He is one of those guys from my past that I’ll never forget. His name was Chris. Or was it Peter? Actually it may have been Paul. Was it Paul? I can’t remember. But I’ll never forget him – or to be more exact – his fur pants.
It’s not every day you meet a great looking young chef on the rise in New York City. And for a girl who loves food – this is hitting the boyfriend jackpot. The only thing that would have made him a better boyfriend would be if his parents or sister or someone he was close to and got discounts from owned a blow dry salon… or a shoe store…. Or Saks… or fuck it I’ll take Macys if I have to. If I could will this person to become a real person I may actually get married one day but for now I’ll have to be happy eating at good restaurants, paying someone to tame my jew hair and shopping at the Barneys shoe sale like a normal person. I can’t shop at Saks anymore because one of my mortal enemies goes there on a daily basis. Maybe she’s looking to buy a soul.
So, there we were in New York City back in the eighties – me and Chris Peter Paul – dating, eating, but not having sex because I actually liked him and when a girl really likes a guy she doesn’t have sex with him right away because it makes it seem like we’re sluts and we are but we don’t need him to know that until we’re ready for him to know that and so we act like we’re all prissy and oh no just a kiss goodnight tonight maybe next time and then it gets so awkward that you have to do it just to get it over with but we weren’t there yet. We were having dinner at his place and then we were gonna finally do it. The dinner was amazing. Not – oh a guy cooked me dinner amazing – but oh a guy cooked me a fucking balls out chefs dinner amazing. He deserved my vagina. Shit, he deserved mine and another girls vagina and I probably would have given him that if he had a cute neighbor. And then it was time. We went to the bedroom and started to get undressed and when I turned around to see him take his pants off – I thought – wait – why does he still have pants on – fur pants – thick fur up to his waist covering his ass pants? What the fuck is happening right now and how do I stop it? Turns out my beautiful, smart, great cooking new boyfriend – was a human hairball. His lower half was so thick with fur that he looked like Pan – the Grecian Goat God who carried a flute and mesmerized the ladies but I didn’t care how good this guy was gonna be with his flute because no amount of music was going to soothe my vagina back into submission. And that was it – the end – relationship over – delicious food buh bye. I fled the area faster than you can say “ohmigod are those hooves?”
These days there are such things as lasers and men are getting all kinds of hair removed from all kinds of places but back then it was game over and I lost out on an actual real meal ticket because I don’t want to date a guy who still has pants on when he takes his pants off. The end.
Yesterday while the rest of you lazy fucks were sitting around doing nothing with your lives and making no headway whatsoever in the human struggle – a young celebrity child was out there doing the unthinkable in the name of – well actually I’m not sure what it was in the name of – but Scout Willis was out there flashing her fun bags for something important!!! Now, to tell the truth, I don’t know what the big deal is about Scout whipping her boobs out in NYC. I did this for years in just about every bar in the city and no one seemed to give a shit. But Scout is actually trying to make a point with her boob flashing where as mine was more of a “hey I’m drunk check my tits out” point. I guess it’s unacceptable to show your boobs on instagram and she wants breast cancer survivors and breast feeding mothers to be able to bare all on the Facebook site. It’s a “Freedom of Boob” Act and I’m sorry but it seems like there could be way better things to do with her time.
However, the more important thing to come from this so called shocking display of a celebrity boob is that I had no idea it was perfectly legal to show your tits in public in New York City. Yes, it’s totally okay to flit around with your nips out while taking a bus, hailing a cab, picking up some strawberries, or walking around that High Line area that I do not understand at all – it’s a park built on a highway? No, not getting it. But yes, it’s legal for women to be topless in New York City and now Scout has unleashed what may be a hideous new trend in New York because let me tell you what happens when nudity is deemed okay – all of the ugly people in the world get naked – not the hot ones. Have you ever noticed who’s in a nudist colony? Not one hottie. Not one Supermodel. It’s all a bunch of hideous hairy fatties that no one wants to see naked. Dam you Scout!!! I’m praying her little act of putting her breast foot forward quietly goes away and no one starts following her lead. She’s adorable but trust me – she’s the last of her kind to bare all and she’ll be copied by a parade of fleshy flops no one wants to see.
In case you’re wondering where else you can go let your tit flags fly – here’s a list.
Key West, FL at Fantasy Fest
New Orleans, LA, at Mardi Gras
New York City
Santa Fe, NM
South Miami Beach, FL (on the beach)
Not on the list? Los Angeles. Home of the best boobs in the world – because we buy them here. Feel free to visit these cities and unleash your mammories on mankind. Just let me know you’re going to be there because I don’t need to see that. I don’t need to see your boobs anywhere. I also don’t need to see anyones penis. So keep your pants on America.
