All posts for the month June, 2014

Stop Smelling The Sunshine and Watch TV

Published June 22, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There’s a new phrase I’m hearing a lot lately, bandied about in conversations between seemingly normal people who couldn’t possibly be normal after uttering such a hideous, awful, pompous, annoying bullshit thing you can say to another person when that other person is me. “I don’t watch tv.” I’m sorry what? Why? What could possibly be the reason not to view the magic that spews out of an electrical pluggy thing that is capable of entertaining you twenty-four seven – three sixty five? Me no get it. Are you mentally ill? I mean, even that’s not an excuse. They make programs for crazy people. Have you not seen Little Women L.A? It’s midgets who only know other midgets. They dance, they date, they dance – did I say they dance? I’m sorry – I meant little people. I know they used to call it the idiot box but I’m quite certain the idiots are those who are not filled with glee when they stumble upon a Law & Order they haven’t seen before, any Law & Order but who am I kidding – SVU with Chris Meloni is the best unless you happen upon a Benjamin Bratt one and then all bets are off and so are my pants cause I’m in my underwear on the couch faster than you can say – snack time and a marathon. People who don’t watch television are not only missing out on some of life’s most important and historical moments – i.e. when Ramona threw a glass at what’s her name from that canoe and when Momma Joyce got super ghetto and told Todd his mothers a prostitute. If you don’t know what I’m talking about then you see – this is what’s absent from your life. The other problem is that I make a living supplying things for you to view in that box and if people stop watching that then I have to stop watching the Saks Fifth Avenue feed on my computer because I won’t be able to buy another pair of shoes again. You not watching TV equals me not shopping and that’s cutting into my closet and I’m not happy about it. If you don’t think you’re missing something then let me point you in the direction of a very informational commercial I saw last night for Frozen Foods. That’s right – there’s an American Frozen Food Institute out there and they’re worried you’re not eating enough completely tasteless rock hard things that come in a box. First of all I’d like to take a class at the Frozen Food institute because I need to know why my freezer continues to make stalagtites despite my constant defrosting. I’d also like to know why ice cream is easier to scoop the second time you eat it. Who am I kidding – there’s never been a second time of ice cream in my freezer. The commercial from the FFI – was very high end and very convincing. It said that “Freezing is natures pause button.” Hahahahahahahahha. Sorry. Really? What’s it pausing? It’s taste life? The commercial urged me to take a fresh look at frozen because it’s how delicious stays delicious and while I know that cake is how delicious stays delicious I did feel for the people trying to get you people to eat completely hideous tasting blocks of icy yuck. So I am joining the Frozen Food people today and urging you to do something to – come back to television. It’s the brains pause button. And if you tune in to the right show – it’s how couches stay delicious.

Don’t forget to buy my book..

