I’m Your Dream Girl

Published April 14, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I pulled enough hair out of my shower drain yesterday to make a cat.  If I keep collecting that and what comes out of my hair brushes each day, I think I can save a child in Africa.  I don’t know what organization is turning old woman hair into milk or food but somebody should start doing it because it feels so wasteful to me.  Certainly some brilliant person out there could figure out how to turn my hair into a sweater or a shoe or a schoolbook or something.    I know my hair isn’t regenerating at the rate it comes out so I’m not quite sure how the system is working.  I never really look at the back of my head so it’s possible I’m completely bald back there but I think as soon as we have a breeze in California I’ll be able to figure it out.   If you ever see me in a seventies peasant dress and Teva sandals out and about with my hemp bag for groceries and my dream catcher key chain – please feel free to have me killed.  If I have to decided to stop dying my hair and am sporting it’s naturally grey color – without hair product to stop the Jew frizz –  I will understand if you gun me down in a cross walk.  It will clearly be time.   I don’t understand what age I’m supposed to start doing this but I’ve been seeing it more and more on older women and quite frankly it’s starting to scare me.  If there’s some hippie 70’s fairy out there somewhere handing this shit out – and stealing women’s hair dye – I hope they didn’t get my address.   I think it’s important to always dress the age you feel so I wore a tutu dress to work yesterday  – enough said.

I cried four times at the office last night – and when your office is a stage filled with actors, tons of your friends, and a live audience – it can be a little embarrassing – especially if you’re in a tutu dress.  It was just one year ago that my life was in a very different place.  I had just quit a hideous job and I was terrified of losing my house.  I didn’t know where I was going to work or even what I was going to do.  Cut to last night which was my very  first taping of my very first sitcom episode that will actually hit the airwaves this summer.  Yes, some words I wrote were being performed for a national television show and at the age of 51, I had a totally new life experience that was exhilarating.  That doesn’t happen to people often enough and I highly recommend it.  Though it may be easier if you don’t have to do it in front of cameras, and lights.  (Unless you’re me) If you want to wash away a nightmare – experiencing your absolute dream can do it in a flash and this dream has been a couple of decades in the making.  I’m not quite sure how it happened or who I have to thank – other than my dear friend Dan – but today I believe someone is watching and listening and gently pushing.  I only hope it’s a really long dream – and that I continue to deserve it.

On my way home from the show I stopped to give John the Homeless guy on my corner his daily allowance.  He said “You look pretty tonight” – and I cried for the fifth time.  Today I’m fixing the toilet chain that broke, buying dog food, and getting my roots done.  But now I know – a girl can do more than just dream.

Please Pass The Gas

Published April 10, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

You know you’re getting old when the discussion at the Sunday dinner gathering of friends starts with… “well how gassy?”   There I was quietly enjoying my Easter ham and the discussion of who killed Jesus and how it relates to colored eggs and chocolate (that’s what Jews do) when suddenly the conversation turned to farting.  I was torn between being happy to have comrades in arms and horrified that l let the cat and it’s flatulence problem out of the bag.  My friend Richie said “I keep looking at the bottle of Beano in the store, then remember I live alone and think, nah.”  I was suddenly on a need to know basis how the couples at my table were handling their entry into this ass blowing miasma.   Passing gas was hilarious when you were six but the amount of hot air coming out of you after you turn fifty can be a cause for concern and a reason to live alone which thank god I do because quite frankly – I’d need another wing on my house – with really good ventilation – if someone were to move in.  There is no hiding what emanates from my exit area – it’s loud – and quite frankly – satisfactory.  I feel like I lose a few pounds every time I let the farts fly.  But this is definitely how you kill any sexy – complete with sound effects.  Getting old is starting to get old.

At least I’m not famous and forced to age on camera like Lisa Rinna who has decided to become the newest spokesperson for losing your dignity – also known as – the adult diaper line – Depends.  Yes, the 48 year old actress is hawking their latest product – a diaper so slimming you can wear it under a sexy black dress – because no one wants VDL – Visible Diaper Line – on the red carpet.   Quite frankly the Spanks Depends is a genius idea for any woman who needs to suck it in a little and hates running to the bathroom all the time.  God knows I’m too busy sometimes to get up from the couch and would love to just pee in my panties.  Lisa Rinna is excited about the Depends because they make her “boo-tay” look great.  Yes, she used the word “Boo-tay.”  She even dragged her who did that guy used to be husband Harry Hamlin into the disaster.   It’s amazing what people will do – for money – or as Lisa says – charity – which I believe is Bank of America.

