All posts for the month December, 2011

I’m Classy You Fuckball

Published December 31, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

Pluck You!

Published December 30, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

Noah’s Arc de Triumph

Published December 29, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

I just noticed that Facebook is reconnoitering the ads on my wall again.  Lately they’ve switched to old people promotions.  I think it happened when I turned fifty one or when I was too busy posting something important like “just ate a sandwich, now off to a nap.”  There are the usual ads for things no woman should live without like Weight Watchers and Kim Kardashians Shoe Dazzle but now I noticed a new one for Cedars Sinai Hospital aka where old Hollywood stars go to die, and something for on line gambling.  This is all I need, to start playing the slots on line.   Next thing you know I’ll be in some kind of moo moo and house coat and my hair will be blue and I’ll be on some greyhound bus to Vegas with a bucket of quarters and my best friend Marlene who weighs six hundred pounds and has one of those jazzies that you sit on and drive around and her basket will have her bucket of quarters and a pack of Marlboro’s unless Marlene is black and then it will be a pack of Kools.  I don’t know why that is – it just is.

I saw a commercial on television the other night and while I don’t know what it was advertising it is forever seered into my brain because it featured the hairiest arm I’ve ever seen in my life.  It was truly astounding.  It was like the man was wearing an actual hair sleeve from his hair shirt.  The commercial was very focused on his arm and hand and I couldn’t help but think why the hell did they hire Fozzy Bear to promote their product.  It’s not like they were selling a depilatory – that much I can remember.  I do know that this commercial should have a rating and it should be blocked when children are watching t.v.  This could be damaging to young boys who will think this is their future.  I have become obsessed with my wonderment of who hired the hairy armed man and who he is.   I will never know.  I will be up nights thinking about this.

My friend Jeremy brought his son to work yesterday and we all had to do something adults suck at – act like adults and not talk like sailors.  Jeremy said fuck three times within the first ten minutes of our morning meeting.  Noah quickly realized there was money to be made and decided his dad and anyone else who cursed owed him one dollar for every swear word.  He started at twenty bucks but we all collectively jew’d him down to one dollar.  We quickly realized we’d all be broke by the end of the day so we sent Noah to the second floor to keep him away from us and his foul mouthed father but just an hour later Jeremy yelled fuck again and out of nowhere Noah popped out from behind a wall and yelled “That’s four bucks dad.”  The kid was pure comedy.  Later that morning someone showed up with Sprinkles cupcakes.  Noah grabbed a red velvet one.  I looked at the box, then opened it and smelled them, then walked away and went to sit at my desk like the fat girl alone at the prom.  Noah said – “this is the greatest day of my life” as he bit into the delicious cupcake.   I looked at him – took a dollar out of my wallet and said “Fuck You Noah.”  He’s 8.  Even my mouth needs to be portion controlled.

The Suckit List

Published December 28, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The countdown to America drinking excessively and irresponsibly is on!  In just four  days millions of people around the country will put on their best outfits,  go to a depressing bar, club or party, drink until they vomit, get alcohol poisoning or both, go home with someone they don’t remember the next day, or mow someone down with their car or possibly all of the above.   American’s love an excuse to PARTY!! and have truly adopted the fiddle dee dee I’ll worry about that tomorrow attitude when it comes to holidays that involve booze.  I don’t do New Years Eve.  I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in 11 ½ years so the only thing I dislike more than drinking – are drunk people.  I don’t mind drinkers… but I hate slurrers.  I can’t tell you how many parties I’ve been to where some person I don’t really know finally finds the courage to tell me something they’ve been dying to tell me for years.  I dare anyone to remember a great New Years Eve party they’ve been to other than those Kardashians because they’re paid to tell me how awesome their lives are.  The pressure people put on themselves to have a great New Years Eve is mind boggling.  People who have paid zero attention to their lives suddenly find themselves counting down to tabula rasa.  It’s as if the minute the clock strikes midnight the past is erased and their lives are going to get immensely better at the bottom of their champagne glass.  “This year is going to be so awesome” glug glug glug.  Whatever you say Drunky McLiquorPig.  Imagine if you actually sat down and took stock of your life on New Years Eve and made some plans for the future.  What a concept.  And don’t tell me it’s just one night because I’m not that much of a moron.  But you kids go ahead and do whatever you want.  You’ll find out when you’re my age what a massive waste of time drinking your face off while making plans is.  And there it is – I’m now a lecturing old woman you would like to shut the fuck up.