Welcome To Florida, Here’s Your Noodle

Published June 15, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I  haven’t  seen  mine  yet, but apparently all Jews have a contract with God or Jesus or somebody really important that says when you hit 65, you must move to Florida. I have no idea how Florida became the Hebrew Beltway, but it is. Maybe the heat is similar to Israel – but  I’ve never been to the Holy Land. I  don’t  want  to  die   in a grocery store. People tell me every day how beautiful  Israel  is  and  how  I’m  an  idiot  for  not  going  but   I’m  sorry  – I’m  not  jumping  out  of  an  airplane  and  I’m   not going to a country that is in a constant state of war, where crazy people strap bombs to themselves as routinely as I wipe my ass.
What I do know about moving to Florida is that once you get there, time stands still. How else can I explain that   my   parents   still   don’t   have   “call waiting,” and I constantly get a busy signal when I call them? Who are they talking to anyway? They are so busy. My parents have a bigger social calendar than I do. It seems like there is a lot to do at their over 55 Floridian Complex in Delray Beach.    I’m  pretty  excited  for when I move there.
I lost about six hours of my life one day trying to get my parents on Facebook. I could have taught them how to build a rocket ship quicker. If you want to know the true meaning of guilt, yell at your parents. It’s  akin  to  screaming at a nun. I  know  we  didn’t   choose our parents, but seriously, how can you ever get angry at the people who gave you the gift of life? Now, I am as hard and cynical as they get, but I am so grateful just  to  be  breathing.    I  don’t  know  if  the  alternative is cloud dancing and cocktails, so I really truly do relish being here on the ground among the living.
I think my parents are here to remind me to be nice to old people. Oh, and to tell me gossip about the kids I grew up with. According to them, I am the only successful one. The other kids are massive fucktards and can’t  keep  a  job  or  a  woman or a house or a calendar. I hate to be the bearer of bad news to my parents, but I have no kids, no husband, the bank owns my house and quite frankly, my career could end tomorrow. But fiddle dee dee, why let them worry about reality? I have also come to realize that my parents are here to inform me of all  deaths  of  people  I  don’t  remember.  The conversation goes something like this:
Mom:  “Remember  Bobby  Feldersomethingwitz?”   Me:  “No.”   Mom:  “He  was  married  to  Jodie  Blahblahstein?”   Me:  “Sort  of.”  
Mom: “Well, he’s  dead.”     Me:  “Okay.  Thanks?”
My parents are British. My dad is from Leeds, England and my mother from Liverpool. If you think this makes them cool and hip and Beatle-like parents – you are wrong. They are still Jews after all, and that trumps “cool”   every   time.   My   parents   moved   to   America   when   they   first   got   married   back   in   the   ‘50s,   and   for some reason they thought it was a brilliant idea to move from England to Staten Island. This would later prove to be a horrible decision – unless you enjoy living on a landfill surrounded by Mafia – but   I’m   sure   it   seemed   like   a wonderful idea at the time. I hate telling people I was born in Staten Island and in fact, I tell people I was born in France. I believe that the Statue of Liberty – a gift from France that you can see from Staten Island – is our own little Isle de la Cite. It works for me.
The problem with having British parents is that the English are about as different from New Yorkers as you can  get.  They  don’t  emote  the  same  way  and in fact, they don’t   really   emote   at   all.   The British are refined and reserved and keep their feelings in check. This does not fly in America, and this is a really hard way to grow up in a city where all people do is to shout their emotions and stab you in the front with their feelings. The good thing about having British parents is their complete lack of knowledge of American children. I got away with murder as a kid. I started drinking at age 13 – and was smoking pot at about the same age. I dropped mescaline to go to school and tried pretty much every drug before I ever got to college. I even got high with my history teacher. My parents had zero idea. They just thought I sucked at school because I was stupid, which I may very well have been. (Have you ever met a smart 13-year- old?)
Everyone loved my parents. They dressed well and threw fabulous cocktail parties. But they were big believers  in  “Children  should  be  seen  and  not  heard,”  and   sitting around the dinner table in our house was SILENT. There was no shouting or arguing allowed. You would enjoy your Veal Cordon Bleu in silence, and you would eat everything on your plate even if it took until 2 am. I don’t  understand  this  concept  at  all.  If  my  child  wanted  to   only  eat  one  pea  at  dinner  I’d  be  fine  with  that.  She’d  be   thin.

