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.

Male Whoreticulture

Published December 22, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I would like to say something potentially upsetting to all the people who think Kobe Bryant did not cheat.  Please sit down.  Okay take a deep breath.  Here we go.  There is no Santa Claus.  I’m sorry.  It’s true.  Kobe Bryant not cheating is like me not buying shoes or me not eating friend things when I’m depressed or me not being slightly insane or me – well enough about me.   There are just certain things in life that go hand in hand.  Certain things that are just plain old predictable.  Here’s a list: athletes and whores, rock stars and whores, actors and whores, men and whores.  Married women see a wedding ring on their husbands hands – single girls see a penis – with cash – and prizes – and then maybe a few hours in – a wedding ring – but by then the shit is out and it’s on.   If your man travels on a train, plane, automobile or bus – he is punching his ticket to Whoreville on a regular basis.  He can’t help it.  He was hatched that way.  If you want to marry someone who won’t cheat – marry an extremely short fat guy with alopecia and halitosis.  He’ll worship you for life.  Any one who hooks up next with Ashton Kutcher or Kobe Bryant or Tiger Woods, or I can’t go on because my computer will run out of ink, should consider themselves stupid.  Ashton Kutcher is hot and charming just make sure you fuck him then chuck him before he chucks you.  If you’re okay with having someone else handle the blow jobs, anal sex, cleveland steamers, donkey punches and any other kinky shit – go on – marry a hot guy.

While I don’t think you should get all of your husbands money in a divorce – I do think it’s important to get enough to cover your beauty and wardrobe expenses.  It’s important to always look your best so that he gets really angry when he sees you with another man – which you should hire with his money – and make sure he’s super hot.  You many want to have someone follow you around and take pictures of you and your new hot piece of ass and send them to your ex – by accident.

All of these stories help convince me on a daily basis that being single really isn’t so bad.   Jealousy is a horrible feeling and being cheated on is the worst.  You never get the picture out of your head – no matter how many carats he brings home – or if you’re not married to a rich cheater – how many tubs of hagen daz and flowers he brings home.  You might as well let a cheating boyfriend or husband make a porno and then watch it over and over again because that’s what you’re going to see every night for the rest of your life anyway.

Today I have a few pictures in my head that come courtesy of being single and having a mind akin to a hamster on a wheel.  If I knew where the off switch was I’d hit it.  My first picture is me in front of a department store mirror in my underpants and bra.  Is there even a supermodel who can look good under florescent lights?   I don’t think so.  I almost had a coronary at Nordstrom today.   The sales girl heard a scream and came running.  It was just me noticing that the dress I was trying on that fit quite well,  was a size 8.  Call the police later – there’s more.   I have two new zits on my face.  If anyone can explain to me why I have pimples at the age of 51 I’d like them to call me immediately or send me an email.  There can’t possibly be one single reason on Gods green earth why I need a zit.  Thankfully I have the worlds greatest pimple remover.  It’s from Israel.  It dries anything annoying on your face in seconds and makes it disappear like it never even existed.   It’s very much like the  Mossad.  I’m sending a vat to Vanessa Bryant and Demi Moore.

Oscar! Oscar!

Published December 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It was a magical day at my house yesterday.  Three packages arrived in the mail carrying things I do not need or can afford.   Yay, me!  I didn’t even remember buying two of the three things but I didn’t care.  You could wrap up a dead squirrel, put it in a box, and send it to me and I would be thrilled to see that package on my steps when I got home at the end of the day.    I love packages.  I should have been born in the 1800’s when everything you purchased was wrapped up in paper and strings – like cheese – and horse meat.  Two of the packages where on my front steps behind the gates which means the UPS man may have come in contact with Peaches and Tulip.  I really wish I had cameras at my place so I could see his face as those two giant beasts came thrashing through the doggy door or the giant hole in my house as I like to call it.  They didn’t eat the boxes which is a plus but that’s probably because Tulip was too busy eating the dead baby bird she left for me on the couch.  And… vomit.  I think it was Tulip.  Peaches isn’t into dead animals and Lola’s teeth are a vile piece of property that should be condemned so my deductions lead me to Tulip.  I believe I will soon be getting a fourth package in the mail because I received an email  yesterday informing me that I had ordered something.  At least I think that’s what it said.  It was in French.  Apparently I’m now ordering blindly from other countries.  The price is 232 CHF.  What the fuck that means – is a mystery greater than who Carly Simon wrote “You’re So Vain” for.   I love shopping on line but I don’t like to wait for my things to arrive.  However if you order enough than something is always arriving.  Right about now most of you can see why I have difficulty paying my mortgage.   Maybe I should wrap my house up in brown paper and string and slap a To: label on it.  Then I wouldn’t feel so empty paying for it every month.