I have decided not to make a bucket list because I don’t want to limit myself on all the awesomeness I’m prepared to encounter in the coming year – I will however make a suck it list in honor of some of the things from this past year – that can just fucking SUCK IT.

1. Ikea and their annoying little tools and one missing screw can suck it.

2. Whoever took Honey, Zoey, Izzy, and Oscar before we were ready can hang their heads in shame and suck it.

3. Cancer can suck it.

4. Menopause can completely and utterly suck it.

5. My FUPA can suck it hard.

6. My fat pants that no longer fit even after I suck it in can suck it.

7. Skunks can death spray themselves and suck it.

8. Abercrombie and Fitch and their naked models dark hallways and vile smelling cologne they spray on you as you enter can fully suck it.

9. The molecular DNA structure of the Kardashian family can shut the fuck up and suck it.

10.  Men who cheat can figure out how to suck it themselves.

11. People who give me their opinions when I don’t ask for them can suck it.

12. The people tapping my ass mic and stealing my thoughts can suck it and then shut it down.

13. My neighbors with the water leak can suck it up – literally.

14. Bullies can suck it.

15. People who check in can check in to suckitville.

16. My reading glasses and old hair can suck it.

17.  People who out gay people can be outed themselves as douchetards and suck it.

18.  The movie Something Borrowed can suck it, rewind, press play and suck it again.

17.  Mr. Pee Pee can suck it with a latte.

18.  My period can bleed to death and then suck it.

19.  Reply All can suck it. suck it. suck it. suck it.

20.  My alcoholism can suck it straight up with a twist.

21. When I’m being an ass – even I can suck it.

22. And most of all – everyone who’s ever doubted me, wished ill of me or told lies about what kind of person I am and you know who you are – can suck it so hard that your meaness whips around blows back in your own face and you discover the true meaning of ass sucking KARMA.

Happy New Year Everyone.

The Real Housewife of Pajamaville

Published December 27, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have an obscene amount of pajamas.  They fill three very big drawers in my dresser.  The entire Duggar family could come over for a sleep over with their cousins and an aunt or two, possibly an uncle and I could outfit each and every one of them in some pj’s.  I could throw a pajama party for the Rockettes,  dress an all girls basketball team or clad all the women in my office on pajama day which we don’t have which we most definitely should because nothing says productivity like a newsroom filled with feety pajamas and yes I even have those courtesy of my friends Kevin Frazier and Chris Jacobs.  They thought it was a gag gift on my fiftieth birthday – I thought it was magic with an ass trap.  I love pajamas.   If there was a Pajama Town – I’d be the Mayor.  I especially love fresh clean pajamas.  There is nothing I love more than taking a shower, putting on fresh pj’s and climbing into crisp clean sheets each and every night.  An evening of pure joy is pajamas, the couch, and all of the contents of my dvr.  Isn’t my life exciting!!!  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not siding with Hefner on the whole wear your pajamas every day lazy ass borderline nutbag trying to hide saggy nads crazy person bull shit.  I just like my pajamas for bedtime.  I also like a robe and some slippers.  My sister Alison travels with hers which is perhaps one of the most impressive things she does –  even more inspiring than raising two perfect children.  Having the where with all to take your robe and slippers when you travel – makes her the Amazing Kreskin.  Now, if you want to know what I sleep in when I’m sleeping WITH someone, well let’s not go there because I’m not allowed to open the scotch anymore.