My house was also very, very neat, and there were a few   rooms   we   weren’t   even   allowed   in   unless   we   were   serving guests at a dinner party or performing for them. I once played a song I wrote on the guitar for a bunch of my parents’   party   guests.   It   was   about   a   hooker.   My   mother was not pleased. When we were very small, our parents took us into the dining room to teach us manners. We   spent   the   whole   meal   saying,   “Please   pass   the   salt”   and learning to use our knives and forks correctly. I am super- grateful for this, actually. I find the way some people eat akin to watching monkeys throw their own poo at the zoo.
If   you’d   walked   into   my   childhood   bedroom,   you   would have thought I had just moved in that morning. We were not allowed to hang pictures or have any kind of mess. All I wanted to do was hang posters of Bobby Sherman and David Cassidy, but that was not allowed. It would ruin the paint. I shared a room with my sister Alison, who lived in the upper part of the room that was separated from mine by one step. If I ever stepped on her “part,”   I   would   be   beaten   to   a   pulp.   All   the   dressers   and   closets   were   on   my   “part,”   so   she   had   full   access.   This   was   how   I   learned   the   concept   of   “unfair.”   I   was   the   baby. Everything in my life was unfair. Everything was monitored, even our phone conversations. We had one of those little telephone tables that sat in the hallway between  the  two  upstairs  bedrooms,  and  that’s  where  you   had to have your conversations with your friends. When no one was paying attention, I would try to drag that phone into my room. You could JUST get it inside behind the door and barely shut it – but it was better than being out in the open. You kids with your cell phones today have no idea how hard it was to be attached to a land line—a rotary phone land line. Our phone number started   with   “Gibraltar   8.”   That’s   how   old   I   am.   I   might   as well have been making calls from my covered wagon.
I was not allowed out of the house at all during the week until I went to college, and the first night there I went completely mental and partied like an animal. It has taken me 30 years to reign myself back in. My parents told me nothing about sex. In fact, they told me nothing about everything. I freaked out the first time I got my period. I had no idea what it was. I figured my vagina had died. My mother shoved a tampon at me like I was an idiot. How could I not know these things? This was not the conversation a refined British woman was supposed to be having with some sweaty 13-year-old. Even if that 13-year-old was her kid. I most definitely did not grow up in some real-life version of “Sex and The City.”  Back  in  the  ‘70s, girls  didn’t  talk  about  that  kind of stuff. No one was walking around Susan Wagner High School shouting,  “Hey,  you  bleeding  yet?”  I  miss   the  ‘70s.
I went to visit my parents recently after I was reminded   that   it   had   been   a   while   since   I’d   been   to   Florida – about 10 years. The idea of spending time in my   parents’   condo   was   not   exactly   number   one   on   my   “to-do”   list.   It   was,   however,   number   one   on   my   “to- don’t”  list.  I  booked  my  ticket  and  emailed  my  flight  info   to  my  Dad.  He  wrote  back:  “Can’t  wait  to  see  you.  Even   if  only  for  a  day.”  What? A day? I looked at my itinerary and yes, I had in fact booked a trip for just 24 hours. Oops. I told my folks it was an oversight and rebooked my   flight.   I   figured   I’d   go   for   three   days,   but   I   don’t   know how to tell time and thought that a flight that leaves at 12:05 pm on Wednesday meant that you leave Wednesday night and not five minutes after midnight on Tuesday. Now I was going to Florida for four whole days, and what the hell was I going to do for four whole days? Ohmigod, I should rebook this but then  they’ll  get   upset! Breathe. I broke out in hives.
“I’m   so   happy   you’re   here!”   my   mother   cried   as   she   hugged   me   moments   after   I   landed   in   Florida.   “I   made you a home-cooked meal tonight in honor of your trip.   Brisket   and   chicken   soup!”   I   then informed my mother that I had been a vegan for the past four months and   hadn’t   had   meat   in   about   a   year.   Her   face   fell.   I   ate   the brisket. It was going to be a long four days.
Delray Beach is like a giant summer camp for old people.  My  Mom  and  Dad’s  complex had everything I had back at Camp Indian Head. There was a pool and a clubhouse, and there was a constant variety of things for them to do. My first day there, we stopped at the clubhouse and I met a bunch of ladies playing bridge, Mahjong, and even canasta. I thought all of these games died  years  ago,  and  now  I’m  worried  that  I’m  running  out   of   time   to   learn   them   and   won’t   be   allowed   in   some   of   these  communities  when  it’s  my  time  to  check  in  because   I am Mahjong-illiterate.
The second you start meeting  your  parents’  friends,   you find out what your parents really think about you and lucky for me, my parents seemed to think I was pretty great. In fact, some of the people I was meeting thought I was probably too great to be true and when they met me they kind of rolled their eyes at how much they had been forced  to  hear  about  me:  “Your  mother  can’t  stop  talking   about   you   and   that   show   you   write.   What’s   it   called   again?”  I  thought,  “I  know  you  know  what  it’s  called,  you   smug  old  people.” Every day we  would  go  to  the  pool,  because  that’s   where the action is in a Florida condo development. I could have sat at that pool and listened to people all day long, which is a good thing because old people know how to talk. All the women would gather in the pool with their  noodles.  If  you  don’t  know  what  these  are,  they  are   long Styrofoam things that help you float. Apparently when  you  check  in  to  my  parents’  community,  they  give   you a noodle. (I hope I get to choose my color. I want pink.) I met a woman named Pearl who I instantly fell in love with. She floated out to the pool area like Jackie O. She has short white cropped hair and wore big black round sunglasses. She had on a one-shoulder navy blue swimsuit and was pin thin. I get the feeling people tell Pearl  she’s  too  skinny  and  should  eat  more.    To  me  – she was perfection. She was beyond chic. Pearl walked up to me   and   said,   “I’ve   heard   so   much   about   you,   and   I   just   want you to know that I appreciate celebrities and your mother  doesn’t.    You  should  have  been my child. I want to hear everything you know about the stars. I should have   been   a   star.     Either   that   or   a   princess.”     I   couldn’t   agree more. I thought – “I  want  to  be  Pearl  when  I  grow   up.” Pearl’s  husband  Hank  takes  her  to  the  pool  each  day   to make sure she gets her exercise. It seems Pearl can be a   bit   petulant   when   it   comes   to   doing   things   she   doesn’t   want to do. This made me love her more.