Suzanne and I went shopping downtown this weekend again.  There was a sample sale which in Jewish means – “go” – no matter what the clothing is.  Everything was particularly hideous but very sparkly.  I didn’t find anything but Suzanne found an entire wardrobe.  This is what I love about her.  She is one of the most positive people I’ve ever met even when faced with improper tailoring.  We talked about her little dog Oscar who shockingly I had never met.  I think Suzanne was afraid my kids would eat hers which is a fairly good assumption from the looks of them.  As the 2011 shit fate would have it – little Oscar died yesterday.  He was fifteen years old and took a spill he just couldn’t handle at his age.  Suzanne and her sister Karen are now without their little man who was fond of USC clothing and had his own burberry stroller that I openly mocked on a regular basis and was waiting for a date to see live and in person.  That date won’t be coming and now there is yet another little man in doggie heaven.  Which brings me to my wrap of 2011.  Enough already.  I’m exhausted.  2011 should be renamed the worst year ever in the history book written about me and all of my friends if someone is working on that right now please take note.  I’m going to take this year and wrap it up in brown paper and mail it somewhere very very far away.  I say hell to the no dot com on 2011.  Stick a fork in it – it’s done.

My David Mametgram

Published December 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Someone has kidnapped actor Kevin Spacey.  I think he’s been snatched by an alien that was grown in a pod because there’s some very nice version of him out there – smiling – and tweeting.  I found this out after Twitter suggested I follow him and saw a tweet that said “Happy Thanksgiving” and another that posted pictures of him at a photo shoot  – smiling.  I have seen Mr. Spacey on many red carpets and interviews over the years and this is not the Kevin Spacey I’ve seen.  Maybe twitter is having some kind of mellowing effect on celebrities.  Maybe they’ve never actually been able to say what they want and without the mouthcuffs of a publicist are now finally getting to tell their fans all the important things they want to say like “played tennis for two hours today” and “great to hang out with Kate Moss last week.”  Who knew?  I will follow Kevin Spacey because it’s so nice to know he’s not just an amazing actor – he’s a human being – who can type.

These days everyone wants to be famous and they all have twitter accounts.  Ordinary people are tweeting their heads off and getting book deals.  I can’t get past 103 followers.  Every time it goes up – it comes down.  The twat police are clearly keeping an eye on me.  “Don’t let too many people read that moron.”  The whole social network experience is now such a part of our every day lives and daily vocabulary.  Yesterday I saw two old acquaintances run into each other and one said “Oh my god I just friended you!”  It sounds like something you need to be tested for and then buy a cream to get rid of.  Every other day someone asks me if I’m on twitter.  No one talks anymore – we just tap at each other – and for someone who hates the phone this is all very genius to me but I can’t help but think – what will it be like in 2525?  Mind melding?

Today I was really wishing that Steve Jobs had invented the iMute before he died – a little remote I could point at people who won’t shut the fuck up and have no idea what personal space means.  “My son is David Mamet’s assistant” I heard Jewy Jewerstein tell the woman sitting in between us at the Mammogram Center.  They kibitzed like mental patients and five minutes later they were exchanging cell phones and iphones and blackberry emails and texts and whatevers.  I was just thankful I wasn’t in the hot seat and then… the woman sitting next to me left and kablam!!!!  – I was in Jewy’s sights and she was like a dog staring at a juicy kosher bone. “My son is David Mamet’s assistant.”  That’s terrific.  “Are you here for one of the surgeons because I have to tell you – you need to go to my guy – Dr. Markowtiz – because these guys will just do you to do you.  My guy is not pushy like these people.  I mean look at me – I’m sixty – can you believe?”  I wanted to tell her – yes – I believe – because you look seventy.  But she didn’t give me time to get a word in.  “I have to be checked for cancer because my sister is stage four.  I have no idea where she is but she’s stage four.  She’s basically a homeless person wandering around with cancer and she used to be married to David Yurman.  Can you believe?  My life is like a reality show and as a matter of fact my daughter and I are going to be doing a reality show because we’re so crazy.”  At this point my ears were bleeding so I’m not sure where she went next.  There I was – in my jeans, sparkly louboutins, and robe, having my brain seep out of my ears while waiting to find out if I have any spots on my boobrays.  I really wanted to tweet but there was no cell service.    I bet she’s a tweeter.   She probably tweets – My son is David Mamet’s assistant – over and over again.  My boobs came out clean.  Now I’m off to an ENT to be de-jew’d.


Merry Christmas. It’s Malignant.