There’s this weird thing that happens to people after we live in Los Angeles for a while – in particular – those of us who live in Hollywood. Eventually we all start to blur the line between who’s famous and who are our friends. We see someone we think we know and shout hello to them only to find out the reason we know them is because they are famous not because they once came to our house to play Trivial Pursuit or Canasta or whatever it is people play in their homes. Case in point – I once accosted Bradley Whitford at the Gelsons in my neighborhood because I thought he was my friend. “Ohmigod, how are you?” I chirped across the parking lot. He looked at me and said – “I’m sorry do we know each other?” I paused for a moment and realized, well no Bradley we don’t. I’m just a fucking weirdo who is obsessed with The West Wing and after years of viewing it on my tv – have mistaken you for my friend here at the supermarket. Goodbye. Carry on. Have a lovely day. Try the sushi. So sorry. Please don’t get a restraining order.
Last night while attending a Billy Joel concert at the Hollywood Bowl – it happened again. There I was gleefully prancing to my seat when suddenly – “ohmigod my friend Bill.” I wave – carry on – point – wave again – flail around like a mental patient – and nothing – just a blank stare from my friend Bill. Why you ask? Because it wasn’t my friend Bill it was Doug Savant from Melrose Place. I could see the terror in his eyes. Oh shit – some old fan is gonna ruin my night with the Piano Man. I turned away and just started laughing my ass off and then fled for my seats which thankfully were NOT right next to his. Wow. Awkward.
This happens all the time in Hollywood. At least to me.
Eventually I settled down for what turned out to be one of the best concerts I’ve ever been to. My twenties flashed before me as I listened to what was part of the soundtrack of my life. I told the 23 year old I was at the concert with this and he said – I hate when people use that expression – the soundtrack of my life. I said – that’s because you’re not allowed to use it when you’re 23. You haven’t had a life yet – and so – you have no soundtrack. The next time a 23 year old says this to you – punch them in the face. But I do have a soundtrack – and it’s Billy Joel, and the Beatles, and the Psychedelic Furs, and oh so many more. There is nothing greater than the nostalgia that comes with the music of your past that takes you back to a place and time filled with people and moments and snippets of the life you have lived. There was a group of fifty something jews from Long Island – my people – sitting next to us and together we screamed and danced and took a trip down memory lane. It was a warm beautiful night and Billy Joel sounds exactly the same as he did back in the eighties and as I looked over at Doug Savant I thought – we might not know each other and you might very well be calling the police for a stay away order but we’ll always have Billy Joel and I’m gonna tell everyone I know – that we went to this concert together – and we bonded like you read about.
I used to call my blog The Book of Moron and today I can “not so proudly” tell you why. My little pink book needs promotion in order to sell copies to people other than my mother and my dog walker and so my wonderful publisher Donna Cavanagh has been doing her darndest – (I can see this is not a word but I’m not changing it) to get a gal who likes to talk about her vagina and eating cake out of a garbage can – some press. She is amazing. She has been listening to me rant about what an unfunny failure I am for quite some time now and hasn’t told me to shut the fuck up – yet. She’s getting close – I can tell. She recently set me up to go on a nationally syndicated radio show with a man named – well lets just call him – Bob. Bob called me a month ago to set up a time for the interview. It took me a few days to call him back as I was in Seattle and quite frankly he was the first interview set up and I was nervous about the book and wasn’t sure I was even going to talk to anyone. Then when I realized the books wouldn’t fly off the shelves without promoting it – no matter how cute my cover is – and it’s fucking cute – I called him back and set a time.
Bob: “Two weeks to call back? You know I’m doing someone a favor with this interview?, right”
Me: “Sorry it’s only been a few days.”
Bob: ”No it’s been two weeks.”
Me: “Really Bob, it hasn’t, I swear.”
Bob: “Whatever. How does the 23rd at 9am sound. Great? Bye. Send me an email. My address is (he gives email.)
Me: “Bob I’m in the car I don’t have a pen and I can’t write down your email.”
Bob: “It’s not that hard. (He gives email again and hangs up.)
So I pulled over and wrote down what I prayed was his email and wrote in my iphone on the calendar – Bob radio – 9am.
Well the day was here and I looked in my iphone and saw Bob 9am but couldn’t remember if it was 9am my time or his. So I sent him an email.
Is the interview 9am my time?
Reply from Bob:
I say to myself – okay good. Noon my time.