Betty White is proving you are never to old to get ass raped by a network that will ride your bones into the grave and make money from your popularity.  She and a group of other people who probably smell like pee have a new show called “Off Their Rockers” – a kind of punk’d for the geriatric crowd.  Poor bitch isn’t going to get a days rest before she gets to lay down for her final rest.  I wonder if she knows she’s working?  Her “Hot in Cleveland” sitcom is on the same lot as the show I work on and we always joke that we could get her to do a guest spot on our show if we could just steer her towards our stage one day and tell her she’s working with some new actors this week.  Would she be able to tell the difference?  Not too sure.  As for her “Rocker” show – there really is nothing more hilarious than old people making fun of other old people doing stupid things on hidden camera and watching young people build an even bigger disrespect for the aged.  It’s hilarious.  If only they could do a bit on farting – we could film it at my house – no extras needed.

Jenny For Your Thoughts?

Published April 8, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Can’t I enjoy a nice meal in a hideously over decorated French bistro in Sherman Oaks without watching two disgusting people do an oral cavity search at the table directly across from me?   Who do I have to tip to stop that from happening while I’m deboning my fish?  It was bad enough that another man across from us was wearing a shirt with a rhinestone dragon on the back.  I wish I could have been there when he was shopping for this item so I could witness his process first hand… “butterfly – no, turtle – no, dragon – yes!  I’m gonna look so good on bistro night!”  I am constantly amazed at what men choose to wear.  Christian Audigier must have known he was tapping into a side of the male psyche no one else had when he created Ed Hardy – the side that makes ridiculously bad clothing choices.   The spit swappers were so deep into their game of tonsil hockey that they weren’t offended by the shirt – then again – they didn’t seem to notice they were even out in public.  This pair was not just kissing – they were mashing – and I was getting very close to regurgitating my meal.  Thank god I didn’t order the soufflé.  If I had to watch them while waiting for that to come out – I would have called the police.  I don’t mind a little affection in public but I’m pretty sure PDA shouldn’t stand for PENIS DEFINITELY AROUSED.  His was.  Ick.

The bartender at this fine establishment looked like the former comic turned talk show host turned murderer Jenny Jones if Jenny Jones was now eighty which got my friend Brian and I thinking – is Jenny Jones eighty and whatever happened to her anyway?  I googled her at the table only to find that she has a website filled with comedy.  I’m not certain she knows about the comedy part but it’s hilarious.  Jenny writes blogs.   Jenny also makes cooking videos while wearing her hair in pigtails.  I think one of her cats must film these videos.   I think one of her cats may also write her blogs.  The welcome page for JennyJones.Com says it best – “if you’re looking for a brilliant thought provoking blog, this isn’t it.”  Gosh thanks Jenny!  There are clips from her favorite parts of her life including her talk show though I didn’t see any clips about the kid who murdered another kid thanks to her and her brilliant staff.  She left that one out.  Maybe it took up to much memory.  This was Brian’s favorite blog.   It was called “Where Are My Tomatoes.”  I read it out loud at the table.  “I went out to check my apple tree today and guess who was sitting right underneath it?”   Brian blurted out “your career?” Jenny also ran a contest on her site.  She posted a picture of ten pears and asked her “fans” to guess which ones were real.  No I’m not fucking kidding.  The winner got swag from her Jenny Jones Talk Show Days which I’m guessing she keeps in a closet next to her dignity and her mind.   She has pictures of food, and cars, and cats and cats and cats, and Christmas cookies and flowers.  Jenny Jones is having a helluva time on her website.  I hope no one stops her.   For all I know she was the bartender at this bistro last night.  I’ll have to wait to see if she posts a pic of the make out artists on her website.


