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All posts for the month June, 2015

Hope Opera

Published June 11, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Being a woman in her fifties is quickly becoming the hardest thing I’ve ever done and I’ve done a lot. It deserves a celebration. It deserves a massive mother f-ing party where I register to get all kinds of cool shit like the cool shit I’ve given you people over the years. Do you know how many monogrammed sheets and baby onesies I’ve bought? You people are why I don’t have that beach home in Malibu. I spent it on a single serve Keurig you just had to have in your new home for two. It doesn’t even make sense!!! Remember that “Sex & The City” episode where the single girl threw herself a party and registered for shoes and everyone had to buy her a pair of Manolo Blahniks? Get out your credit cards people because I’m doing that. I need a celebration and I need one fast. I thought things would get easier as I got older. I thought things would make more sense with age and while I understand more things than I ever did before –I’m considered too old to do anything about it. I missed the train on a whole bunch of stuff and now the train is no longer pulling in to my station – literally and figuratively. Now – everyone, get your fingers off your key pads and don’t send me that message about how I’ve never looked better and age is just a number and shove that dumb thought right back in your little computer because it’s bull shit. Not the part about me never looking better because it’s totally true but the part that follows that sentence and never does. You have never looked better – for a fifty four year old woman – and by the way – no one gives a fuck. Also – it doesn’t matter how great you look because the words coming out of your mouth are still – irrelevant. I may have learned to treat my aging like I don’t care but somebody needs to tell the rest of the world the same thing. Being a woman SHOULD get easier over the years. It’s not like we started out life riding a unicorn through our teen years, or living on a marshmallow cloud through college or riding a wave of chocolate sauce through our first jobs. Being a woman is hard as fuck. I get that no one wanted to listen to what I had to say when I was younger – I wouldn’t have wanted to listen to a drunk girl high on Quaaludes who was lifting her shirt over her head in the bar and screaming “check out my tits” either. But things have changed. I have spent decades gathering really important information. Knowledge – no one wants to hear. My life is a fucking Hope Opera and while I’m getting all dramatic about the stuff I’m going to do – no one is interested in tuning in to the show that is my life and what I’ve learned. At least in my business. They want to hear from young people. They want to know what the twenty somethings are doing. I’ll tell you what they’re doing – nothing that will help you later in life. The best part about getting older for me is that I really know what I want. Achieving it from the people in charge of handing out the good stuff is a whole other Oprah. I read an amazing article called “The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck” – I highly recommend reading it. (( http://markmanson.net/not-giving-a-fuck/#.c8ikw3:ZUu6 )) It talks about the idea that we only have a certain amount of fucks to give as we get older and that we should be more mindful of the fucks we give when we give and I am totally on board with this. The problem for me is not giving a fuck – the problem for me – is HOPE. I am so hopeful now of so many things and that hope is hard to come by at my age and every day a little more hope gets chipped away from me and I’m worried I only have a limited number of that too. I just spent four solid months of hoping something would happen and it didn’t. What if that was my hope for the year? What if I’m tapped out? Not being hopeful is more dangerous than giving a fuck when you shouldn’t and I’m truly concerned because the hope is being sucked out of me faster than fat from a Beverly Hills Housewife. When you’re young and hopeful nobody raises an eyebrow. And when that hope dies – it’s cool – because you will hope again. But when you’re fifty something and hopeful about things – the eyes start rolling. “I’m going to have a house in Malibu one day. (eye roll) I’m going to lose this last ten pounds. (possibly warranted eye roll) I’m going to end homelessness. (deserved eye roll) I’m going to sell this script. (sigh) Plus – you start to really believe that it’s not worth hoping for things because you’ll just be disappointed when it doesn’t happen. Well, losing hope is the quickest way to give up on life. So lets’ all give hope a hug today and hope that I’m wrong about having a limited amount of hope. Shit there goes another.

Are You My People?

Published June 2, 2015 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There is nothing better in life than finding your people. Someone who gets your jokes, likes your cooking, thinks you dress cool, and doesn’t judge you when you eat a sleeve or two of girl scout cookies with perhaps a small ice cream chaser and maybe a chip or two – crinkle cut – salt and pepper – or salt and vinegar in a pinch – yes maybe blue cheese when I’m super high. Sometimes you travel through life with these people and sometimes you meet new ones along the way and add them to your people list. My people list is strong and thankfully it continues to grow. This is due in part to the fact that if you cross me I will cut you off of the people list like cancer and replace you. It’s not that hard. You’re not that awesome. I am. The other great thing about having people is that they will in fact call you on your shit. Again, don’t call me on too much because this too will get you crossed off. But if you can find someone who tells you the truth – most of the truth – not the whole truth because that’s too fucking much – then this is someone to add to your people list. And this is the fine line of friendship – how much to tell. For instance – the other day I found a really long black hair sprouting out of my fucking face and not one fucking person told me the entire day. I was outraged. And then I thought – would I tell my friend if he or she had a giant hair growing from his or her face? Probably not. It’s a hard thing to say. Like telling someone they have bad breath. Or a booger in their nose. You want to, but it’s a tough call. However, if you can find someone willing to take a possible punch to the face for their honesty than this person is a keeper. My neighbor is one of those people. Except for the chin hair he didn’t tell me about. And I adore him. So, to celebrate his honesty I shall tell you a story that was hideously embarrassing to him. Because that’s what we do for people on our list right? If you can laugh “at” you than the world will laugh “with” you. Either that is my excuse or I’m just so fucking tired of him mocking me that now that something hideous has happened to him I want to publically shame him. Yeah it’s the second one.
So the other day my neighbor and his equally lovely and honest roommate came over for dinner. They each arrived in neon yellow shirts. I didn’t know it was eighties night but hey I’m game. Apparently she had chosen to wear one and so he chose to wear one as well so it was only natural that when they arrived I too switched into a neon yellow shirt. Yes I have one. I’m not a savage. I know what you’re thinking – “wild crowd – wow, what you do to have fun is daring – ohmigod what a night – gosh how can I join this group” – and you’d be right. We’re amazing. But I digress. After dinner we decided to go get some froyo – something I don’t get but indulge him with because that’s what friends do. Or I was high. Yeah it’s the second one. On our way there my friend looked up and saw someone he knew – someone he had flirted with and thought about dating but that idea had stalled. This guy had been stringing him along and now was his moment. They were face to face. No awkward texting to decipher. This was big. “Hey what’s going on? What are you up to?” the hot guy yelled to my friend. “Oh nothing, just going to get some froyo!” he yelled back. “Oh, okay, cool” the hot guy said. And that was it and off we went. It was odd and confusing and no one really understood what was happening until my friend took a solid look around at us and said – “I just told a hot guy that I’m going to get froyo with my two retarded girlfriends in matching neon fucking yellow sweatshirts. I wouldn’t call me either.” I wanted to console him but I was too busy pointing and laughing. And that’s what it means to have people. Sometimes they hug you. And sometimes you laugh at them because they didn’t tell you about the hair in your face. We’re even now mother fucker.