See what I did there? See why I’m a moron? I did the time thingy the wrong way. Here’s how my brain worked. New York is three hours earlier than here so BAM – noon interview. Hahahahahaha. Wow. No need for an IQ test here people we have a moron!!
So last night for the first time since the 1800’s – I slept like a baby. I woke up to two messages from Bob.
Bob: Hey you were supposed to be on at 9 my time.
He’s panicked. He’s mad. But it’s only 8:14 my time so I’m not sure why he’s so mad. If I got it wrong at it WAS 9 my time then we’re good. No? No – he screamed at me in the phone. “It was 9 am EASTERN!” I still was not registering it at all. No compute. Me No getty. “Can’t we just talk at 9 then in 45 minutes why are you so mad.” “Heidi, the show was over two hours ago.” Me: “Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.” Bob told me once again, that he was doing someone a favor by having me on in the first place and that he sold the time to advertisers and because of me not showing up he was left with a hole to fill. (Not the first time a man has told me that) So I offered to pay Bob. He said it was 750 dollars but he wasn’t going to make me pay that – I could pay what I thought was fair. I wanted to say – what would have been fair was you not insisting on being a man and just replying to my first email with the words – 6AM YOUR TIME. But I said – fine – I’ll send you a check. Then Bob said how about 1500 and you can do two segments. Wow that turned fast. He said – why don’t you think about it and we’ll talk through email again. I hung up. I made coffee. I laughed at what a fucking moron I am. I can’t tell time and I’m 53 years old. Oh well. I think I’ll celebrate my screw up with a shoe purchase. The stores open at 10 am. My time. Everyone’s time.
It seems the rumors of my dead vagina have been greatly exaggerated. It’s still breathing… or in this case – bleeding. After a year long hibernation – the angry beast that lives in my underpants came back to life and started menstruating again. It was just a little spotting at first and then for two months in a row – it was a full on punctuation – the dreaded period. So I did the unthinkable – I went back to the gynecologist.
Now a trip to my gynecologist is like dropping acid and waking up inside a cartoon. You see, she has a little bit of an addiction to frogs and by addiction I mean if she wasn’t the best gynecologist in Los Angeles she would totally be arrested for being completely bat shit bananas. Every single solitary inch of her office and all of the exam rooms are covered in frogs. Frog paintings, frog sculptures, stuffed frogs, blow up frogs, glow in the dark frogs, every single solitary fucking frog that’s ever been made on the face of this earth is in that office and staring at me and my vagina while I’m getting a pap smear. Why couldn’t she have a John Hamm obsession? I’d be fine if he were staring at me in my paper dress. And by the way – can we not fucking update the paper dress? Seriously? Who’s in charge of this? Men?
Anyway, I went to see the doc and she said – well it’s post menopausal bleeding which isn’t good so let me get up there and see whats going on. So in the stirrups we go and she yanks me down to the end of the table and then she does what she always does – she has a full on conversation with me about bull shit while my vagina is in her face. It’s beyond random. “So, how’s everything with you? How’ve you been?” “Uhhhh, super.” The conversation went on for a ridiculous amount of time and all I kept thinking was – god I really should have gotten waxed I mean I know it’s just my gyno but it’s really getting out of hand down there and just when I’m lost in thought trying to distract myself from what’s happening – Bam! – in goes that steel shoe horn and it’s all over but the screaming. I mean – maybe it doesn’t hurt you people but my vagina is like that death road in Bolivia. Sure people want to travel on it but it’s treacherous and few are tough enough to try it and the lack of use has left it a little overgrown so to speak. She told me that she had to get in there and cut something to biopsy and make sure I didn’t have cervical cancer. Perfect. It was really fucking painful. “Are you drilling for something?” I shouted. She laughed. Not funny. It felt like her hand was weed whacking it’s way through my overgrown vagina. Jesus talk about Grey Gardens. Eventually she removed something from what felt like the roof of my mouth, gave me some pills, and sent me on my way. She said to take the pills for a week and it would simulate a D&C. If you don’t know what that is. Congratulations. It’s hideous. She also laughed in my face when I said “I guess I should get some tampons.” “No no no too dry. You need pads.” Perfect. Kill me.
So I went home – took the pills for a week – and nothing. Then – the first morning I woke up with no pills to take – it happened. A blood bath. I gave birth to a four hundred pound blood baby in my favorite pajamas.
It’s been four days now and the bleeding hasn’t slowed down. My doctor said this is normal. I’m ruining all of my brand new period free panties and those giant pads don’t look sexy inside my cute dresses. I hope it ends soon. I’ve already done two tv appearances with a cotton wad shoved between my legs. Not cool. So if you want to make a gal feel better about walking around in a bloody world – please buy her book.
