Archives

All posts for the month January, 2012

Let The Fur Fly

Published January 24, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

9) None of the above.

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

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

I’ve Had Enuffington

Published January 23, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

The Golden Moron Award

Published January 22, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

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

Vagina Found In Bag

Published January 20, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

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

Poop T.V.

Published January 19, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

Driving Miss Crazy

Published January 18, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

 

The Pajama Man Cometh

Published January 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

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

 

Dead Girl Tweeting

Published January 13, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

Whore to Door

Published January 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

The Salad Tosser

Published January 11, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

Politicking Me Off

Published January 8, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

Pop Goes The Rodent

Published January 6, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

Leave Your Hateful Message After The Beep

Published January 5, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

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

Two Girls. One Barf.

Published January 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

I Didn’t Ask For The Anal Probe

Published January 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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

Nailed It

Published January 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

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

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

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