.  They really should just rename the place the “Too Bad You Live Alone” store.  I want a 48 ounce can of crushed tomatoes.  I need a 175 ounce jug of Olive Oil.  In fact – I need two – and thankfully they come that way – joined together by that convenient plastic handcuff.   I promise myself I will make homemade pasta sauce for the entire neighborhood of people I don’t speak to with these ingredients and drop them into my cart with a thud that sends shockwaves throughout the massive supermarket warehouse.  I will never use these items.  I still have a 24 ounce jar of marinated artichoke hearts that I bought in 1875.  It has more dust on it than the tops of my paintings that my cleaning lady thinks I don’t know she doesn’t dust.  I know.  The frames have their own dust frames.
     I think taking someone to Costco is perhaps the simplest way of finding out if they are insane.  This should be a mandatory first date stop for potential couples.  Walk your new man or lady friend around the giant aisles filled with every product known to man and see if he or she picks up the Pro Curve Solar Panel Cleaning Kit and thumps it into a cart.  If they do – they may have a lifetime pass on the short yellow bus.  I would not be able to pass this nut bag test.  I need a drool cup when I see the sixteen pack of home made hash browns and the 75 pack of veggie burgers.  I haven’t ever bought the alien like truck load of king crab legs but I’m very close.  I just need to make space in the fridge.  This is what you buy right before they check you in to the mental ward. That’s who those people in white coats are back by the butcher section.  They are not meat people.
     I am truly horrified to admit the one type of item I have bought at Costco. Clothing.  I not only own a pair of Calvin Klein Capri pants but also a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.  I had to buy them.  They were fifteen dollars.  I once went to my local eyeglass store in my Calvin Capri’s and the woman working there also had them on.  She yelled at me and pointed “Costco!” and I dropped my head in shame.
     I want to love Costco more and shop there like families do buying up bulk items by the bulk,  but everything goes bad before I ever get to use it.   I want to be an Executive Club Member more than I want to be accepted at The Soho House so, I am now considering getting a husband and having kids so I can shop there more often. Costco is clearly the only upside to having a husband and a family.  I will pile everyone into our SUV in their best Crocs and Tevas and hit that place hard.  It will be our Mecca.   I will buy all the 42 pack sour patch kids my kids can eat.
People always tell me that they love going to Costco just to wander the aisles and eat the samples those wacko worker bees in shower caps are serving up.  Really?  Are you that hungry and cheap that you need a sixteenth of a burrito cooked on a slimy hot plate and served in a paper cupcake wrapper?  I am not a sample eater.  I don’t want anyone in baggy powdered gloves touching me, my cupcake wrapper,  or my one eighteenth of a cheese nugget wrapped around an almond.  I love when these Costco servers turn chef and start using two products to show you how you too can combine these great Costco products.  The last one I saw was frozen berries and waffles.  Jeffy the Retard was cutting his waffles into forty two piece portions and putting an unfrozen drippy raspberry on top of each into it’s little cupcake wrapper.  People were lining up like Jeffy was giving away free cars.  I would love to go to the pitch meeting where the Costco employees sit around and shout out their best food combo ideas.   “Hi I’m Julie from the meat department and I would like to try wrapping our Oscar Meyer hot dogs in our Kirkland bacon.”  Roars of applause!!!!  Julie is a genius!!
Someday I’m going to open a Costco for single people.   It will carry exactly the same portion sizes as a regular supermarket but it will be called “Costco Solo” and I will be the genius.

Men Behaving Badly

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 Elin Nordegren is dating again and it’s getting serious.  How is this even possible?  If there’s anyone I expected to be fucked for life in the love department – it’s Tiger’s ex – Elin.  How can a woman who’s husband banged the kind of chicks you need a Silkwood scrub for – pull herself together and get out there again?  I am ashamed of myself.   I’d be so one and done if I were the ex Mrs. Woods but she hit the man meat trail again and she nailed herself a rich one who’s even got a billionaire daddy.  Nice work for a girl who doesn’t even speak English.  Nanny’s everywhere are rejoicing and rethinking their career paths.
     If I were Elin the vagina shop would have gone into lockdown with a sign that said – exit only.  No visitors.  No passes.  No kidding.  I am the kind of girl who doesn’t forget easily but doesn’t confront readily.  If Tiger were my ex he would have gotten away with it all because I’d be hiding under my bed contemplating a name change while listening to Rosetta Stone French tapes and planning my exile to Ile de la Cite.  They have an awesome gelato shop there.
     Just this morning my physical therapist felt me up and I didn’t do a damn thing about it.   There I was innocently lying down on my paper sheet covered therapy bed when “Ham Hands Tom” copped a feel.  I’m sure if I had said something he would say he was just stretching out my broken shoulder when my boob got in the way but I’m telling you – it was a full on steal of second base and I had to pay ten dollars for it.   Thankfully the Writers Guild Health Plan stopped it from being a high dollar molestation.  I gave him that look like “we both know what you did” but he didn’t get the look.  He just said “what?”  By the way this is a mans answer to every problem you have with them when you give them the look – “what?”  I think they teach it in womb school – boys academy only.  Girls learn – “fuck off.”
     Men are constantly doing shit I don’t know how to respond to.  Yesterday the Toyota repairman said I needed a new battery.  I of course did not believe him because my father taught me never to trust a car salesman.  He also taught me to write my car price down on a piece of paper and slide it across the dealers desk when I was ready to buy but that hasn’t worked since Ritchie Cunningham got his license.   I’ll never know if I really needed a new battery because he told me that if I didn’t get one right then and there I would break down at the grocery store.  “If it doesn’t happen today – it will happen next week.”  I wasn’t so much afraid of breaking down as I was pissed that the only place this man thought I would be going was the grocery store.  I didn’t have a child seat in the back so why was the supermarket my only option for a destination?  What if I was a scientist and had to discover nuclear fusion later that day?  What if I was surfing instructor who only taught handicapped children to catch a wave and traveled to and from Malibu everyday?  Who did this shit fucker think he was? He was the guy who successfully sold this non confronter a 400 dollar battery.  I wish I had my friend Victoria’s dad with me.  He would have handled this a lot better. Whenever he goes with Vic to get a new lease and the topic of money comes up he always says – “walk away Victoria , it’s going to get ugly.”  I am not this bold.
     While my car was in the shop they “did me the favor of resetting my Prius computer.”  This was not a good thing.  This meant that all of the beeps on my car were back.  If you have a Prius then you know what I’m talking about.  It may be the most quiet car on the street but every thing has a beep.  The drivers side seat belt.  Reverse.  The passenger seat etc.   My friend Brian went online and found a website where some mental patient with too much free time figured out how to shut down the beeping computer in the Prius.  It was like a game of twister but far more challenging.   “In order to turn off the rear view camera beep – put your right foot on the gas and your left hand on the brake pedal and stick your head out the window while shoving the car in and out of neutral with your radio tuned to smooth jazz and that will shut off one beep.”   We spent hours in both of our cars doing this.  And in one fell swoop the beeps were back on.  Ugh
     I would like to be as outspoken as I am outwritten but I’m quite the chicken shit.  If I were more confrontational the black chicks in high school would not have been able to put Nair in my hair.  If I were more outspoken I would say out loud the things I think in my head and write on these pages. I would have informed the man I saw at the car wash that his wife beater t shirt was more of an “infit” than an “outfit.”  I would have told the woman at the supermarket that the shower gel she was buying was equivalent to using Tilex and I definitely would have told George Clooney that it’s his fault I got a pot bellied pig named Elvis back in the early nineties and had to give it to a farm because it did not like living in New York City and charged everyone who came to my apartment.  I didn’t see George yesterday but I could have.  I do live in Hollywood.