On   my   second   day   in   Delray,   I   met   “Mr.   Turkey Timer.”     This   was   the   nickname   I   gave   to   the   man   who   came to the pool every day and began a ritual that I instantly knew had been years in the making. The pool area  at  my  parents’  place  is  fairly  large.  There  are  plenty   of places to sit without being on top of anyone else, and yet this minute man would always sit right next to me.
He would arrive in shorts, a T-shirt, and those hideous Velcro mandals men wear that should be outlawed. He would spread two towels out on a chair, one for the top half and one for the bottom. He would apply lotion and then get out the kitchen timer, set it, and lie down. Then for the next 20 minutes, the sound of that dammed timer would drive me insane. TicK. TiCK. TICK. I wanted to scream,  “How  about  a  watch?  Has  this  age-old system failed   you   in   some   way,   sir?”   He   once   spoke   the   word   “hello”   to   my   dad.   I   detected   a   slight   accent,   and   my   brain decided it was German and then that brain went off on   an   entire   “Timer=Oven=Jews=Death   Camp”   rant.   What can I say – that’s  how  all  Jews  think. Every time I hear Heidi Klum say anything, the translation in my head is,  “Get  in  the  oven.  Get  in  the  shower.”  I  can’t  even  step   foot   in   Germany.     It’s   a   whole   thing.   Something   must   have   gone   terribly   wrong   in   “Mr.   Turkey   Timer’s”   past   tanning days that led him to this system. It worked for him. I decided to keep my mouth shut and my headphones on.
One day, I overheard this conversation.
Man: “You   know   what   I’m   gonna   do   today?   I’m   gonna go out and get myself some of that – what’s  it   called – that smelly stuff – Faberge? Yeah, Faberge.  I’m   gonna get some of that  Faberge.  I’m  gonna  light  a  Cohiba and  I’m  gonna  pour  myself  some  wodka  (he  actually  said   “wodka”)   and   then   I’m   gonna   smoke   the   cohiba   and   drink   the   wodka   and   then   I’m   gonna   spray   the   place down   so   she   don’t   know   nothing   about   anything.” (He was referring to Febreeze and how he could have a moment of happiness in his home without his wife finding out.) I thought, “Eighty-something, and still hiding things from a spouse? Color me permanently single.”  
The most amazing thing I saw, however, was while driving down the highway to dinner one night. Suddenly there  was  an  electronic  sign  for  a  “Silver  Alert.” I asked my dad what that meant.
Dad:  “Old  people  missing.”    
I laughed for a full five minutes. And dinner itself is a whole thing in Florida. The most popular time to go is about 5:30 which is when NO ONE is hungry and the portions you get are the size of your head. No one can eat the size of the meals they give you, and so everyone gets a doggie bag. This makes the diners extremely happy.     Basically,   if   they   don’t   get   two   meals   out   of   the   one meal – the  place  is  shit  and  they’re  never  going  there   again.
My   parents   are   now   in   their   80’s,   and   I   have   to   say,  I’m  thrilled  with  their  aging  progress – it bodes well for me. They both have their minds completely intact. No one is drooling and mumbling things incoherently – at least not without the aid of vodka. The only real problem is loss of hearing. My Dad wears a hearing aid, which does not stop me from having to scream everything. When you say things like I say on a regular basis, screaming  anything  should  not  be  an  option.  My  Mom’s   hearing is also on a slippery slope to non- existence, but she  refuses  to  wear  a  hearing  aid.  I  get  it.  They’re not at all   sexy.   I’m   terrified   of   losing   my   hearing.   My   Mom   says you basically just hear the sound of your own voice in your head. Uh-oh. I already have that problem, and it led to some severe drinking. At the beginning of my trip I thought,  “How  am  I  going  to  survive  four  days  here?”, and by the end of it, I was thinking, “I’m  so  glad  I  spent  this  time  with  my  parents” – well, that and, “I’ve  got  to   start  a  retirement  fund  immediately.”  
I studied Kabbalah for a couple of years.    It’s  some   4,000-year old-mystical side of Judaism, and they believe in reincarnation and that we actually choose our parents. They say that when we are souls in heaven, we decide which people will raise us in our next lives based on things  we  need  to  learn.  I’m  not  sure  what I needed to learn other than the obvious – Jewish guilt – but  I’m  so   glad I chose my parents. I may not understand why they did what they did when it comes to how they raised me, but I think I turned out okay. When I was young I wished my parents were more  like  my  friends’  parents.    The  girls   were all really close with their Moms and did things together and gossiped about boys and clothes and how to frost-tip   their   hair.   But   as   I’ve   grown,   I’ve   realized   you   can’t  change  people,  and  you  have  to  just  accept them for who they are. So I accept my parents for who they are – the wonderful people who breathed life into me and love me unconditionally. And they accept me for who I am – the loud-mouthed  weirdo  who  can’t  seem  to  find  a  man   and  didn’t  give  them  grand kids. My Mom may not have spent nights braiding my hair and showing me how to scrapbook   and   whispering   to   me   all   of   life’s   secrets,   but   before I left Florida she told me she was glad I was leaving my sneakers in the guest closet so she could look at them and  think  of  me  when  I  wasn’t  there.  It  broke  my   heart.
I’m   not   as   scared   about   getting   old   since   my   visit.   I   may  even  check  in  to  my  parent’s  complex  when  I  hit  60.   I’ll   be   the   spring   chicken   in   the   group.     I   even   have   my   eye on one single old geezer who  was  pretty  sexy.  I’ve  
got   my   fingers   crossed   he   doesn’t   bite   it   before   I   get   there.     Together   we’ll   swim   with   our   noodles   and   he’ll   think   I’m   the   sexiest   young   thing   in   Del   Ray   Beach.   Finally,   I’ll   be   able   to   start   eating   again.       I   can   almost   taste the cake now.

