I am not the kind of girl you will see on a Girls Night Out. I never have been. I point and laugh at other girls on their nights out. They look desperate and dumb. Or so I thought. Last night I joined the GNO club – fuck it – I hosted it – all in the name of man meat. The first time I saw the trailer for “Magic Mike” I thought – damn Channing Tatum is a good dancer. The second time it was – damn Channing Tatum has a great body. The third time I just said – uhm, damn I should maybe see this movie. I really wanted to see a stripper movie directed by Steven Soderbergh and thought if I saw it I might understand what drew him to the subject matter – at least that’s the excuse I’m going with. I really just wanted to see a bunch of hot guys take their clothes off – yes I have become that old woman. So last night – myself and 7 other ladies took in a 7 pm showing of Magic Mike. We sat in the second row because the movie was completely sold out. I will never be that close to Channing Tatum’s dick again – and for that – I am eternally sad. The theater was packed to the brim and not just with women and gays – all of America was taking in this feel naked flick. One hour and fifty minutes later I am here to tell you – Channing Tatum is my spirit dog. I want him to sit at the end of my bed naked and guard me as I sleep. I also want to know his waxer because that mans ass and inner regions were very well scaped. Channing Tatum’s ass is magical. It made me want to do things I don’t normally think about. He is also a spectacular dancer. There may have been other people in the movie but I don’t know what they did or said. Oh, there was some annoying chick who was kinda hunch backed and dead pan but I tried to ignore her because she kept talking when Channing was on the screen. Olivia Munn was also in the movie. Uhm – huh? If I think about the plot of this one or dissect it for one single second I will probably be disappointed but I enjoyed it so much I’m going to just focus on the one thing I felt at the end – that was super fun. Oh and Jenna Dewan is the luckiest woman alive. Matthew McConaughey has redeemed himself for any bad movies he’s ever made because he throws himself into this role with such delicious abandon I have a newfound respect for him – and his clearly waxed ass, balls, and taint.
After the movie we all went out to dinner and I think I’m now rethinking the whole girls night out thing. I think I’ll do it again – but maybe invite some boys next time. Stripper boys. I’ll bring the dollar bills.
Anyone who tells you there isn’t anything to do in Montserrat – is lying. I was very busy. I also now know everything about everyone on the island. I know what they do, who they do, and where they do it. There are less than 5,000 people living there so it really isn’t that hard to get all up in everyone’s business. I can tell you a piece of gossip about almost any of them and I have given most of them new nicknames. From the people who run The Angry Turtle to Fatty Edgecomb the Realtor – everyone and everything is now known by some new name. They of course – don’t know this.
Montserrat is the island tourists have forgotten – which is a great thing when you’re looking to really take it down a notch. I took it down so many notches I needed to use other people’s notches for takedown measurement purposes. The fact that there is an active volcano on the island may dissuade the average traveler but not my friend Dr. Fred. He went to medical school there and is now building a magnificent house on the island. It is the talk of the local Rotary Club (Montserrations) and The Property Owners Association (hideous white people who clearly don’t like black people) and so far his biggest problems are the goats that continually eat his palm trees. I believe they call this a Rich White Guy on an Island Problem. In fact, there are so many goats on the Island it’s kind of a BYOG place. Show up for a party with a goat and someone will make it into a goat water stew. This is the islands most popular dish. I didn’t have any. Once I’ve pet something – I can’t eat it. And there are goats everywhere. They are tethered to every tree and rock in Montserrat. I wanted to ride around and untie all of them. I want a goat farm. Freddie and I are thinking about making our own cheese – wrapped in volcanic ash. People in Beverly Hills will pay big bucks for this kind of a cheese. We could probably only make one a year though so it would be a very expensive block of goat ash cheese.