I Am Cranky

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   I shot a woman at the drug store this morning.  If my eyes were loaded… she’d be dead right now.  It wasn’t her fault.  After all,  how could she be to blame that I have my period again?  Fifty One is less than one month away so move over Nancy Grace because clearly my body is warming up to hold some triplets. I had to go buy tampons again because I throw all of mine out after each month thinking that I’m fooling the period gods and praying that I will be done with them forever but It’s never going to end.  I’m going to be in the Guiness Book of World Records for oldest living female still menstruating.  It will be the angriest photo in the book especially if they put me next to that longest toe nail record holder because that person really freaks me out.   Who decides to make that their life long goal?
     I’ve decided to start working out again like a maniac because I know that when girls (term is being used loosely calm the fuck down) are very athletic they stop getting their periods.   I will reshape myself into Kathy Rigby!!  Is she still alive?  I think I saw her doing a commercial for some kind of skin disease that makes you unable to leave the house unless you are wearing a Navahideous Indian poncho.  Could have been someone else but…
     Becky and I hit bootcamp this morning at 9:30.  I hadn’t been since I broke my arm in June.  Becky had been in China for a month so she was just as terrified to return.  We were greeted by the usual group of women in the Valley, awkwardly thin for their ages wearing not enough clothing and clearly doubling up on the spray tan sessions.  Orange is not a color of tan.  FYI.  There was Mrs. Man – the person whose gender we cannot identify and Anorexia Girl – the chick who should be eating a steak intravenously and has more fuzz on her back than a peach.  One woman smiled at me.  I growled back.  “I do not know you. Do not think we are workout buddies.”   Our favorite instructor Martin was teaching and in between the waves of nausea and the Katy Perry soundtrack – I think we did pretty good.  Nobody got hurt and the endorphins almost put me in a good mood which after my Target Missoni debacle is not an easy thing to do.  I thought – this is going to be a banner day.  And then we had lunch.
     What should have been a nice innocent stop in the sweet village of Larchmont turned into a blood boiling brunch that I need to take deep breaths after – and possibly a valium with a xanax chaser.  Even just writing about it makes me feel silly.  I’m talking about “Café Gratitude.”  This delightful little vegan spot in Larchmont serves dishes with the following names.  I AM THANKFUL, I AM PURE, I AM FULLFILLED, I AM DAZZLING, I AM CONNECTED, I AM BLAH BLAH SHUT THE FUCK UP.     Okay that last one isn’t on the menu but it was on MY menu.  Can’t I just get some fucking food?   I think the waitress was wearing a skirt of pressed granola and she definitely was a transfer from the san fran location because we do not grow or import people like this in Los Angeles.  Don’t get me wrong – the food is great but I don’t want to sound like an asshole when I order something to eat and there’s no way to sound like anything but when the words “I’d like the I am Magical to start and then the I am Extraordinary as a main course” come out of your I am an idiot mouth.
     I have decided to remain indoors for the rest of the day until the black cloud of me has passed over my head.  I am only going to text people and I am only going to use emoticons to do so.  Hopefully that little pile of shit with the eyes won’t be the only emoticon that comes up but I AM NOT HOPEFUL.

Fore Play

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  Guess where all the hot men in Los Angeles aren’t?  For those of you ladies hitting the links looking for a man – sorry – you will only find a small Asian lady and her equally small dog wearing a better outfit than yours.  It’s not that I’m obsessed with Asians – you just seem to be everywhere I go lately.  You need to cut it out.
     I went to hit a few balls at the driving range in Los Feliz yesterday with my friend Becky.  She has her own clubs.  This makes her very impressive to me.  I don’t have my own anything when it comes to sports unless you count a fly swatter which is an activity I excel at.  Golf always seemed like something I could handle, after all how hard is it to walk around in the sunshine with a bag of sticks?  As usual, I was wrong.
     First of all we had to carry our own clubs.  I flung the bag over my shoulder and got an eye roll and a snort from Becky.  How could I not know how to carry a bag?   I have purses the same size.  Apparently you don’t carry a golf bag like a Chanel tote.  Well excuse me.  I do not like sports that involve that much schlepping.  I asked for a cart.  Becky pointed to the driving range that was a mere 100 feet away.  I repeated my request for a cart or at least a hot caddy?  Not happening.  I also really wanted a cocktail.  Golf seems like a game that goes hand in hand with drinking, lots of drinking, and then possibly peeing in the cup, around the eight hole.   Since I can’t drink, this was another strike against golf.
     We hit the driving range first to see if I had any kind of swing.  Becky offered to teach me.  Then she forgot how to hold her own club.  This was not a good sign.  Then she forgot which hand her glove was supposed to go on.  This did not boost my confidence. Then she said,  “Maybe we need the Flesh Hacker?”  This is our nickname for her husband Seth.  That’s a loose translation of his last name.  He is a golfer.  We needed help.  Becky’s swing was terrific but let’s just say she won’t become a golf teacher anytime soon.  It was like having a monkey give me instruction because every time I swung and missed the ball I turned to find her pointing and laughing at me.  She might as well have thrown her poop.  I did make contact with the ball but only after I switched to a driver the size of my head.  “Isn’t this cheating?” I asked.   The guy next to me was hitting his balls with the equivalent of a Buick LaSabre,  which in my unprofessional opinion just didn’t seem professional.  He was getting a thwack on the ball that sounded truly satisfying but I don’t see how he could wheel his Range Rover sticks out onto a course and be taken seriously.  I gave up on the driving range after about a dozen balls.

     Then I hit the putting green… by myself.  It was sunny and beautiful and the green was gorgeous and I thought – I can do this!!  I missed the hole a total of fifteen times and gave up again.  I had no idea I was this athletically challenged.   The small dog even laughed at me.  I just couldn’t line up the ball with the hole while standing.  If I could lie down on the green and shoot it like a game of pool I could do much better.  I may try that next time, if the dog isn’t there.

Everyone Goops

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  Last night while a man was being executed for a murder many people believe he did not commit – I was being told of an equally horrific atrocity – a publicist who did not get her second gift bag at an Emmy party.  For some reason this particular Emmy party has a very desirable gift bag that includes must haves like Dr. Scholl’s Fast Flats that cost 9.99 at Target.   This woman was so outraged that she only got one ticket for one gift bag that she was overheard saying “I’m a publicist and I will tell every paper in this city what your are doing.”  I would love to hear that phone call.  “Hi, I’m a fucking hideous greedy bitch and I only got one free gift bag and you people need to write about that!”  Okay Nutella. Imagine what she could do if she used her power for good instead of evil.  She represents Celine Dion so I guess there is karma after all.
     Also discussed at length last night – why I should hate Gwyneth Paltrow.  Up until this point in my life I was very happy with my relationship with Gwynnie.  I thought she was a terrific actress and I never spent a second being jealous of her.  In fact – I enjoyed her very much.  I was told this would change if I looked at her website GOOP – which apparently I am the last person alive to read.
     GOOP is a website that tells you what you need to know to live Gwyneth Paltrows life.  It is high falootin’.  Even her font choice – this Garamond – is fancy.  But I was not deterred – after all – I have my own wick trimmer and as a child I had invisible twin midget brothers named Effie and Endrin who were very powerful businessmen who worked in the big city and had big meetings – so I was born with the high falootin’ gene.  The page includes topics like MAKE, GO, GET, DO, BE, SEE.   Under MAKE she says, “As a home cook, one of the best things I’ve ever done was to build a wood burning oven in the back yard.”  Okay, I don’t have a yard.  When discussing her favorite body products she wrote “I always stock up on these items when I’m in France or ask friends to bring some back when they’re passing through.”  I passed through Rite Aid yesterday and got some new toilet paper called the Mega Roll.  It seems like it will last one full year and I’m pretty happy about that.  Gwynnie tells you how to create her ideal cheese board by pairing Manchego and Quince Jelly and while I don’t know what those two items are it does sound delicious.  She also shows you how to get an outfit she wore at a photo shoot – the real outfit – not the Forever 21 version that looks like Tulip made it with her back legs.  She gives you her favorite trends like shorts that cost 250 dollars, a pillow for 150 and a briefcase for 375 dollars that I really want even though I don’t have a job.
     After perusing the website for a full hour I am here to report – I actually like her even more now.  Don’t get me wrong – including a picture of the free four thousand dollar suitcase Louis Vuitton “sent her” pissed me off because I want it – I’ll even take it with her initials on it.  I’ll tell people it stands for Gee Pretty Me.  But I can’t wrong someone for wanting to find the best things in life and sharing them.  At least she doesn’t do it in that Pope-rah Winfrey way where you want to kill yourself because you’re so wracked with jealousy over not being able to have her favorite things – like a private chef.  Gwyneth just sort of puts it out there.  Gwyneth may be perfect.
     This morning my friend Brian sent me a copy of a speech Steve Jobs gave where in it he said  – “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today? And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.”  Well today I looked in the mirror and asked that question and got the answer – YES.  So if anyone out there is looking for a French Mastiff named Tulip – head on over to Ebay because I need to sell her to afford the Stella McCartney Jersey Dress Gwyneth likes.  It looks really comfy.