Published December 17, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Dear Santa,

No one asked for the Breast Cancer and I’m still fat.  You’re clearly not reading my list.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in about six months yesterday.  It was like watching the Wheel of Misfortune spinning and ticking but I didn’t win a car or a boat or a new washer dryer.  I won 23 pounds.  That’s how much I’ve expanded in the course of a year.  At least now I know why my pants don’t fit.  I was playing the “this can’t be possible” game with my clothing before the scale incident of 2011 but the numbers don’t lie and apparently neither does the dry cleaner I accused of shrinking all my shit.  All I want for Christmas is to be anorexic again.   I want to be so thin people stop me on the street and try to feed me things.  I want to be so skinny total strangers will feel the need to check me into a clinic immediately.  Last night I wore sequin pants to the Extra company Christmas party.  They were so tight the little sparkly things dug into my skin and I think I saw blood when I finally got to take my pants off at the end of a long and painful evening.

Today, I consider myself lucky that this is my biggest problem in life because this is something I can actually control.  On the other hand – my friend Victoria – stepped on the life scale yesterday –  and the little needle hit – Breast Cancer- Doctor recommendation right now – double mastectomy.  Now for those of you who don’t know Victoria I’d like to inform you that this is a big thick slab of fuck me icing on the largest shit cake of all time.   Her mother died a year ago, her dog was eaten by the neighbors beast, throw in a few other truly horrendous incidents and fast forward to yesterdays diagnosis and realize that when people say god doesn’t give you more than you can handle – the “you” was Victoria.   I broke down into a sea of tears – Victoria handled the news like someone said you need new tires.  She is one tough bitch.

I took her to the Extra Christmas party because that’s where the Cancer Mafia was hanging out – a group of people so connected to the best doctors in Los Angeles you’d think they were Jews but actually they’re producers.  They spun into action producing lists, making appointments, shoving a crystal down Vic’s bra, and promising her that if her insurance didn’t cover these people – they’d make sure it was “taken care of.”   It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.   By the end of the night we were toasting what would be her guaranteed weight loss and new breasts.  Joe Francis was there which was weird since he has made a living off of women exposing their breasts and many people think he too – is like a cancer.

There are two things I now know for sure thanks to Victoria.  I need to stop whining about the small stuff and friends are the greatest things in life – even the ones you didn’t know were still there for you.  I would like to say to God, or Santa or whomever the fuck is handing her this shit storm  – okay – whatever you’re trying to tell her – she hears you – we all hear you – now shut the fuck up. If you know Vic, send her a hug.  If you don’t, send her prayers.  She is 37 years old.  Cancer can suck it.  And this is not going to stop her either.

F, Marry, Kancel

Published December 16, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Does anyone know where the off switch is on the Kardashian family because I’m done.  Last night the Klueless Klan were in Las Vegas to open their new “lifestyle store” – Kardashian Khaos.  First of all, the use of the letter K on every word that comes out of their mouths is making the spell check on my computer go Kablooey and making me want to Kill either myself or them.  Secondly – if I’m going to emulate a celebrity lifestyle it’s not going to be one based on having babies out of wedlock with drunken dandy men and marriages that last as long as a pair of tights.  Getting knocked up, marrying someone you don’t know, or having an enormous ass are not things to be celebrated since they are tasks a drunk 16 year old could master.

Last night the girls were all interviewed at their home away from home  – a red carpet – and said they were excited to see their store – in person – proving once again – that they have barely anything to do with the brand they are shoving down your throats that is turning them into Kajillionaires.  The store is apparently filled with “souvenir products” designed by Kim, Khloe and Kourtney.  Souvenir products?  I guess that means there are racks and racks of Dead On The Inside key chains, Welcome to Vapid Town postcards, and I Am Famous For No Reason shot glasses.  I know taking pot shots at this family is easier than making fun of the way Richard Simmons dresses but I really think it’s time we turned the volume down on this group – for good.  I have no problem with reality television and the so called stars it creates as long as these people take their fifteen minutes and leave the area immediately when that clock runs out.  The Kardouche-ians minutes are up and I think I have to finally put my foot down and say to you people – stop making them famous for spreading shitty values.  There are no lessons to be learned here.  At least when I watch The Real Housewives I glean valuable information like how to throw a drink, take a dead beat husband to court, or remove a weave from another woman’s head in less than five seconds.  I know these things sound like something you can learn from a Kardashian but it’s just not the same.  The Real Housewives don’t think they’re stars.

At the end of the day I think I’m going to have to take some drastic measures in my life and actually stop watching all reality television.  As a writer who wants to live the second half of her life on a scripted show – preferably my own – I can’t keep giving air time to those Komplete Knuckleheads.  It would be easier to get off crack than give up The Bad Girls and losing my weekly visit with Phaedra may send me over the edge but I’m willing to do it if it means I don’t have to look at life on K street for one more second.  The only shows I don’t watch are the competition ones and I’m starting to think those are the only ones that should be allowed on television.  Let’s not make earning millions for doing absolutely nothing the new AmeriKan dream.  Just say no or just say Kancel.