The people building homes in the U.S. could learn a thing or two from the builders in Montserrat. They have Freddies house up and running in no time including carving steps out of a cliff to build a stairway down to a beach. These Montserrations are not fucking around. The island is lush. It felt like I was in the movie Jumanji except for when we hit the Exclusion Zone. That’s where the volcano left a whole lotta ash. The volcano last spewed in 2007 and now 2/3’s of the Island are uninhabitable. In fact – you can only visit the exclusion zone during the daytime. We did. It was like a horror movie set. I went picking through peoples things that were left behind. They didn’t leave anything good though – unless you wanted a moo moo from 1972. Those were everywhere.
Montserrat is filled with a cast of characters a Hollywood casting agent dreams about. My last night on island we had a party mixing Montserrations with Ex Pats – unusual – and filled with crazy. Jonathon the young chinese music teacher was very upset because his dog had eaten two baby chicks that morning. We told him it wasn’t a big deal since he was Chinese he’d probably eat the dog later anyway – and it was now a DogDucken. Or DogChicken to be more accurate. The man who runs a B&B called The Watermelon Club introuduced us to his house guest – Denise – (her name was Cathy) and she kept telling us about how great her hotelier Andy was (his name is Trevor.) How you can only have one guest at your place and not know each other’s names is really a symbol of just how relaxing it is in Montserrat. We also discussed the Mountain Chicken problem. This is what they call the good frogs on the island who are being devoured by the bad frogs on the island. A big island activity is frog popping. That’s when you drive around and run over the bad frogs until you hear them pop. We also talked about the Rooster personality disorder situation. Roosters on island crow all day and all night. I had one outside my window that really wanted to tell me something but I never did find out what it was. It was the only animal I wanted to kill and eat. I also had a lengthy conversation with Dwayne and Dieje about ladies on the island and discovered it’s kind of a rental situation. I would like to be a renter when it comes to dating. This seems less headachy. The whole place is magical and I can’t wait to get back there. You realize how wonderful a place is when you get smacked back in the face with America and ugly travelers who say things like “Obama is throwing one big party in Washington and I’m sick of paying for it.” (Redneck.) Or listening to the girl in front of you whine to her boyfriend about getting her pillow and blanket out of her suitcase. (Jew Bag) My stewardess on the way home was obsessed with using the words “At this time.” At this time I’d like you to shut the fuck up cause I’m tired and your voice is screeching through my headset. By the time my flight was over – the peacefulness and silliness of Montserrat was almost evaporated from my brain – until I opened my suitcase this morning and found the packages of Cock Soup Mix I snuck home. All is right in the world again.
“You’re going to Montserrat? Isn’t that blowing it’s top right now?” (re: Volcano) This is the last thing you want to hear from American Airholes right before you board a plane for a highly anticipated island vacation. It’s akin to asking someone if it’s hurricane season where they are going. “Yes, it is. I’m an asshole who loves thunderstorms.” I’m already having trip anxiety. What will I forget to pack? Who will I forget to tell? What if I miss my flight? Why can’t I get upgraded? Blah Blah white girl problems. This time tomorrow I’ll be well on my way into my fifth faux-jito proving I’m a complete non alcoholic. I always want to be one of those people that just throws a few items in a bag and off I go but I’m not. My cosmetics case is usually heavier than my clothing bag and my clothing bag usually contains nothing I enjoy wearing and I’m forced to wear the same sweaty t shirt over and over again. I also tend to overpack the wrong things. I won’t be surprised if I find a tutu and a pair of sparkly louboutins in my luggage when I arrive on the island. You never know. Maybe there’s a volcano dance happening and I wouldn’t want to be underdressed for a lava celebration. I have written the appropriate note to the dog sitter – aka – a novel of insanity. If anyone other than my dog sitter reads this note it will be proof that I need to be supervised at all times. It’s three pages long and says things like “Tulip likes to sleep at the end of the bed but needs her squirrel toy under her head.” And I wonder why I’m single. I’ve done the appropriate pre tanning at Bulb Beach aka the tanning bed. There is something very cancery feeling about lying under a bed of bulbs but it’s truly the only way to stop from burning while on vacation. I have downloaded six books. Uploaded three movies. And will offload my brain for a total of five days. So – until July – see ya fuckers!