And Scene

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 “Who do you think was the first person to invent the idea of popcorn at the movies?” an old man asked me today at the Arclight in Hollywood.  My eyes hit the back of my head.  Thwunk.  Oh great – there’s a quiz.  All I wanted to do was go see a movie – by myself.  I had my hat pulled down low and I was crouched in the seat but this man stopped right at my crotch as he was making his way past me down the row to ask this incredibly probing I must have the answer right now question.  I tried to avoid all eye contact.  He looked at me deeper.  I finally said – “I have no idea.”  He sighed and moved on.  Nothing goes better with a giant I’m alone at the movies loser drink than a large bucket of I’m a mean asshole guilt.   I prayed for the trailers to begin.
     I wonder if you have to audition to be a movie usher at the Arclight because they seem to think it’s a very prestigious gig.   They are all very impressed with themselves and with the clever lines they clearly write and then practice over and over again in some root cellar somewhere like Rupert Pupkin.  I believe they believe this job will one day lead to big things.  They will be discovered by a Hollywood director or producer who just happened to go to “their” theater that day who will say “gee kid, you got something, I can tell, we should work together.”  I hate to punch your ticket to the Captain Obvious show right now  but I’ve been waiting for that to happen for the last fifteen years and I actually work in television.  I always want to interview these ushers and find out what their aspirations are… thier oeuvre – and of course find out how they craft their pre movie speeches.   Maybe they are hoping to graduate to Hollywood Boulevard and play Spiderman in front of Mann’s Chinese.    It could happen.
   Today’s clever ticket taker told us to “turn off anything that makes a noise ha ha” which unfortunately did not include the old woman next to me who I can only guess was being paid to repeat all of the dialogue as it happened.  “I’m going to call you later.”  “Oh he’s going to call her later.”  “This is the worst day of my life.”  “Oh it’s the worst day of his life.”  Why baby Jesus why?  I don’t know what’s worse at the movies – old people or eaters.  I love a couple who packs a six course meal individually wrapped in loud paper products or the people who turn their food box into a trough and start top cheffing it all over the place by mixing their raisinettes with their popcorn.  Crunch. Crunch. Oy.  As for my loud little seat mate – I did feel badly that she was by herself.   I could be her one day. And then it hit me.  Oh shit.  It’s my annual be nice to old people reminder.   We all get one.  We just aren’t always paying attention.  I’ve seen other people get theirs and have no fucking clue its happening and quite frankly I happen to think the old people reminder police are  getting lazy because lately it’s almost always at a parking meter.  They are standing behind an elderly woman who is staring at this thing like it just landed from another planet and is speaking in tongues and they just have no idea what to do.  “Do I use money?  Where’s the slot?  How do I know it’s working?  Where is my spot number?  Oh I didn’t look.  Where do I put that in?  Do I need to put that in now?  Murray!!!!”  The younger person is behind them harrumphing and sighing and oh my god don’t you know I have to get to Pinkberry!!!!!  I do think you should have to be retested for your drivers license when you can’t see over the steering wheel or you can’t figure out a parking meter but fuck – I’m about 2 weeks shy of 51 and I could easily be confounded by a piece of street equipment any day now.  You should see me at the ATM with this whole no deposit slip necessary thing.  And now I can take a picture of a check and email it to the bank to deposit it?  Okay really?  Will Judy Jetson be approving this for me?
     That’s how it works.   Tomorrow I will inexplicably start using the words “new fangled” and the day after I will be slumped over like the hunchback of Notre Dame and will never see my own shade of lipstick on my lips in the mirror again unless I hold the mirror between my legs  which is where most of the rest of me will be hanging anyway.   The End.

Defreinded Forever

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 My 15 year old Chihuahua Lola needs a full body lift.  She has massive amounts of hanging skin and she tells me she feels unattractive.  I’m not sure who she’s trying to please because no one’s been to her crate in years.  She’s been on a very serious diet ever since her overstuffed burrito like body got too big for her toothpick like legs.  She would stand at the bottom of the basement steps and just bark – too fat to get up the flight.  I would do this too if it would work – and if anyone would hear me.  I should probably get one of those “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” buzzers for both of us.  I would use it just to get out of bed though and I just fear that we’ll become the girl and girl dog who cry wolf a lot.  I have one of those old outdoor wheelchair thingy’s next to my house.  I believe it’s called a funicular which is an odd name because if you have to use it you are not having any fun in your life whatsoever.  It’s rusty and covered in weeds and stares at me like some sort of Senior Citizen Transformer but everyday I look at it and think “not today funicular, not today.”
     I have discovered a bizarre allergy to whatever it is they put in those sugar free candies.  Well not exactly an allergy… more like a reaction.   I ate an entire bag of sugar free starbursts and I had to hold a fart in while getting a facial and it really ruined the calming effects the facial was supposed to have.  It’s not easy holding in a fart, especially a sugar free fart.  They are very powerful.  I mean – it took all of my being to keep this particular piece of gas trapped.   There was a lot of legs crossed, butt clenched, seat moving… and my facialist thought I had some kind of palsey.  I held it in – for an hour and a half and I believe I have brain damage from this now… and I may die from the inside.
      I noticed today while on Facebook for about four hours of my life I’ll never get back that four people on my friends list – were dead.  This is extremely depressing .   What happens to their pages now?  They can’t deactivate them and I’m sure they didn’t give their passwords to anyone to deactivate it for them – no one would do that – these pages are precious to people.   What happens to their sites?  What if the last picture they posted of themselves wasn’t a good one and they look fat or had on a bad outfit?  What if their last status update said something stupid like – “god I wish this day would end.” I just think there needs to be some kind of Facebook Death Squad that comes in and does clean up for people who have passed away.  They can create some sort of an “In Memorium” page to live on forever that’s a combination of all the people and places and pictures you took.  I know I would want that.  They could update your status report to say nice things like – “heaven is awesome.  Saw my first dog Chips today.  He still remembers me.”  Or for people going to that other place “still hot today. Sweating.”   One of the people who died – Darryl – had this as his last status update “having my last surgery today – nervous.”  I hope he’s laughing now at the irony.  He seems to have been the type that would.   If someone out there is in charge of doing my page – please make sure people know the term “moron” was “ironic” and please take down all the fat pictures of me that my mean jealous ex friends posted.   Just use the new shots of Lola – she will be slim after her doggie plastic surgery.