“I JUST WANT TO SHIT.” That was the text from my sister at 9:36pm last night.
Perhaps I should start this from the beginning.
I am a huge Howard Stern. Back in the early nineties I actually went on the Nutrisystem Diet because Howard would have girls in studio once a week to promote the diet. They were live commercials. Jennifer Aniston was a Nutrisystem girl on the show back in the day – before she was “the Jennifer Aniston.” I went on the diet and Bam! – the woman who ran my local place asked me to go on the show and promote the delicious cardboard like food. I did. It is to this day one of the highlights of my life. He was the nicest, smartest, coolest person in the world. So when Howard recently started talking about his love affair with the Squatty Potty – I thought – I must need this – I too – love to talk about poop and in fact – I may be a poop-aholic. The concept of the Squatty Potty is – we as humans need to be pooping the way we did back in cave times – by squatting. Sitting down is apparently bunching up my colon and is not the proper way to eliminate. Now normally I enjoy any excuse to throw good money down the drain or in this case down the toilet but I thought I’d try the idea first. So I put my feet up on a garbage can in my bathroom. It worked! It was a miracle! My poop was now riding the super highway to Flush City!! But still – I didn’t purchase. It seemed like it might be an embarrassing purchase – like a handrail for my tub or a seat for my shower. I told my niece about it while on a trip to Turks and Caicos. We watched the video. It was set to classical music and really made taking a dump seem like a nice elegant thing. Still I didn’t purchase my potty. What if someone saw it when they came to my house? “Why do you have a stool in front of your toilet?” I looked at the Squatty Potty on line – lovingly. It came in an ugly plastic or a beautiful teak. Hmmmm, maybe this would make it seem more elegant. A wood shit helper? It was so pretty. It was calling to me. And then, a miracle happened. I mentioned my Squatty Potty obsession to my friend Becky who said “Oh, I have one of those. A friend gave me one to review for a magazine. It’s the teak one.” What!!!!!!!!!!! The heavens opened and birds sang. I did spend a second wondering if it was used and if that mattered. I mean – she didn’t actually poop ON it. Or did she? Unfortunately I wasn’t home when Becky delivered the squatty potty so she left it in front of my house for all of my neighbors to see. “Oh she has shit issues. Sad.” But I put that thing under my toilet and have been addicted ever since.
I told my sister about it. We watched the romantic evacuation video together. She ordered her Squatty Potty. It came yesterday in the mail. Then came the texts….
First a photo of all the pieces and instructions on how to put it together.
“Ugh, don’t want to have to put my poop shoot together but here I go.”
Two seconds later.
Two seconds later and two more photos.
“Wait, which kind of slant do I want? Options are forward slant toes lower then heels or backward slant heels lower than toes WTF.”
I sent her a picture of mine.
Two seconds later.
“I JUST WANT TO SHIT.”
Two seconds later.
Two seconds later.
“Is it no longer sexy to ask your husband of almost 20 years to put your shitter together? What if he’s watching his favorite TV show and you call him to the bathroom?”
Two seconds later.
“Girls who get Chanel diamond encrusted broaches should not have to assemble any kind of contraption associated with taking a shit. Even if it means putting oneself in the ideal position for defacation.”
Two seconds later another photo showing bolts.
Two seconds later.
“I can make clothes so surely I can figure out what angle my pooper should be.”
Two seconds later.
“I think I’m going toes up.”
Two seconds later.
“Were you timing me? This better drastically improve my movements.”
And then finally – her finished photo and this.
“Assume the position. And now back to your regularly scheduled programming.”
I haven’t heard if she likes it or not. But I mean – who wouldn’t? As for my Squatty Potty – the young man who’s one of the stars of my show used my bathroom the other day and didn’t seem to notice it. Then again – he may be just too embarrassed to ask what it is and thinks I’m so old I need help climbing up to my toilet. I’m not asking. I’m just gonna keep squatty pottying.
DON’T FORGET TO ORDER YOUR COPY OF WELCOME TO HEIDI… IT’S THE SHIT.
Hey folks! Sorry I haven’t written as many blogs as usual but you can now get a whole book full of me! Just got to http://www.amazon.com/Welcome-To-Heidi-Clements/dp/0692216847/ref=sr_1_1?ie=UTF8&qid=1399923839&sr=8-1&keywords=heidi+clements and order your very own copy of Welcome to Heidi. I’ll write more blogs soon…