Published December 15, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I do not enjoy the rain.  It is not romantic, snuggly, curl up on the couch with a fire and watch “Say Anything” while eating deep fried twinkies kind of weather to me.  Rain + Dogs = Shitprints, lots and lots of doggie shitprints and a fine helping of mud trailed through my house turning my living space into a dirty fecal war zone.  If you turned a blue light on in here it would probably look like my dogs had polished the floors with their own poop.  They run outside.  They step in stuff.  They come back in.  They smear it around.  It’s my very own Shat House and I didn’t even have to pledge or get hazed to get in.   I have a dog run area or the poop tank as it’s been dubbed out back behind the house.  It is a 17×25 foot space where the dogs can go during the day when I’m not home.  When I’m home they like to shit anywhere they fucking well please… including inside the house when they are sick because they want to make sure you see the steaming pile of I’m not feeling well mommy.  My dogs are also extremely talented when it comes to vomiting on my most expensive items.   The poop tank has been filled and refilled with every kind of stone, grass, chip, and or sand, known to man in a continuing effort to make the area more pleasing to Peaches or as I like to call her – that stuck up Bitch.  Peaches will walk over to the yard and gingerly walk on whatever surface has been laid down for her pooping pleasure like Tony Robbins is forcing her to walk on burning hot rocks.  Tulip is a perfect poop tank dumper.  Peaches would rather go on my nice people area patio.  It’s a doody mine field.  When it rains – it pours – rivers of shit.  There is nothing more difficult to pick up than the wet excrement from a 120 pound dog.  It’s a shit storm out there and I need bigger thicker galoshes.  Anyone who owns a dog and lets that dog in their bed after its rained and they’ve been outside – is sleeping on the newest mattress by Pooperpedic.  And yet, I almost don’t really care.  I love my dogs.

On the other hand – people germs need to back the fuck up out of my area.  As I get older I’m getting very germaphobic about weird things and I’m oddly selective about what freaks me out.  I don’t like to eat in restaurants where I can see the kitchen because I start thinking about all the weird places the chefs hands have been before they’ve been on my gnocchi.  I don’t like using my hand to flush a public toilet but I have no problem putting my hands on a supermarket shopping cart that some kids dumpy diaper was just propped up on.  I hate when people stick their hand into a bag of my nuts or m&m’s.  I immediately envision their fingers shoved up their noses.  I am starting to get weird about trying on clothing in stores.  Especially when it’s a pair of pants.  I once knew someone who didn’t wear underwear when she tried on clothes.  This is so utterly stomach turning disgusting I just threw up and gagged on it as I typed the words.  If I find out my panties are touching your left behind pubic hair I will hunt you down and kill you.  I can’t help but feel that everything I touch has been touched by someone else and it’s starting to gross me out.  At the rate I’m going I will hermetically seal myself and everything I own and I’ll be Silkwood showering like you read about.  I’m sure there will be some crazy futuristic shit going down in the germ warfare department and maybe I’ll be around for that as they telepod all of us to Planet Clean.  I do know that I still won’t care what’s covered in poop, piss, or other doggie DNA.  At least I know where the dogs have been.

Happy Howl-idays

Published December 14, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Your red is blending nicely.  It’s not as brassy as it was.”  A lovely man I work with said this to me in the office kitchen yesterday.  I stabbed him with a swizzle stick then threw a blueberry bagel at his head.  Yes blueberry.  If you want to know how to ruin a perfectly good bread item – move to California.  But I digress.  It is at this time I would like to offer some extremely important information to all people dealing with any woman over the age of fifty – or me – do not give me your opinion unless I ask for it – and even then, tread lightly.  Unsolicited advice, thoughts, opinions, etc. should be kept snapped shut in your pie hole.  I won’t tell you that your shoes are meant for club footed people and you don’t tell me what you think about my choice of hair color that by the way I did myself thank you very much.  Ugh.

Yesterday I saw a man being tortured within an inch of his life at Nordstrom.  He was in the shoe department with his wife who could not make a decision on what size Uggs to get.  She kept going back and forth between two sizes and dragging every store clerk into her Ugg cluster fuck.  Her husband looked like he would have traded his seat holding her purse for a spot inside Abu Ghraib and a round of water boarding.  I mean for fuck sake – they’re Uggs.  They are akin to slippers.  Who cares what size they are.  If you’re wearing them outside and you’re not surfing you obviously don’t care what you look like anyway.  I could feel him screaming on the inside and wanting to shove the soft bootie inside her mouth to shut her up.  Every time she was close to a decision he would stand up ready to leave – then she’d start the gut wrenching decision making process all over again and he would sink back down into his seat with a decibel level 12 sigh.    He should wrap up some divorce papers and shove those in her Uggs for Christmas.

What is it with gays and Christmas?  Last night at L.A.’s outdoor mall The Grove – scads of them were lined up with their dogs at Santa Paws Workshop.  No, I’m not making this up.  Gays from all over Southern California brought their dogs – in full Christmas outfits – to sit on Santa’s lap for a holiday shot.  Now I love my gays and I love dogs but this was a scene even I couldn’t believe.  Santa looked pissed and his elves were dressed like Hooters waitresses and all the dogs were fighting with each other on line.  The whole thing felt like a Fellini film.