You Talkin’ To Me

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 Note to all European-ish men: I have instituted a “Don’t Ask Don’t Smell” policy in the Los Angeles area.  This means don’t ask me anything because it means you are far to close to me and I don’t want to smell the Drakar Noir or whatever it is you just took a bath in this morning.  Your cologne needs volume control and you need to turn it down to eleven.  There is nothing I love more than a man who smells great and nothing I love less than an overpowering cologne when I’m trapped in the elevator at CB2 on Sunset.  I just want an odd shaped yellow bowl and now I have a headache and thank you for burning out the few nostril hairs I didn’t take care of at the last waxing.  Yes I shove hot wax up my nose just in case something grows.  People say I’m crazy to do this and that your nose hair is there to protect you but I don’t need that kind of protection. Have you ever seen a woman with nose hair?  I have and she is hideous.
     A new study came out today that said that one in every 25 people is a psychopath.  That means as of right this second there are at least 8 people reading this that have the potential to kill me.  Craptastic.  I played find the psycho all morning on my Facebook page and I haven’t picked you out yet but I am very very close.   One click of the “like” button on that  “How I Met Your Mother” page and you will be snuffed out immediately.   I thought for sure the homeless man I see everyday was one of the 8 people who had gone on some murderous rampage.  He was missing for days.  I actually got really worried because I had seen John everyday for quite a few years and all of a sudden he was no longer at his spot.  I started asking the guys who were now standing in his spot if they had seen him.  I would have had more success just driving around yelling his name out of my car window because these people did not know John.  These people did not know even know their own names, or where they were, or that a person was speaking to them.   I said “This is Johns corner do you know what happened to him?”  One guy said – “Maybe he found a better place to stand.”  Really?  Better than the exit ramp at Gower right near the Scientology Celebrity Center?  I think not.  I mean Tom Cruise, John Travolta or Kirstie Alley can swing by this spot any day.  This was a cushy position.  Something funny was going on and I tried to get to the bottom of it but to no avail.  I thought about enlisting the help of the Scientology Center but I didn’t want to get E metered or alien probed or whatever it is they do to people that make them all wear the same outfit and not tell the truth.  Finally today John was back in his spot with a cast on his arm.  I thought – shit, he got in a fight over his great location.  “Oh my god John what happened?”  “I fell down” he said.  Duh.  John likes to drink.
     There is a man who sweeps outside the hardware store in my neighborhood and he talks to himself – constantly.  I am fascinated by him and everything he has to say.  Last night he even came into the supermarket while I was there and started saying something about his grandfather and a typewriter and white trash.  I think he was trying to write a sitcom for CBS.   God I wanted to know what was going on in his head so badly.  The checkout kid told me he used to work for Channel 5.  Well that explained everything.
      Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s famous and who’s mentally ill.  I dated a celebrity once.    He isn’t on television right now but he was every week – for years.  He broke my heart and then had the nerve to permeate my airwaves for well over a decade.  He got married had babies and went on other television shows to talk about his great life which was the exact same life he told me he’d never succumb to.   I saw him once at the Golden Globes and said hi.  He looked and me and said “I’m sorry what’s your name?”  I almost kicked him in his very tiny penis.  He was clearly mental.  He didn’t choose me.  He smelled really good.

Happy Jew Year

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  Leann Rimes must have temporarily lost her mind to let her cheater husband go to work everyday on a television show where he’s surrounded by incredibly hot women in bunny outfits with boobs bursting out of their boobs and who’s job it is to seduce him.  Did she forget how she met him?  She can’t be that retarded can she?  I know stars have ginormous egos but come on!   “It’s cool honey, we’re just acting. Do you know how awkward it is to shoot a love scene with all of those crew members watching?  It’s the most unromantic thing ever.  Well yes I put my penis in her to make it look more authentic on camera but it doesn’t mean anything.”  And scene.
     I once dated a cheater.  He was a model.  He was magnificent looking.  He was a mental midget.   It’s amazing the level of idiocy you can reach when you have low self esteem and a hot man starts circling your orbit.   I started thinking he was dabbling in other vaginas a few months into our relationship but I could never prove it and I was far too terrified that any confrontation without proof would make him mad and leave me.   In the beginning I was always afraid he’d leave me– in the end I was afraid he never would.  I was also afraid of the gun he had and once pointed at my head because I was “arguing with him.”  Okay I don’t make great choices in men.  This we know.  One day he went to a friends wedding without me because I had to work.  A few weeks later this friend asked me to edit the videotape of her wedding and there it was right before my eyes the thing I knew was happening all along – my boyfriend making out with some whore in the background of some testimonial some family member was giving.  Gotcha!!  Tears.  Vomiting.  Sadness.  Etc.  I lost my shit.  I went home and changed the locks immediately.  I packed up all of his shit and piled it in front of our apartment door.  I left a note – “go live with the chick in the video.”  I heard him outside the door for what felt like hours.  He was probably trying to teach himself to read.  He moved in with that girl and I was miserable.  I actually took him back.  Then I found my brain and my soul and threw him out for good.  Jealousy is way more than a green eyed monster – it’s a giant heart eating beast.   What a horrible way to spend your day – worrying that the person you love is loving someone else.
     It is Rosh Hashanah right now – or pretty close – I can’t remember because Jews move it around too much.  The words translate into – the head of the year.  It is also known as the day of judgement – something I am very good at.   I can’t help but judge people – they make it so easy.  In Kaballah they teach you that bad thoughts for other people will just bounce off of them and come right back to you.  That’s a lot of bouncing going on for me.  I’m pinging shit around like mad.  Sometimes I have to close my eyes when I walk around or I’ll just fall down from the ricochet of bad thoughts flying off of my brain.  If something good happens to someone that you don’t like or feel doesn’t deserve the good thing you are supposed to say to yourself “there is room in the world for good to happen to everyone” but try and do that while your stabbing someone with your tongue.  I need Martha Stewart  to come create a new filing system in my head so I have room for a few good thoughts about people I want to see fail.  Maybe I can get a coach to run behind me and yell “focus on the good!!” as I make my way through the world.  It’s hard being lost at fifty and wondering if you’re making the right choices.  It’s also quite difficult being a jealous judgemental border line mental patient.
     In honor of the New Year I’m going to make a few resolutions today other than the ones I have on tap for January 1st.  Those are – to create a skunk that sprays real perfume by replacing the stinky sack with a Chanel Number 5 sack and to stop buying furniture I have to put together myself.  I spent five hours on a shelf unit last night and still have one piece left over.  I don’t know where it goes and I don’t know if it’s important.   Irony.  Smack.

Missoni Impossible

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  A little boy at Target pulled his junk out in the middle of the store yesterday and his mother called his father to have him deal with it.  “You have to talk to him about this.  He did it again.”  She then handed the kid the phone and kept walking to buy whatever it was she needed so badly she couldn’t tell her kid to pull his pants up and stop showing his penis in public.  I don’t know why she bothered – he’s going to be doing this the rest of his life.  I think it’s in the manual that comes with that part.
    It was a brilliant but flawed concept.  “Let’s hit all the Targets in the neighborhoods where nobody knows who Missoni is.”  Translation – Whittier, Downy, Norwalk, Pico Rivera and Santa Fe Springs here we come.   I have no idea where Santa Fe Springs is but I can tell you the name does not match the location.  It’s called one of the gateway cities to Southeast Los Angeles but it’s a gateway that should remain closed.  There are no Springs in this Santa Fe and you won’t be picking up any local mud from a rejuvination spa unless they’re doing facials at Vons Supermarket – the number one employer in Santa Fe Springs.  What this town does have – is a massive Target.   Enter Suzanne.
     “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” she shrieked and was off towards the house wares department, her massive shopping cart screaming through the brightly lit store.  “They have plates!”  Suzanne started dumping plastic Missoni dinner ware into her cart like she was on Supermarket Sweep and only had ten seconds left on her clock.  I don’t think Suzanne even uses plates.  “Score!” she shouted as I tried to hide behind the bedding.  Then she whipped around and pointed at me.  “Look! Bedding!”  She grabbed a comforter she already owns and a matching duvet cover – both too bright in purples and hot pinks.  If a Missoni elf vomited on her bed – this is what it would look like.  Suzanne was flush and starting to sweat.  It turns out Santa Fe Springs is a gateway after all…  a drug that fueled Suzanne on to three more Targets – me in tow.
  The second store we hit had a sad looking rack of Missoni with a bunch of random mismatched things on it.  There were children’s rain boots size two, a camisole, a childrens small coat,  a ski cap,  a very tiny adult sweater and what seemed to be the ultimate score… dozens of journals.  She bought everything.  Suzanne was clearly getting ready to write War & Peace 2.  This kind of activity went on all morning.  I felt like we were on a Reality show – some sort of combination of Amazing Race and Project Runway and Suzanne was hearing Tim Gunn shout “make it work Suzy” as she raced through the store. “Neck pillows!”  I heard coming from the luggage aisle at our third stop.    By the end of the day my trunk was filled with enough plastic bags to start a homeless person.  Finally Suzanne revealed to me her plan.  “I’m selling it all on Ebay.”  Suzanne is a fucking genius.
     I am going to live off of the contents of my house.   I am going to go deep into the collection of My-ssoni and start selling off my shit.  I can pay down the mortgage one Chanel bag at a time.  The gas man is getting Louboutin and the electric bill will be covered by Prada.  Everytime I have to pay someone something I am marching my ass into my material crap stuffed closet and then straight to a consignment store.  I can out shoe Carrie Bradshaw and those shoes can be yours.  I will storm one of my six closets and say Lanvin – today you die but you die for a good cause – the cell phone bill.  I may need a Zanax to part with my stuff but who needs stuff when you don’t have anywhere to go.
     I used to date a guy who was exactly like that kid at Target.  He used to get me to look at his poop every day.  I don’t know how he did it but he would figure out some way to get me in the bathroom time and time again and point in the bowl and go “look.”  He would fall down on the floor laughing because I always fell for it.  “Oh my god I cut myself” he’d shriek and in I’d run.  I found out yesterday that he had triple bypass surgery.  It broke my heart.  Thankfully, he is now happier and healthier than he’s ever been and it’s highly likely that he has no idea who Missoni is.