I hear when you get pregnant you get a swollen vagina and that no one tells you about it or talks about it. Well, why would they? That’s not even remotely cute. My newest pregnant friend revealed this the other day and now I’m super glad I didn’t have kids. I don’t need that on top of everything else that’s swollen. I’m still trying to suck off the peri-menopausal weight that’s hanging on like it gets a prize. I keep waiting for the day I wake up and get really depressed that I didn’t procreate but it never happens – even when I’m surrounded by babies all day writing for a television show that’s about raising babies as a single parent. I love holding the babies and then I love handing them back to the mom when I smell something bad or find myself about to say something using the word “it” instead of she. I watched that show “Pregnant in Heels” and someone made a smoothie out of their placenta and some Oreos and then drank it while they were still reeling in pain and covered in goo. That show should have a warning and a lock on my cable box. The only reason for me to get pregnant is so I can eat whatever I want. But then I’d have to remain pregnant forever and well we all know what happens when that happens – Angelina Jolie. Oh, I also can’t get pregnant because I’m old and my eggs have expired. I think about having kids every time I go shopping and buy something I don’t need like a four dollar necklace from Urban Outfitter that I should just give to the garbage man now because I’m quite certain I’ll never wear it. If I had a kid I wouldn’t be able to buy anything I truly need because I’d have to save up for stupid things like diapers, or wipes or nannies or a college education. These things would get in the way of my high top wedge sneaker purchase that I made yesterday because the thought of a life without these was a life not worth living. Maybe ten or twenty years from now everyone will want puffy vagina lips and I’ll have to spend my money on a plastic surgeon to get them but until then I say – kudos to you pregnant ladies – I hope somebody invents underpants with ice packs in them.
If one more person tells me to read “Fifty Shades of Grey” I will punch that person in the face. They will probably like this however since they like books about S&M and bad shit happening to women in the name of love. So, I may have to rethink the punishment. Maybe I’ll make them wear an outfit by Laura Ashley. Does she still design clothing that looks like couch covers? Every girl goes through a Laura Ashley stage. It’s usually around the time they buy painted furniture for their apartments and own an armoire. Why do I need to read a book about a woman being tied up and raped? I already watch all the Law & Orders – even SVU without Chris Meloni which is also some form of punishment. I’ve never been a romance novel reader so I’m already uninterested in this book but if you want to write a sexy fantasy book that would intrigue me just call it – Ryan Gosling Wants to Fuck You. This is what I found inside a sample chapter from the Grey phenomenon – “Our fingers brush very briefly and the current is there again, zapping through me like I’ve touched an exposed wire. I gasp involuntarily as I feel it all the way down to somewhere dark and unexplored.” There is no such thing as somewhere dark and unexplored. We’ve explored it all – without you.
“Hi, my name is Heidi and I’m a Facebook Friendaholic.” I’ve been accepting total strangers as friends for about a year now because my inner guilty Jew won’t let me say no. I have no idea who some of these people are or how they’ve found me but I just can’t seem to press the ignore button when they request my friendship. It seems rude. It’s not my blog page either – its’ my personal page. I’ve never really thought about whom I allowed on this Facebook page until recently when my crazy brain started concocting stories and making me think that I was secretly harboring terrorist views through the wing nuts that have friended me. What if I get arrested for something on my page because I don’t know what it says? This is a posting from someone in Indonesia.