Suzanne bought me a pair of maternity pants.  Actually she bought them for her sister Karen who was disgusted at the thought of wearing them – so she gave them to me.  I was thrilled at the idea of wearing pants with an eating panel.  I’ve joked many times about wearing maternity clothes but this was the first time I’d ever tried some on.  They were sequined.  I was pretty excited but they didn’t fit quite right.  I guess I have the maternity stomach part down but not the maternity ass and they were kind of droopy and low slung so I guess I should be happy I never had kids because apparently your ass drops about a foot.  If you’re wondering why Suzanne bought pregnancy pants in the first place well number one she’s Jewish and there was a sale and number two – she’s fairly insane.   We have been friends now for eight months and I just saw her apartment for the first time yesterday.  I like to see where people live so that when I’m NOT talking to them on the phone I can envision where they are calling me from as I ignore the ringing.  I accused her of being a hoarder within fifteen minutes which is why she’s never invited me over in the first place.  I really have to practice using my indoor voice in 2012.  I’ll let you know how that goes.

Is it weird that when I’m watching any of the Real Housewives shows I know which housewife is about to come on the screen by the theme music?   I know NeNe from Kyle, Phaedra from Theresa.  I can do this for all of them – Bev Hills, Atlanta, New York, New Jersey, Del Ray Beach.  Well they don’t have that one yet but it would be hilarious if they did.  It would just be a bunch of women sitting around a pool whining about how their grandkids don’t call.  My mom lives in Del Ray Beach.  Your mom probably does too.  I bet they’re sitting around some condo complex somewhere taking off their pajamas and putting on their one piece bathing suit and a bathing cap with giant flowers stuck on it.   I’ll be ready for that look soon.

Reality Check Please

Published December 26, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Oh my god it’s on fire!  Somebody put the cheese out!  Oh shit, now your hair is catching.”  And so began my second annual Christmas dinner at Carrie’s house.  The only thing better than watching an episode of “Flipping Out” is actually living in an episode for the night but that’s what happens whenever I hang out with Jeff Lewis and Gage Edward.  Stand back a second while I pick up the names I just dropped.  What can I say, some of my best friends are reality television stars.   Oops sorry I did it again.  Actually, I’m a reality show whore.  If you don’t watch their Bravo show “Flipping Out” then you are completely insane and we can no longer be friends.  It’s probably the only truly authentic reality show left and I know this for a fact because I’ve been with them when the cameras aren’t rolling and there is absolutely no difference except for the fact that people think Gage is some kind of menacing mastermind who fires people which is possibly the funniest concept on earth because Gage is sweeter than a baby kitten.  I think that’s redundant but he’s just that sweet.  He’s also wickedly funny.  Jeff is just as hilarious off camera and he can cut you with his tongue – but he’d also give me a kidney if I needed one.  Of this I’m certain.  He’s just that good a person.  He’s also so honest you  may leave your first meeting with him in tears and not just the kind from laughter.  He once told my friend Becky that he thought her life choices were ridiculous and she needed to fix her relationship situation.  This was about five minutes after they met.   The first time he came to my house he said he loved it.  The second time he said I needed to paint it.  The third time he told me to gut it and rebuild it.   The fourth time he said I should just sell it.  This is the cycle of Jeff.  I think the latest thing he told me to do is burn it to the ground but I can’t keep track.  Carrie is Jeff’s sister in law and this was the second time I was invited to their Christmas Day dinner.  She is an amazing cook and super sweet and despite the brie catching on fire –  and Jeff saying he was starving and how rude it was that dinner was late – it was another awesome meal.  Gage didn’t complain.

It was after dinner that the true horror happened – with my hair.  No it didn’t catch on fire but it might as well have.  One of the other dinner guests was Chaz Dean – as in – the hair guy who makes Jose Eber look like a total loser.  He is the new hair king.  His product is called Wen and it’s massive on QVC and anyone who’s anyone uses it – including me.  When I told Chaz I used his product – he recoiled – in a combination of horror, disgust and shock.  “Well don’t tell anyone that please”,  he said.  “Your hair is so dry on the ends.  You can’t be using it the right way.  At least let me show you how to use it before you go around announcing that you use my product.”  Ow.   Was it possible that I didn’t know how to “use” shampoo?  “It’s a cleansing system.  Not shampoo.” said Chaz.  Yes it was possible.  I can’t even wash my own hair.  Twenty minutes later I had an appointment for the next Friday with Chaz for a complete redo on my hair.  You need base color and a gloss and we’ll show you how to blow it so you don’t have to kill it with a curling or flat iron.  Thirty minutes later we were out by his car where the gold was – the full Wen line of products – lined up in his trunk like Prada purses – gleaming under the street lights.  “Shhh, don’t tell anyone I gave you this – it’s the 613.  15 pumps of this, 16 of the other.  If you can, sleep in it.  We need to get your hair in shape before you come see me.”  Holy Shit.   My hair was not only dry – it was out of shape.  This was going to be a major undertaking.  I started to panic.  I can’t afford a hair care system right now.  I can barely afford to just have hair.  Getting an appointment with Chaz is harder than getting into heaven but he really is the ultimate hair angel.  The truth is the only thing in life I want more than being painfully skinny – is long luxurious great hair – and if you’ve seen Chaz Deans work than you know – that man makes great hair happen.   So if you see me next week with my thumb out – it’s because I sold my car – for my hair.  Pick me up.  That’s my reality.