Will Write For Food

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  I set a bunch of traps last night in my yard.  I don’t have any animals caught yet but I’m hoping I get some soon because the local skunk guy is hot.  I mean – hot enough to ignore the fact that at the end of the day he smells like cancer. Every time I get a whiff of skunk in the neighborhood I put on makeup and wrestle with the curling iron because I know – Marco is coming.  Some girls would have a problem dating a man that traps possum and raccoons and sets them free in the wild.  I say – when the going gets tough – this man will put food on my table… food that may or may not taste like chicken.   Marco is doing what he loves so who am I to mock him other than someone who mocks everyone.
     I hate to say this but Andy Rooney is a dickhead.  Last night the icon said goodbye to a lifetime of annoying the shit out of me reporting shit that annoyed him by saying this about his fans who took the time out of their lives to write him a letter – “It’s a certain kind of person who writes you and they’re not my kind of people.”  Way to go out old man.  If I got a Facebook friend request tomorrow from Casey Anthony I’d click that shit fast.  If a kid killer wants to spend her time hiding from the press, flat ironing her greasy hair,  and reading The Book of Moron I’m going to say thumbs up Casey!   Andy should have kept this particular thought in his 92 year old head and be grateful for every fan he had though who knows what happens at that age – maybe all orifices just open up and start spewing shit.  I’m sure I’ll need some sort of plug system.
     Thinking about changing your career when you’re older is an interesting idea and by interesting I mean pretty fucking stupid.   At least I’m not a failed reality star trying to assimilate back into society.  I can’t wait to see Mike the Situation flash me his abs when he’s behind the teller glass at Bank of America.   You know that money counting machine is gonna fuck him up – bad.  Starting over for me means finding someone who really believes in me and what it is that I write – aka – an agent.  In Hollywood that means – I’m fucked.  This is a town looking for magic in a bottle but it wants the magic some other guys bottle has and doesn’t really want to put it’s neck out looking for some new magic.  I once had a high powered Hollywood agency.  They sent me a Christmas present – a box of pencils and notebooks that said things like “create, dream, believe.”  They should have used it to write me a ransom note because they were holding my career hostage.
      The hardest thing to do when you’re a creative person is work without feedback.  To get up everyday and write in a vacuum and be your only critic is extremely challenging.  It can be downright painful to believe in yourself when yours is the only voice you hear and that voice is slightly mental and possibly belongs to one of your “other” personalities.   I am grateful for everything I have and no longer desperate for everything I don’t.  I am opening my roads to things I used to say no to.  I am still not willing to date a man with a mustache because I believe only police officers and 70’s porn stars should have those.  The goatee is acceptable and quite frankly – a plus – because it makes you look like you might spank me and I haven’t tried that yet.   I bet Skunk mans a spanker.

Teen For A Day

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  I failed one of those magazine quizzes this morning.   You know the kind you find in Cosmopolitan magazine that tells you “How to know if your man is cheating on you” or “How hot are you between the sheets.”   I love taking these because if you’re a woman who wants to really dig deep into your soul and find out what kind of person you are or if your relationship is in trouble – Cosmo is a dead on factual encyclopedia of answers.  I believe Cosmopolitan magazine has its finger on the pulse of the modern day woman as long as that woman isn’t over thirteen.   Consider the new story in the mag just this week called “Shit My Guy Says” a.k.a. hilarious things your boyfriend tells you.  One woman offered this gem from her “guy” – “Your breast feels like a pound of deli meat.”  I laughed so hard I almost threw up.  Or maybe I just threw up.  First of all – the term “guy” went out back when Mad Men were real and not a television show.  Second of all if your “guy” tells you your breast feels like deli meat you should kick him in the balls and tell him it feels like kicking him in the balls.
     The quiz I took today was to find out what would spark a conversation with me.  I can already tell you what that is (talk about me) but I decided to take it anyway.  I guess I must have lied a few times while clicking what seemed like a few innocuous boxes because here’s what it said about me when I was finished.
                                YOU ARE A TECH GURU
I’m sorry?
It went on to say…
Uhm, did my dog Tulip jump in at some point and click a few boxes?
     I am the kind of person who says “no” immediately to a new idea.  Eventually I will come around to it but I am not a person who walks around going – Yes I will try to use the new rock that’s really a deodorant!  Just last night I realized for the first time in my entire life that cream cheese is actually “creamed cheese” and now I can never eat it again.  I mean, what kind of cheese is it that’s creamed?  It sounds disgusting to me now.  This is not the thought of a rebellious person.  When it said emotional spirit do they mean someone who weeps at weird commercials and can’t make it through an episode of Extreme Home Makeover without a large box of tissues?  I heard a bunch of kids tossing around the phrase “obvi” last night.  This is what’s wrong with kids today (my mother wrote that line) they are too lazy to even use the full word “obviously.”  Someone who is fun to be around would not feel this way, would they?
     Tomorrow is my reverse Quinceanera.  For those of you not familiar with the Quinceanera – it is the celebration of a girls fifteenth birthday in parts of Latin America – which I believe includes California.  In honor of this esteemed birthday I am going to make a few changes in my old woman self and try to embrace a few youthful things to become less of my lying quiz like self and more like my quiz results.  I will start by getting a Hello Kitty piñata and filling it with condoms since thanks to Cosmo I know 15 year olds are really into sex.  I will text message boys all day long things like “totes” , “K”, “omg” and “lol”.  I will spend 24 solid hours on Facebook and change my status report to say something youthful like – “Am I having a great birthday? Obvi”

