All posts for the month November, 2011


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.