One Hundred Morons

Published December 25, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Why does the parking lot attendant have to stand directly behind my car within inches of my bumper as he’s telling me how to back up?  First of all – I will take you out if you don’t move and second of all – I’m not a complete idiot – I can back up without your brilliant instructions.  I bet you thought I’d write something sweet for Christmas.  Well guess again.  Just because you’re all smiles in your bad pajamas opening your Norelco underwater shavers and Jean Nate Bath Oil Beads doesn’t mean I don’t have something to bitch about.  I tried to pick up a holiday gift someone sent me yesterday but I lost two hours of my life I’ll never get back because they made the hideous decision to send it UPS which stands for Unbelievably Pathetically Stupid.  There was one couple there in their pajamas so I just assume they had slept there the night before.  I mean – you could send me a free car in the mail but if you choose UPS I will choose not to pick it up.   Those little slips of paper they leave on your front door should just say “please bring a government issued ID and a gun for your pick up” because you will want to blow your brains out.  If you choose to have a career at UPS because you like the uniforms and moving at a speed slower than an ant – make sure you gain five hundred pounds first – apparently there’s a weight requirement to work there.  The good news is, it seems you never have to wash your uniform or yourself.

After spending the morning de skunking my house – which involves coffee grinds, vinegar and a lot of very expensive candles – I did what all Jews do on Christmas eve – I went to the movies and for Chinese food.  I couldn’t even get in to my favorite restaurant because all of the Jews in Los Angeles had also decided to eat at Yang Chow.  They have this one dish called Slippery Shrimp which is the crack cocaine of Chinese food.  Lucky for me – my neighborhood restaurant which I’ve never tried in 15 years – has completely ripped off every dish that’s popular at Yang Chow.   Upon discovering this I was fist pumping faster than Pauley D.  It was like my own personal Christmas Eve gift wrapped in rice and sweet and pungent pork.    Victoria and I went to see The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, which we both thought was pretty spectacular.  Rooney Mara gives an unbelievably gut wrenching powerful performance that grips you from the second she walks into frame.   I never finished the book and I didn’t see the Swedish version so please refrain from telling me how much better both of those two are because all I can tell you is this is one of the best movies of the year.  The second it ended I had two thoughts.  Wow.  And… why the fuck did every single so called entertainment reporter ask Rooney whether her tattoos or nipple piercings were real.  Are you fucking kidding me?  The girl blows it out in such a major way in the movie and all you can think to ask her about is whether her nipple ring is real?  I don’t want to give away what she goes through but let’s just say it’s a bit more intense than poking a hole in your boob you boobs.  It’s so insulting on so many levels.  Did anyone ask Tom Cruise if he paralyzed himself for Born on The Fourth of July?  I hope the next time someone asks Rooney this she asks these reporters if they went to journalism school to play one on television.  Dodo heads.

This is the one hundredth chapter in The Book of Moron.  I have written one hundred little bits of my life into my computer for more than 100 days.  I haven’t posted them all here because a few could get me sued.  It is Christmas and while I enjoy being a constant cynic I would like to say – thank you to each and every one of you who take the time to read me – typos and all – and an even bigger thanks to those who comment and share.  My holiday wish is to write for a living.  The kind of writing that makes people laugh.  And to make enough money to hire an assistant to got to UPS for me.  Fingers Crossed.