My Claus Are Out

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
Am I supposed to start drinking Yakult now?  They had tastings of it lined up in little Dixie cups at the supermarket last night but they looked like semen samples to me.  Maybe Gelson’s is starting a side business for single ladies looking to get pregnant but I didn’t see any signs other than “try me” like some weird Alice In Wonderland display smack in the middle of the dairy aisle and I was not about to drink that.  I don’t know what age you have to be to start slugging back the milky midget bottles but I don’t want to have to ask for anything that makes me sound like Sgt. Schultz.  I think they brought back the guy who named Ayds Diet Candies for this product and they really need to start over and while they’re at it – add some food coloring.  I think Jamie Lee’s Doodie yogurt is probably selling a lot better.
     It’s raining in Los Angeles today, which is extremely unusual.  This is the kind of town that likes to burst into flames a couple of times a year from dryness so it’s nice that we’re getting a good soak. Of course I’m a spiritual narcissist so I’ve turned the rain into something that has a much deeper meaning – to me.  I believe this water is my birthday water and is washing away what has been one shit ass year. (It’s also taking care of a little issue I am having with Peaches who no longer likes peeing in her dog run and has turned my patio into a fecal war zone.)  I believe because it is my birthday – the most important man in the world is out there listening to me today and so I have finally decided for the first time in my life – to write him a letter.
     Dear Santa,
Let me start out by saying – I think you’re awesome.  I’m writing to you after all these years because quite frankly I don’t where the Jewish letters go.  No one’s ever given me a name or an address.   I know it’s weird to get one of these from my people but to tell you the truth I’m more Jew”ish” than Jewish.  I was raised by Jewish Supremacists so they never allowed me to contact you.  They are Santa haters.  They’ve never burned a Rudolph on a cross or anything like that but you know what I mean.  I’m sorry I always used an X to shorthand the word Christmas.  It’s rude.  I know I’m a little early but they move that Channukah around so much that I don’t know when it is and I don’t want to get lost in all the Christmas mail because I’ve seen what goes down at that time of year and it’s not pretty.  I don’t know what Jesus was thinking when he allegedly started the whole thing but I don’t think it was bicycles and Nintendo.   I don’t really have a “list” of things I would like you to handle but more of an overall zzzuzzzhing.  If you want to hand this one off to the elves or Mrs. Claus I totally get it.   Here we go.
     I would like a new vagina because I believe mine is broken.  For the past undisclosed amount of years it has stopped working and when it was working it chose really bad men or when good ones came along it did not respond well.  Maybe you have the authority to check on this but I think I got some test retractable vagina they were working on back in the fifties because I’m quite sure it pulled away from a few keepers like the one I broke up with because he had really ugly feet or the one who didn’t know that his favorite movie was a book written by a little known author named William Shakespeare.   I know it doesn’t come with batteries so it’s not dead but even the things that do come with batteries are not bringing it back to life.  Should I take it outside and bury it?  I know a new vagina is not something the kids usually ask you for but sometimes I get worried I’ll fall down and no one will know and I think if I had a new lady part I’d start looking for love.  I also really need someone to help walk the dogs.   Thank You Fat Man.
Much Love,
The Moron
P.S. – I think you should hand out mirrors this year so that everyone can start blaming the right people.

You May Now Kiss The Child

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 I saw a really hot 13 year old at Taco Bell yesterday.  It’s right across the street from his school playground.    Tomorrow I’m going to sneak a note into his breakfast burrito and see if he wants to meet and make out after gym or math class or science lab.  Is that wrong?  Everyone seems to be doing it and the jail time doesn’t seem that bad if you get caught.  I’m sure I’d make some great female friends behind bars and maybe dating a hot kid will keep my mind off of aging and make me feel younger.  It worked for Mary Kay Letourneau.  She is one fucked up individual.  I did a few too many shoots with her and her now husband Villi Fualaau a couple of years back.  I actually went to their wedding. That was a pig fuck.  Her kids from her first marriage were there and they were older than the groom.  Dr. Drew should have been at the altar simultaneously counseling them as they were saying their vows.  She seemed stoned or high on something all the time.  She spoke really slowly and said crazy things like – “Isn’t he so hot.”  Uhm no – he’s a child.  One day I was chatting with Villi in the kitchen.   I’m sure we were discussing something really sexy like “What do you want to be when you grow up Villi?”  and Mary Kay shot me a death stare that truly terrified me. I mean this bitch went to prison – twice – because she wanted this 13 year old Samoan boy so badly.  She’d definitely cut me.  She asked one of the production assistants – “Who’s the redhead.”  Yikes.  I stopped communicating with him after that.  I read that police were called to their house after they got married because the neighbors heard gun shots.  Turns out they were just throwing a party and shooting off guns – for fun.  Who are these people and why are they allowed to have children?
     People fall in love with the wrong people all the time and then pro create. Sometimes they are celebrated by constant media coverage like that creepy actor from “The Green Mile” and his equally creepy supposedly child bride who looks older than me.  I feel bad for the kids who end up with these totally fucked up parents who will for a fact be divorced seconds after the semen that creates them is ejaculated.    Getting married before you know who you are should be outlawed and having a child with an idiot should be against the law.  Sometimes when I see sweet little kids attached to the hand of what truly appears to be a complete nut fuck – I want to steal it.  Mary Kay and Villi had kids.  Imagine explaining their past to these innocents one day.  “Well we met at school when your daddy didn’t even have pubic hair.  I went to prison for raping him and that’s where I gave birth to you.”  What a great legacy.
      I was pregnant once.  I had an abortion on Yom Kippur.  This is taking atonement of ones sins to a whole new level.   I wasn’t a kid but I was dating someone who should not have children because he was retarded.  Not clinically.  I went by myself to the women’s center because the douche bag would not go with me.  It was the high holidays so I had to go to my parents house for dinner hours after having whatever you believe it is vacuumed out of me.  That was an awesome meal.   “What did you do today?  Pass the challah please.”  I’m glad I have a choice but that’s one choice I don’t want to ever have to make again and thankfully I never have.  He would be 26 years old right now which means – I could date him.

Reply Asshole

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   I am a world class asshole.  If there is a bridge that needs burning I’m your mouth filled with dynamite.  Norma Rae was a pussy compared to me – because not all the injustices I scream about – are justified.  Have you ever noticed that the second you scream at someone you will be proven an idiot?  I’m not talking about a fight where you are both screaming at each other – though it’s great if you can be the one non screamer because you’ll totally win.  I mean the kind of screaming where you walk into the dry cleaner and they say you’re stuff isn’t ready and you lash out at them like a dingo who didn’t get to eat any babies.  It is inevitable that the dry cleaner will show you the ticket that says you are there on the wrong day.  Kaballah tought me a few good things when I studied there like envisioning a giant “Pause” button you hit before you lash out on someone.  I broke mine within the first twenty four hours.
     One of my greatest screamer moments was courtesy of my drunk Norma Rae when I left a decibel level 13 message on a boyfriends  answering machine.  It was something to the effect of “I hate you, you’re an asshole, I hate you, go fuck yourself, die, you’re an asshole, blah blah clunk sleep.”  I of course did not remember doing this but it was hard to forget when he played it back onto my answering machine the next day.  I didn’t even recognize my voice.  But I did recognize his at the end of the message that said “Next time, tell me how you really feel.”  Well Kenny – I feel like an asshole.
     The scariest invention to come with the computer and email is the “Reply All” button.  How many times have you digitally raped that poor little key by accident.  I live in fear of group emails.  I am terrified of the Reply All button.  If you press it you are guaranteed to send something hideous to someone.  I was working with two guys on a project once and one of them emailed me something about working with the other and our schedule for the day and the others name was included in the “CC” column.  I of course being the kind of person who spews before she speaks or types before she thinks didn’t notice this and wrote “Mark is an asshole and lazy and I’m sick of working with him.” REPLY ALL.  Oh dear.    Mark and I aren’t as close as we used to be.
     Talking shit about people will also force the great life mirror right up in front of your face and the reflection is not pretty.  I cannot help myself on this one.  If the words I say behind someone’s back could stab them in the front – I would have a body count that makes the Iraq war look like a fucking tea party.  If you have wronged me – I will kill you with my mouth.  This becomes particularly embarrassing when you become friends with that person again and spend your entire time with them worrying that they know you called them terrible things and wished that they would die of cancer.  Like I said – no tea party with me.
      Tomorrow I am going back to a job that ended so hideously I think my name and photo were at the gate for the past eight years in case I did a drive by with a gun.  I did not wish cancer on this person and thank god because she was the first person to call me after my loudest Norma Rae moment ever – offering help.   I guess I didn’t blow this bridge up quite as successfully as the others.  I have zero regrets about all the standing I’ve done in all of the imaginary lunch rooms screaming fuck you.  I hate bullies, despise selfishness, try to have integrity and always defend the underdog  –  but this town is very small and it’s becoming inevitable that I will end up in a meeting somewhere with someone I have called a fucktard or a douchenozzle or some other sort of assholic name.   Tomorrow will be the very definition of uncomfortable.  I will be having that “Pause” button tattooed somewhere – like my forehead.


Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  I know how that drunk mommy who lost her kid feels.  I can’t remember a thing either and I don’t even have the excuse that I’m high as a kite.  If my dogs weren’t so big I’d probably lose them.  In fact – I think it’s official.  I have Old Timers.  By the time I get to the end of this sentence I won’t even remember what it is I started writing about.   I leave the upstairs of my house with an idea and by the time I get to the bottom of the steps I have no idea what that idea was and why I now am where I am.  I’m like that mobster who roamed the streets of New York in his bathrobe but at least I’m wearing mine in the house.   I write myself notes and forget to read them.  It is infuriating and quite frankly – exhausting.  Yesterday it took four trips just to get home from the office.  First stop – the grocery store.  When I got home with groceries I realized I forgot dog food.  I went to the dog food store and when I got home I realized I got the wrong dog food.   I went back to the dog food store and brought home the right food only to realize I forgot half and half from the grocery store so it was back there and then finally home.  It was mind numbing and I will never get that time back.  I could have created a new smart phone, or computer app, or sewn a new bath robe.   I am so paralyzed with fear by what I can’t remember that I’m afraid to think about it because I’ll forget to be paralyzed with fear.  How is it possible that I know by heart my computer codes, my bank codes, my facebook login, all of my credit card numbers and the phone numbers of staff members from jobs I no longer work at but I can’t remember to buy cream while I’m standing in the dairy aisle.  Clearly I need a dust buster to do a once over in my brain.
     The other new problem I have that I’m sure is connected to “the pause” or at least the “prequel to the pause” is the fact that I’m basically a bed wetter.   My bed is a swimming pool.  I sweat so much at night that I’m drenched in the morning and I don’t think I’m sleep running. I may forget a lot of things but I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I got up – hit the treadmill – then went back to bed.  I’d also be way thinner.

Dressed To Spill

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
     I got a pap smear yesterday from a  toddler in a tiara.  I didn’t have a choice –that’s what my gynocolgist was dressed up as for Halloween.  There’s something very disturbing to me about adults in costume especially when that adult is someone I’m supposed to trust.  All of my favorite television shows had Halloween episodes too.  It’s confusing to me that a holiday about dressing up as a ghost and handing out candy is more revered than the highest of Jewish Holidays like Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashannah but I guess if Matzoh were made of chocolate more people would pay attention to Passover.   The Jews need to rethink their holidays in general and make them more appealing to the masses.  Maybe some celebrity who’s willing to admit they’re Jewish could host an annual Yom Kippur bash and everyone could dress as a sin.  I would dress as Justin Timberlake’s agent because anyone that keeps getting him movie roles should be arrested. His newest movie “Time I’ll Never Get Back” is proof that my dog Zoey and Brian’s dog Honey are collaborating on scripts from heaven.  He may have had just four minutes to save the world but it took him two hours to ruin my entire weekend.  Robin Quivers on the Howard Stern show said she thought this movie was fun so I have been forced to start a letter writing campaign to Howard to prove he needs to have her taken away in a straight jacket because she has in fact clearly lost her mind.   The only fun thing about this movie was the end when the lights came up and I got to drive home.
     I think my Prius is jinxed.  I’ve never had an accident in all of my years as a driver until I got this car and now I’ve had five.  I also realized that when I’m done paying for it – it will cost me 45,000 dollars… and no it is not a Prius dipped in gold dust… I just made a major chick deal when I got the car.     I’m not sure if I’m to blame for all of the accidents because I was usually too busy texting to see who’s fault it was but today my fender bender was definitely not my fault despite the fact that the woman in the car in front of me tried to use her toddler in a car seat as an excuse that she was not to blame  “My daughter is terrified.”  Oh really?  Maybe you should have thought of her before you slammed your brakes on in the middle of the street.  And by the way my favorite louboutin wedges are ruined from my diet breakfast shake that flew all over the car so tell your kid she won’t even remember this when she’s my age but I’ll never be able to replace my shoes.   Now I’m wearing chocolate stained pants and shoes all day at work and I’m starving because that was my big meal of the day..  The whole thing makes me wish I was dressed as a cop because I definitely would have arrested her ass and possibly cuffed her kid.

Wipe Me

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When I see something I want in life, I go out and grab it – unless that something is John Hamm, Ryan Gosling or a career as a scripted writer.  These do not seem to be go out and grab items.   However, when I stumble upon something that looks like I need to own it – I will hunt it down with a zeal usually reserved for finding a husband.  I had to have one of those black and white jew killing scarves everyone is wearing but mine had to be authentic so when I was in Egypt I bought one at a flea market and asked the salesman if he wanted to keep the head ring it came with since I didn’t think I’d be using it anytime soon.  If I didn’t have two body guards with me at the time – there would have been a jihad.  He was pretty insulted.  I did try it on with the ring first.  I wanted him to see that I was at least thinking about it as a style statement.

My most beloved two products are unfortunately unavailable in the United States.   They are only available in London.  I live about as far from London as I possibly could and while I don’t think I’ll be moving there anytime soon I am contemplating a move to New York City where I could easily fly to London for a weekend and scoop up buckets of my must haves.  Boots Cucumber Make Up Remover Wipes are the crack cocaine of beauty products.  I packed an entire suitcase full of them the last time I was there and had to pay 50 bucks extra for the bag.  I’m almost out and I’m starting to sweat about it.  When I die – I want to be wrapped in single sheets of these so that I always feel refreshed in the afterlife.  They cost 2 dollars a pouch and seeing them stacked up in my cabinet gives me more pleasure than a high speed pocket rabbit.  I love them so much… I want to marry them.

The other item is Floris Lime, Lemon, Mandarin Body Wash.  This product can only be found at the Hotel Dorchester in London.  Now if you want to know how amazing this ultra foaming shower gel is then sell your house and use the money to pay for one night there and lather it up!  I brought a few home from a trip and then realized I couldn’t live without it so I found a sticky fingered maid online who steals it for me and ships it to me – cheap.  If I go back to London I’m going to knock over a cart while they’re changing my sheets – for sure.  I hope she doesn’t get caught and not because I”m afraid what will happen to her – I’m that addicted to the gel.  I may give up showering if I ever run out.  The tubes are starting to deplete… and I’m starting to worry.

I recently discovered that dogs have no idea what daylight savings time is and they continue to wake me up at the hour they always did… which is now … an hour too early.   The only thing that saves them from being euthanized is the fact that just steps away from their annoying let me out to take a shit whine is the knowledge that a cucumber wake up wipe and a refreshing lime lemon mandarin shower is just seconds away.  It’s the little things people.