Christmas time in California is pretty funny especially at The Grove.  People will do everything possible to make it feel east coast and chilly.  They even drop cancer causing snow flakes to make you feel like you’re walking around shopping in flurries.  Everyone looks like they have really bad dandruff.  This is not Christmassy. Five years from now people will find out they have something from whatever is they are dropping on you at the Grove. Some incredibly gay elf clearly did all the decorations because it looks like Santa’s workshop exploded and fell in front of Victoria’s Secret.

All the festivity does make you want to shop which in my case is a very bad thing because I just buy things for myself.  Every time I make another purchase the clerk launches into some inane conversation about what a great gift this is and isn’t the person I’m getting it for so lucky and can I gift wrap this for someone?  Yes me.  Now shut the fuck up, hold my dog,  and give me a pink bow.

Introducing The FUFA

Published December 12, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I broke up with Jon Hamm last night.  I’m now dating Idris Elba.  I know he’s a drug dealer who’s killed people but if I can go out with a misogynist who sleeps with everything that walks and only speaks in ad slogans from the sixties than I can certainly handle a man who sells crack cocaine in the project towers and co owns a strip club.   I’m sure I’ll start cheating on Idris when Jon is back on the air but for now my iPad affair with Elba is on and it’s serious.

I didn’t think men had it as bad as women do in the aging department, in fact, I didn’t even think men thought about what happens to their bodies as they get older.  I have never heard a straight man comment about weight gain, puffiness, cellulite, or anything even close to that.  As a matter of fact – I didn’t even think most straight men ever looked in a mirror – even the ones who know to dress themselves.  The only thing they seem to care about is losing their hair and ever since white boys were allowed to shave their heads and be deemed cool – the whole hair loss thing seems to have been handled.  And by the way – fuck them for that.  I can’t shave my head because I have hard to handle Jew hair.  This weekend however a fifty something straight male friend of mine told me he noticed his ankles were fatter than they used to be.  I being the comforting friend said – thank you Jesus.  This was the single greatest piece of news I had ever heard.  I can only hope he finds cellulite next week.  I will dance for joy.

My best friend Brian Unger was the emcee for the CNN Heroes event last night.  He by the way is not aging and it makes me mad.  He asked me to come along and be his Bruce Vilanch.  I think he meant it as a compliment though I sometimes feel as bloated as Bruce.   Brian certainly doesn’t need me as he is the single funniest person I know.  He had to deliver some opening remarks at the awards show and then speak throughout the event to keep the audience entertained.  The first thing I did was give him an adult diaper joke.  Not really a good move when the whole night is about celebrating people who are stricken with something or suffered some horrible fate that left them unable to walk.  Shitting your pants is not funny to people who have probably shit their pants.   Brian and I spent three hours writing some fantastic lines that will never be heard.  We basically held our own CNN Heroes Roast in the food tent.   Because that’s what we do… when no one is listening.   There were lots of stars there trolling around backstage where we were hanging out.  Sofia Vergara was gorgeous and told me she liked my shoes.  She is now my best friend who doesn’t know who I am.  Jerry Seinfeld was practicing his speech.  Mary Louise Parker was so spindly thin I thought she was going to keel over.  I hated her for that.  Everyone was so nice and friendly and I ogled Anderson Cooper the entire night who has quietly become a major news rock star.     People went nuts when he took the stage.  He was extremely focused backstage and very connected to his blackberry.   I think he was looking for a war to drop into.  The dude clearly eats, sleeps, and breathes news.  Thank god Brian didn’t use the diaper joke.  AC 360 didn’t look like he would stand for that kind of humor.  Brian was amazing.  He ignored everything I told him.  He is a smart man.

At the end of the night I noticed yet another indignity of getting older.  The FUFA.  The fat upper foot area.  I am now so old my feet and ankles swell.  My friend Jeremy had a fat teacher when he was a kid ironically named Mrs. Tubs whose flesh oozed out over the tops of her shoes and I always thought the fufa was a ailment reserved for chubby people.  It’s not.  Turns out my male friend with the old swollen ankles isn’t alone in his degradation.  Color me Pissed.

File This Under Ew

Published December 11, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Have you ever been so drunk that when you woke up in the morning and saw long hair on the pillow next to you – you thought – oh shit I slept with a girl – by accident.  I have. I hate when boys have better hair than me.  They don’t even need it.  I am not a fan of the ponytail on a dude and if I have to fight you for the hair accessories – we’re not going to make it.  If I wanted to sleep next to something with long flowy hair that hangs in my face or sweeps up against me – I’d buy a long haired daschund or I’d bang a girl.  I have also done that.  Once. That’s kind of all you need if you’re straight.  It’s a memory I will never get out of my head.  No offense to those who drink the lesbionic tonic – I’m just a bigger fan of the other kind of cocktail.  They say that girls know how to perform oral sex better on another girl because they know what’s down there. They are liars.  I have no idea what’s down there.  I’m on a need to know basis with other people’s vaginas.  In fact – I’m on a need to know basis with my own.

