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.