More stories like this can be found inside the pages of Welcome To Heidi.

Don’t Blame The Cake

Published June 10, 2014 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I’m starting to lose my faith in God. I’m starting to believe that there may not be a big smart someone up there guiding me and protecting me because if there were he would have made Chinese food – dietetic. If there were a God – ice cream would not make me feel whole again and french fries would not call out to me saying things like “eat me I’m just a potato how unhealthy can that be?” But he didn’t. God made everything that’s bad for me – delicious and intriguing and all of it available to my naked eye which is a weird expression because if my naked eye sees me naked it’s actually the best food deterent there is. I mean – one morning look in the full length mirror naked and bam! I’m back on a diet faster than you can say – wow I didn’t know you can have arm cellulite. Which by the way is just another cruel joke from the man upstairs. I mean – couldn’t he have spared our arms from the dreaded fat and would it have killed him to give both men and women cellulite and don’t tell me men get it too because one dimple on your thigh does not equal the shit storm of what’s happening on my ass which lowered down to my thighs at forty and is now floating dangerously close to the back of my knees now that I’m in my fifties. Fuck – I’m in my fifties. When did that happen? These days it seems like the second you turn fifty, every month of a woman’s life is equivalent to a dog year which is equivalent to 7 years of a human life. I don’t know if I did the math right but I’m sure it all adds up to the same thing – aging sucks – and the ability to not smother my feelings with pan fried dumplings isn’t helping matters. If slippery shrimp were the gateway to weight loss wouldn’t life be just a little bit better? Why is everything delicious sending me back to the closet in my guest room where the fat pants live? Isn’t this something God could fix if he loved me and yes – I believe that the person who floats above me in the sky is a dude. They’d never give a woman that job. We’re far too emotional to decide who gets to live and die especially if you asked us on one of those days where we think everyone should die which is like Monday through Sunday. I’m sure God is however married to someone he passes all of his decisions through. I mean – the expression “behind every good man…” has to have started somewhere right? If God were a woman wouldn’t we be the ones who get better with age? Wouldn’t men be saddled with sanitary napkins which by the way is an oxymoron and if God were a woman do you think the price of giving birth to a child would be a lifelong case of hemorrhoids? If that’s not the cruelest joke ever I don’t know what is. Didn’t we just shove a giant watermelon out a pea sized hole? Did we just make you a carbon copy of your mouth breathing self in our bellies? Did we not just hand you a small you? Did we really need to get something on our butts that never goes away that makes it impossible to sit on anything other than a rubber donut which is not a good look when you’re running a company. At least after giving birth women have a good reason to finally just say no to anal sex. Nobody needs to see that and quite frankly – that ramp is closed. Mines an exit only. I closed it after the first time a guy said – sorry wrong hole, I made a mistake. Really? No one makes that mistake. That’s a carefully planned attempted entrance. You’re a fucking liar. But the truth of the matter is if God were a woman cake would be zero calories and I know I’m not alone in my love of cake because just last night while enjoying a plate of food I should have just stuck directly to my ass without ingesting because that’s where it will end up – my friend Maria said the smartest thing ever. She said – “never put cake in the refrigerator. If you can’t finish it – it’s your fault. Don’t blame the cake.” I hope the first woman who runs for President uses “don’t blame the cake” as her campaign slogan. She’ll get my vote. And we may not be able to get the job of God but if we could get some tits and a vagina running things in the white house I’m pretty sure I could get some cold sesame noodles that have zero calories and really isn’t that what life is about?

And if you haven’t already – please buy a copy of my book with more fucked up thoughts like this.