There are many reasons I no longer drink but I’m thinking about starting again so that I can purchase the Corksickle.  Have you seen this ingenious invention?  It’s a long thin plastic ice pack attached to a cork that you shove into your wine and it stays cold for hours.  Granted I never needed my wine to stay cold for hours because a bottle lasted about thirty minutes but this is the kind of shit that makes me mad I can’t drink anymore, that and the low calorie cocktail.   If that Skinny Girl Margherita were around when I was a pathetic slurring fall down drunk I would have at least been a skinny pathetic fall down drunk.

The only person who looks cute stumbling around and smiling while trying to walk, is a baby.  My friend Sean brought his little boy to work the other day.  He’s about 14 months.   While he was holding him he turned the baby to me and the baby reached out his arms to come to me.   I almost passed out.  I held this delicious baby smelling pile of flesh and thought – oh shit – I totally should have had one of these.  He was so warm and yummy and smiley and if they could just stay that age I would totally get one.  We put him down to walk and when he took his first steps he made this face that made me realize just how awesome walking is.  I kind of forgot.  We take this for granted.  We also take not having to poop in a diaper for granted but that’s something I hope I don’t have to do anytime soon.

Mayim Bialik aka Blossom was on television the other day talking about how she’s still breast feeding her son – at three.  I threw up in my mouth and then realized why she doesn’t work that much any more.  She’s too busy feeding a full grown boy from her boob and no one wants to see that on the set.  She said it so matter of factly that the reporter just breezed right past it but I didn’t hear a word she said after that jaw dropping confession.   I believe she said – “I still make milk.”  Well that’s terrific Blossom but this would come under the category of shit you shouldn’t tell people.  I don’t want to know it.  I don’t want to see it.   There’s a photo of her doing it on a New York City Subway.  I would attach it here but I don’t want to be arrested for child pornography.  Just because she holds a PHD in Neuroscience doesn’t mean she’s a rocket scientist about everything.  Maybe this is really healthy for children but I can’t help but think it leads to weird behavior for men later in life like a crazy addiction to boobs.  I think I slept with one of these guys once.  He had a ponytail.


Published December 10, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

You know your life is a shitstorm when you can’t even make it out of the Walmart with your meth products to get your cook on.  Starting a lab in aisle six next to the Garth Brooks cd’s is never a good idea.  In fact, using any product while you’re still at the store should be frowned upon.  Don’t cook your steak in the meat department and please don’t use the toilet paper anywhere inside the store.  I don’t think that’s what any grocery store shelf stacker needs to find when they hear clean up on Aisle three.  I’m surprised there was anything inside a Walmart that could be used to make methanphetamine since they’ve pretty much banned anything interesting from entering their holy doors.  I’ve never been to a Walmart and I won’t be going anytime soon after the real life Breaking Bad incident and the black Friday pepper spraying situation.  Bad things are happening there and I can’t help but think it’s payback for their hatred of anything other than picket fence white America.  You can’t make meth or heroin out of a Kanye cd but you can make heroin out of baby formula which you can find in Aisle 7 at Walmart.

I expect to see all of these real life horror stories on my favorite shows – the Law & Order series.  Last night an episode ran and there was no sound effect on one of those chyron location cards and I hope someone was fired for this infraction.  Not hearing the doink doink come up when the black and white letters told me we were at Precinct 9 Downtown Manhattan nearly sent me over the edge.  I almost lost my place in the show.  Were we in the Law part or the Order part?  Are they trying to lose the doink?  I don’t think I can watch this series without the sound effect because I won’t know when to pause my DVR and get a snack or pee.

I’m pretty sure my house is being bugged by some television overlord.    I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said something to a friend or written something down that I thought was a completely unique or original thought only to hear someone else saying the exact same thing on television as if it were theirs.  I have written entire skits for SNL on my couch and fantastic lines for Jay Leno in my bathroom and I know they didn’t pay me a dime for these things.  I am quite certain I was the first person to write the word fucktard in a script and I know nobody read my genius made up words because if they did I wouldn’t be sitting here staring at three dogs who want to eat,  I’d be staring at one hot man feeding three dogs and then taking those three dogs for a very long hike.  A man that I would have purchased with my fuck you money for being a genius writer that everybody is reading.  I could be wrong but if it’s not my  house thats bugged then there is some kind of microphone planted on me somewhere that I just haven’t been able to find which probably means my ass because that ramp has been closed for any business other than it’s business for years.  If you don’t know what I’m insinuating there are dozens of websites that will explain it to you.  Maybe aliens aren’t after us for our knowledge of anything other than comedy.  Maybe they’ve implanted people like me and are stealing all of our ideas for Planet Xion.  Maybe that’s where all the great sitcoms are being played.