“Hamba yang paling celaka adalah hamba yang berwajah dan bermulut dua : ia memuji saudaranya di hadapannya dan menghibahnya di belakangnya, jika saudaranya itu dianugerahi nikmat, ia iri dan jika ia ditimpa musibah, ia menghinanya”
I really hope this doesn’t say – “kill whitey” or “death to Americans” or “quit posting pictures you sea hag”. I’ll never know. It’s not like I have anyone in my life who can do a translation. I almost don’t want to find out because then I’d have to unfriend this person or block them and I also have serious Jew guilt about that. What if they find out and stalk me and kill me. So, not only do I have no idea what that post says I don’t even know if it’s a he or a she who posted it. I can’t tell. There are too many vowels. I also have no idea what’s going on in Indonesia these days because – as I have so clearly stated – I am a moron. There’s also a girl from some Middle Eastern country who posts lots of pictures of hands covered in blood – uh oh. In retrospect this wasn’t a good idea. I wonder if there is a Facebook Police Department? They probably already have a giant file on me. What if we find out that Facebook is actually run by the government and it’s all been a ruse to make us feel safe and free when actually they’ve been studying us like lab rats and installing cameras in our computers while we were busy blogging about great places to eat a hot dog while masturbating? And no – I don’t know of any places to do that but if someone from Tehran friends me and asks me for that I’m sure I’ll figure out a way to find out. I wouldn’t want them to think I didn’t care about them. I’m quite certain that in ten years or so there will be some kind of therapy group for people who are addicted to Facebook. There will be a twelve step program to help guide you through your addiction. Step one – admit you have a problem. Step two – leave the house.
I’m beginning to get slightly concerned that companies might start putting an age limit on clothing. Yesterday when I bought a pair of neon yellow cut off shorts I was convinced some snotty 12 year old sales girl would pop out from behind the register and snatch them away from me shouting – “you – to old.” I’ve been giving a lot of clothing away lately – items I’ve decided I’m too old to wear. This is a very depressing concept. One that clearly has not reached Bestsey Johnson. I can’t explain how I know what pieces are no longer right for a fifty year old– but I just do. Then again, I wore pigtails to work the other day so it’s not really that much of a system.
I think – like Garanimals – somebody might want to start putting things on tags that will ban certain people from making certain purchases. I’ve always wondered if designers completely freak out when they see fatties shoving themselves into their Herve Leger bandaid dresses. God knows Christian Louboutin would probably like to ban the entire Kardashian family from wearing his red bottomed shoes. Those beautiful thin heels were not designed to support Kim K’s ass. Nothing was. If I designed something extraordinary and saw a hideous human being wearing it – I’d make them take it off right then and there like some kind of style Nazi. I’d pay them for the dress and make them disrobe. Then I’d give them a robe – from Dress For Less.
Los Angeles is the kind of city that needs to institute a Fashion Police Department. This is a town where you see people wearing things they shouldn’t be allowed to leave the house in and if they do – they should definitely get a citation. White shoes, spandex pants , shorts that show ass cheeks, and that’s just the gays. Women here dress like they’re about to hit the pole. Everything’s out – especially the boobs. It’s an “I paid for these so I’m wearing them on the outside” kind of an attitude. As someone who has always had boobs – trust me – they won’t really help you in life – unless you’re looking for a life where no men take you seriously and women hate you. Fake boobs should not be a choice. I always wanted to be a member of the itty bitty titty committee. Shirts hang better and people actually look you in the eye when speaking to you.
I’m getting ready for a little island vacation and that means I have to start searching for the single worst clothing item a woman has to put on – a bikini. If I could turn back the hands of time and remember just one day where I was comfortable in a swimsuit I would channel that person and take her with me. I hate how I look in a bikini – it’s really just waterproof fabric to put over my cellulite. I hate cellulite. It is life’s most cruel joke. Standing in a fluorescent dressing room trying on tiny things when you feel overweight is akin to standing naked in the middle of Gelson’s supermarket. You can’t walk out of the dressing room and see how it looks in real light because someone might see you and there’s always that one weird husband standing way too close to the ladies dressing room. I may just wear my old suits from when my body looked a little trimmer and if someone walks up to me on the beach and says – too old – I’ll just slap them – with my fat.