What A Douche

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
    “This is a really lovely horse.  I once rode her mother.”
                                                Ted Walsh Horse Racing Commentator
     This is what’s wrong with me.  I got that joke in the mail this morning… from my mom.  It was actually a list of 12 double entendres that aired on the radio. Another gem from a weightlifting commentator – “I saw her snatch this morning and it was amazing.”  It’s not easy growing up crazy or in my case British.  My parents are English and the Brits have an amazingly twisted dry sense of humor.  I was raised on Monty Python and the one time I got to meet and hang out with Michael Palin was akin to spending the night with Jesus.  They were comedy gods to me.  However, when you’re sense of humor is born out of the Knights who say Ni and the Argument Clinic what you find funny is usually quite different than others and may explain why I’m convinced that “How I Met Your Mother” is actually a series of instructional videos on how not to make a sitcom.
     In an effort to find some funny, I had dinner last night with some old friends. Since my body’s new motto is clearly “leave no cellulite behind”, before I went to the restaurant I studied some photos of Nicole Ritchie.  She is my new thinspiration.  She used to be a chunker and is now supermodel thin – aka – anorexic.  She is gorgeous.  I got dressed up – aka – put on heels – only to face plant on my front steps after sliding in Tulips dinner.  Apparently she’s bulimic. The restaurant was in the heart of Hollywood so within ten minutes the central casting bus for douche bags pulled up and in strolled a group of guys in ski caps.  Hi hot weather.  I guess there’s some storefront in Los Angeles where they hand that outfit out.  Idiots Are Us?  The leader of their pack Wilma Valderama was there.  She’s weird.   She’s dating Demi Lovato now who’s like – 12 – and some kind of an addict.  That’s the kind of chick a chick like Wilma needs… so low on ego she’ll find him attractive.   Someone needs to shove Vicks Vapo Rub up Wilma’s nose.  I hear this removes the scent of any vadge in the room.  Well it does for dogs so… enough said.  The best part of the night was that the restaurant was brand new and my friend Bonnie had gotten our entire meal comped and the best tasting food you can ever have is free so this made sitting next to The Broody Bunch palpable.  We did have a really weird gay waiter who only talked at decibel level 11 and he scared me.
     I was hoping to see Bret Ratner out last night because for the first time ever I actually feel sorry for him.  I don’t think Bret’s a homophobe, I think he’s a product of the seventies when we used words we didn’t know were bad to mean nerdy like gay, fag, and queer.  Now these words are part of our lexicon and it’s difficult to exorcise them.  I say “that’s so gay” so often I think my friends who run GLSEN used that as their anti bullying slogan just to shut me the fuck up.  I’m not saying it’s right.  It is most definitely not.  I’m just saying we’re dumb and thick headed and can’t monitor ourselves.  I’m sure Massengil would love to sue me for my inaccurate use of the word douche.  After all, they don’t think that words a negative – they think being a douche is like walking in a “Spring Meadow” filled with “Gentle Rain.”  Actually I heard they were trying to come up with some new names for their douches because sales were down.  I think if they called it “Oral Sex” they’d see a real spike.
     Today is 11-11-11.  Turn the date on its side and it’s three equal signs.  In light of this symbol of equality I am promising not to say “that’s so gay” and “stop being a fag.”   But I’m only promising a 24 hour period.  Then it’s back to me being a douche.

Achtung Baby

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   “I’ve always wanted to go to Dachau, but not in winter” Suzanne said to me last night on the phone.  I wanted to tell her that the Jews probably didn’t want to be there in winter either in fact I’m not sure summers at Dachau were any better but Suzanne is trying to think of somewhere interesting to go for her big 5-0 and I didn’t want to rain on her Dachau parade.   It would definitely make for a fun group event.  Suzanne could hand out gift bags at the gate that include some nice striped pajamas and pretty pink shovels for mass grave digging.  Everyone could sleep on one fun straw bed and then shower together.  We could pick one person to play Commandant and perform weird operations on each other then make gifts for our friends back home like lampshades.  Suzanne of course is just trying to mark a special occasion with a memorable trip and I certainly can’t blame her for that.  Celebrating this age is extremely important and for women it certainly symbolizes the death of quite a few things so maybe she’s not that crazy with her choice of a death camp destination celebration after all.  I spent my 5-0 in London and Rome.  Suzanne is obviously a much bigger thinker than I am though she is stumped on what to wear to a concentration camp soiree.
     The big 4-0 is also one you need to put some thought into.  I had just quit drinking a few months before my fortieth birthday which was a massive mistake. The first six months of sobriety are basically the angry days so I spent my birthday being pissed off that I was paying for people to get drunk when I couldn’t, while I had to stand there and listen to them tell me the same story over and over again only changing the volume level to loud, louder, loudest. Thankfully someone had given me a piñata so I bashed the shit out of it and was able to refocus some sober aggression.  It’s not that I don’t like being around people who drink I just don’t like being around drunks and doing so on the birthday you believe is the end of your youth is not fun or funny.
     Some of my younger birthday parties were fantastic.  I celebrated quite a few with my friend Dr. Fred whose birthday is the day after mine.  There were a couple of years we threw wild parties on his roof.  My parents came to one and posed for a pic with me in a “Fuck Me” t shirt.  They must have been super proud.  I was shitfaced for a lot of birthdays but I always made a huge deal out of them.  I still celebrate mine for at least a week – sometimes a month – and if I could I’d do it all year long.
     My fiftieth was pretty awesome though there are a few things I’d like to edit out of that celebration.  I totally shit the till in TopShop because I spent 16 hours and about 3 thousand dollars on clothes that didn’t fit after I ate my way through Rome.  It was however – memorable.  We really do file away all of these moments in life in our brains and it’s hard to get them just right.   They say in Kaballah that your life is like a movie and when you want to change things you recast or rewrite but you can’t recast or rewrite the past.  If I could I would definitely recast the model I dated who turned my ego into a pile of dog shit back in the early nineties and I’d rewrite the night I hit another car – drunk – and ran. Oops.  I’d also write in a boyfriend on birthdays only so that at least once a year I get an awesome gift.
     We tend to only celebrate the tens – thirty, forty, fifty etc but I think I’m going to start blowing it out for some of the smaller ones too after all every day that I get up – period – is a day to throw a party.  The next one is fifty two and I’m thinking about a theme party – Auschwitz in Indian Summer.  Achtung Baby.

Nice And Izzy Does It

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

    Breaking the news to one of your best friends that her dog is dead is up there with one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do.  Taking a van load full of her friends and family to the airport to be there as you break the news – is nothing short of comical and dare I say more than a little twisted.  It wasn’t my idea – but I went along with it.  It turned out to be the right thing to do – despite the picture I’m about to paint.  This past Sunday while people were watching football and stuffing their faces with bad cheetos… I was driving to LAX with my friend Victoria’s dad, her two sisters, and her friend Teresa like a giant Death Welcome Wagon rolling down the streets preparing to deliver a crushing blow – the only thing missing –   balloons that said “Welcome Home, Your Dog is Dead.”

We all met at Vic’s house at 4pm.  She had been away on a work job… on a cruise ship.  Little did she know that would not be the worst part of her month.  Like a clown car packed with depressed adults, we all piled into a van Vic’s dad had borrowed from a friend and immediately the car alarm went off.  For fifteen or twenty full deafening minutes – we could not get the alarm to turn off.  We tried calling the owner, reading the manual, and turning the ignition on and off about 1800 times.  This fucking thing would not shut up.  I had never met one of Vic’s sisters before so her introduction to me was me rolling my eyes very loudly and cursing everyone in the car.  Then we were off.

Victoria’s father is proof that there is one joke book all dads get that is filled with all of the bad jokes in the world.  They have them memorized.  They can do an hour – non stop.  Like a Jewish Bar Mitzfah room in Montecito New York, Jeff filled us with an array of borscht belt jokes that were hysterical… to him.  I told him to stop.  He didn’t. In fact, he couldn’t.   He was coping with the hideous task at hand – telling his beautiful daughter that the little dog he once brought home for her – was gone – and he was preparing for it the only way he knew how – with humor.   I needed to be more supportive.  When we pulled in to Carl’s Junior to fuel up – I decided to put my fat mouth back in my purse – and just let everyone do what they needed to do.

The plan was for Vic’s dad to go to baggage claims and pick her up while we waited by the van in the parking lot.  He thought we could throw her in the car like a hostage and drive her back to her house and then tell her.  This was a bad plan.  Wouldn’t she wonder why everyone she knew was there?  Put on your big suprise faces now… I immediately revised the plan.  Jeff didn’t think he could actually form the words to tell Victoria and so I said I would.  I’d meet them halfway into the parking lot and I’d tell her the little man I too loved so very much was gone – an accident – at the hands of a neighbors dog.  I didn’t make it past the first sentence before bursting into tears.  Suddenly this very bizarre journey had come to a horrific end.

We called him “The Chinaman” but his real name was Izzy.  A teeny tiny teacup Yorkshire Terrier with a big ass attitude.   Izzy did not suffer fools and he could shoot you a look that immediately said – you’re a douche bag.  He was one of my absolute favorite dogs ever.  He literally looked like an 800 year old Chinese man.  If I didn’t know any better I’d think he knew how to wok up a dumpling like nobodies business.   Izzy is now playing with Zoey and Honey and hopefully Victoria’s mom is baby sitting all of them.  I hope they get a big van on the day we all arrive – because they’d make an awesome welcome to your death committee.