Today I’m going to try to locate my ass mic.  I didn’t ask for the anal probe and while I don’t care what you do with yours, mines not an INtrance.   I would go to Walmart to find a product to help me remove the probe but it’s pretty clear to me they don’t sell anything you can use to pull things out of your ass – especially their own heads.

Lady Parts and Louboutins

Published December 9, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Well it’s finally happened.  I can no longer suck in my stomach. There’s just too much to suck.  Every girl in the free world sucks her stomach in … even the stick figures.  When you see ribs – keep sucking.  A flat stomach is the gateway to happiness.  Having a no belly – belly –  equals pure joy and no woman can ever achieve a stomach that’s flat enough.  I think I had one once and totally didn’t appreciate it.  I would have paraded that shit around like nobody’s business if I knew then what I know now.  I’ve learned to deal with the humiliation of having to lie down to zip and or button up my pants while doing a dance that only amuses my dogs and I’ve perfected a way to look past the side of my closet where the skinny jeans are hanging their seams in shame but I cannot handle the painful fact that when I try to pull my stomach in– nothing moves.   I mean what the fuck people?  Haven’t I suffered enough?    When does the estrogen parade of unhappiness and degradation end?  It’s like my bodies on The Hormone Tour 2011 and not only did I not buy tickets but I want to get off this fucking tour bus now. What’s next?  More gas?   The day starts out normal enough but by the end of it I’m like some misshapen piñata nobody wants to crack open.  I’m Super Peri Menstrual Woman and that won’t fit in at any party I don’t care how cute it looks hanging from the tree.

When do I switch over to mom jeans and do I wear mom jeans if I’m not a mom?  Will I get a memo about this?  What do single older ladies do?  Do we have a spokeswoman?  Maybe I should be her.  I would declare leather pants okay to wear at any age because what most women don’t realize is that the leather pant is a genius fupa girdle.  Do not fear the leather.  The leather is slimming.  Who cares if you look like an 80 year old at a Miley Cyrus concert – you’re thin!!  I do think some of my younger clothes are mounting a campaign or staging a coup to get me to stop wearing them now that I’m fifty one.  My Britney Spears catholic school skirt has been missing for months and there’s nobody in my house that could have borrowed it so unless the handy man is parading around in it while I’m at work it’s gone into the Clothing Protection Program and won’t be back until someone young enough moves into my house or I die.  How short is too short when it comes to skirts and older women?  If I can see your uvula… it’s too short.

Lindsay Lohan has posed for Playboy and I’m not sure I want to see her Vagina.  I am sure that it’s seen a lot of action.  I could throw a dart at a Hollywood phone book and hit some piece of man candy she’s licked more than once.  Her mons venus probably has some battle scars that had to be airbrushed out.  I think her vagina may want to start acting like a website and just shut down when the traffic gets too busy.  I’ve seen my fair share of sex capades but I don’t know what level you have to get to – to have your vagina stretch out like the rest of your body.  If it’s anything like what ‘s going on with my stomach – Lindsay Lohan will be able to tuck her lady parts into her Louboutins any day now.

Tinsel Town Trauma

Published December 7, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Walter from the DWP is blowing up my cell phone like you read about.   He’s called me three times in the past twenty four hours – to check in.   My not so fine romance with Walter started because my neighbors pool is slowly leaking out down their  hillside into my yard and after lodging about 832 complaints with the water people and even driving to my neighbors house in my pajamas to inform them they were soaking me out of house and home – Walter finally showed up.  Walter – or Walt as he told me he likes to be called –  is a short fat very old black man.  Walt has now put my ass on speed dial.  This pretty much sums up my entire dating life because this is the kind of guy that thinks they can “get me.”  “Hey baby, it’s Walter the water man.  I think we got the situation up here figured out but if you need me for anything else… and I do mean anything, you give me a call.  This is my personal cell phone number.”  And delete.  Please insert shitty cliché why don’t you let him clean your pipes joke here.  I never get the hot fix it guy ever.  I’m not that girl.  I want to think I’m the cool chic that has cool things happen to her but I’m the girl who shows up in her pasta stained thermal shirt and sweat pants with zit medicine on her face to tell you your pipes are leaking only to have a Ryan Gosling look alike renter answer the door in disgust.

I had the incredible opportunity this past week to work in my friend’s writer’s room.  Basically this meant spending a lot of hours with really funny people tossing inappropriate and often really filthy humor around a room.  Did you know that the web is so filled with porn that we had to come up with a new domain – XXX.  So if Chocolate Fuck Dot Com or Shove Shit Up My Ass Dot Com was taken and you are sad about it – you can now get Suck Me Off Dick Face Dot Triple X.  Hope you’re happy.  Anyway,  I thought I was the coolest kid on the planet yucking it up with some seriously funny brains who have spent countless hours on the coolest sitcoms in the world until the cooler guy across the table from me said – “Why are your hands blue?”  It was true.  My hands were blue.  Really blue.  Like I had died and no one told me blue.  The whole table looked at me.  Turns out my super cool j brand jeans were bleeding blue.  It’s hard to write a joke when you’re the punch line.

I only wear pants now because it’s winter and that means my old skin is even older because it’s so dry out here you’d think we lived in a desert.  We don’t do we?  I’m addicted to La Mer but that’s not really in my price range so the other day while I was shopping for a new lotion I saw a black woman a few aisles over and if anyone knows about ashy skin it’s a black woman so I followed her all over the store until she hit the body cream aisle and picked up something called Yu Be.  It’s Japanese but it sounds like they know exactly who their customer is.  Yu Be smooth black lady.  It’s good shit but sadly nothing can turn back the hands of time on my skin and I think the secret to staying young as we get older is to actually wear a few extra pounds and spread out the crepe paper  that is now covering our bones.

I saw an ad the other night for Pizza Huts Dinner Box.   It’s a box filled with cancer.  A Deep Pan Pizza, Chicken Wings, Breadsticks, Lasagna, Pasta, the kitchen fucking sink.  It’s five thousand calories of dough covered crap.   I know I’ll go to hell or a place where they only play Two Broke Girls for saying this but I think former anorexic Tracy Gold may be ordering from this side of the menu because she’s chunky again and far be it from me to want to see a woman die from anorexia but I think Tracy may want to dip back in to the dark side for just a second.  What’s wrong with a little post Pizza Hut puke?  God knows Santa Claus is busy throwing up all over Los Angeles.  I know we call it Tinsel Town but you can’t toss a dreidel two inches without hitting a jew in Beverly Hills but if you drive through there now you will be blinded by Christmas lights.   I feel like I’m gonna stroke out.   I think I need a time out.

Vice Purse-a

Published December 4, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t care how many women Herman Cain has slept with.  I care that he’s clearly retarded and no one seems to notice.   This is a problem for me.  Not his infidelity.  His wife has to deal with the fact that there’s a sexual clean up on aisle three, four and five of her life on a daily basis – not me.  I’d have to deal with the fact that he can’t even grasp the English language if he became President and that is a problem for me.

My parents are going on a cruise today and I’m praying it’s not secretly some 80 year old swingers situation.  My mother sounded very apprehensive about going so I thought maybe that’s why.  It could just be the fact that she’s about to be trapped on a moving toilet for 8 days with a man she’s spent over sixty years with and massive amounts of deserts in the shape of penguins.  Either way, my parents are way busier than me.  I’m dying my hair today… again, and then going to the outdoor mall near my house which will be playing loud Christmas music in the 80 degree sunshine.   My version of a cruise ship.  My friend Suzanne just texted and said she was desperate to get outside today.  I suppose I could go hiking, or biking or walking somewhere but there is no prize at the end of that and while I appreciate the outdoor life I really need a goal – like – you get a handbag when you’re done with this hike.  I’d hike to get inside Barneys or the Saks shoe sale.

A woman selling fake Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Prada handbags came to the office the other day and her shit was really good.  Faux designer stuff was flying out of the conference room.   I walked in and out of the area about fifteen times picking up and then putting down almost everything in there.  I am torn by the fake handbag.  I have four real Chanel’s that each cost more than my monthly mortgage payment and some other designer handbags that set me back quite a bit and they are all very coveted items.  This woman’s bags looked just as good as mine.  This infuriates me.  I didn’t buy any because I need a new purse like I need a hole in the head and while that excuse has never really stopped me before,  I managed to restrain myself.   I did get her email address.  The only problem is that ever since the office handbag sale went down everyone is asking me if I got my real Chanel from the purse lady.  Apparently the only person who knows my handbag is real – is me.  I’m going to put a sticker on all my designer stuff that says THIS SHIT IS REAL BITCHES and I’m not even really sure why that matters.  Do I really want someone to know I’m so dumb I spent four thousand dollars on a purse?  It’s taken me fifty years to understand that the real reason we buy designer items is that they’re really well made and won’t fall apart the minute you drop your wallet inside but the truth is – you carry something real quite differently than a knock off and while every Jew I know has a knock off person they go to – to get their shit – I just want my shit to be real.  I’m not gonna lie – I’ve been eyeballing that wine colored patent leather Louis Vuitton handbag Real Housewife NeNe carries around and the purse lady has one for 300 dollars.  I may take the fake plunge.  If you see me with it and ask me if it’s real I will say yes and possibly punch you to accentuate my infuriation.  You have been warned.