Rick Santorum – April’s Biggest Fool

Published April 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It is April Fools day and every year I say I wish I was more of a prankster.  I would love to pull a few jokes on people though I’d kill someone if they did anything to me.  I desperately desire to be someone who could just shift my attitude for the day and become a big fat snarky liar.  I would love to answer people’s stupid and random questions with complete abandon.  Q – “Is your dog friendly?”  A – “No I just take her out three times a day for a feeding.  She likes fat kids, like yours.”  Q – “Is that your natural hair color?” A – “No it’s a wig, mine fell out.  I have cancer.” Q- “Are you dating anyone?” A – “Yes, but he won’t be out of prison for another twelve years.”  This last one is true.

I think people who win the lottery are big fat liars.  I didn’t buy a ticket this week for the gazillion dollar drawing that resulted in three lucky people getting 105 million dollars in cash after taxes.  That’s a lot of shoes.  I always wonder what they will do.  I love when they say – the money won’t change me – I’m going to keep working at my sanitation job because I love collecting strange peoples garbage and wearing a scent that I can’t get rid of or I’m going to keep being a construction worker because there is nothing more rewarding than creating something with your hands.  I say – give me your money because it will change me.  I know exactly what I’d do if I won the lottery.

  1. Tell everyone I’ve ever met that was mean to me to go fuck themselves.
  2. Buy every pair of Louboutin shoes ever made.
  3. Buy every Chanel purse ever made.
  4. Buy every piece of clothing ever made.
  5. Buy a separate house just to use as a closet.

I may have a problem.  I would of course also give massive amounts of money to charity – a new charity I would establish – called The Heidi Clements Foundation. Perhaps this is why I’ve never won.  God knows I won’t put it to good use.

If only money could change important things – like racism.  I woke up this morning to see a giant white cross burning out of control on the White House lawn.  It was set aflame by Rick Santorum.  If anyone has watched his recent speech making the rounds on the internet and doesn’t believe that he was about to unleash the N word as easily as I say vagina – then I have some magical Easter Eggs I’d like to sell you that were hand painted by Jesus.  Just watch the speech and tell me that he doesn’t blast that word regularly around his house.  It was so simply about to fall from his lips that you know this is a word he loves and uses and respects and relishes.  That man is a fucking douche.  I hate the N word.  I use a lot of words people dislike on a regular basis.  I still say “that’s so gay.”  I often call people “retards.”  I have even tossed a “kike” or two into my conversations over the years – but to be honest – not that often.  I have never used the N word.  I believe if you do – you should instantly be punched in the face – no matter who you are – black or white.  It’s six letters of pure hate.  Maybe the video is an April fools joke?  Or maybe the joke is on us – and that this kind of person has any kind of traction in 2012.

Go Ahead, Say It.

Published March 24, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“If you don’t have anything nice to say, don’t say anything at all.”  Clearly this ridiculous cliché was written by some douchebag asshole that didn’t want to hear the truth about him or her self.  Who else but a narcissist could come up with this kind of a statement?  Have you ever noticed that the person on the end of this cliché is usually someone who just tore someone else a new asshole or shredded them so badly they’ve been left bloody and bruised?  I’m not saying it’s cool to run up to people and impart your no one asked for it opinion on them and hurt their feelings but I do believe if you want to stop an idiot from sharing their hideousness – you may need to smack them with the honest stick and that stick is often not nice.  Sometimes some people just need to hear the truth.  And sometimes the truth is tied up in a legal document that people have inadvertently signed under duress to get away from a douchebag asshole.  But that’s another chapter in The Book of Moron.   If I followed this cliché I would never be able to write another word.  I wouldn’t be able to say how happy I was that Kim Kardashian got flour bombed by PETA activists.  I couldn’t tell you that the man who killed Trayvon Martin should be buried alive by Skittle flavored bullets and it would be impossible for me to discuss my annoyance at the people who have kept “Whitney” on the air – taking the year of the female comedy writer and shitting all over it before it even made it six months.  We’ll never get back in.  But the biggest thing I would like to write about that I wouldn’t be able to if I only had nice things to say would be – me.  And that’s a fucking problem.  I think it’s important to know your flaws – embrace them and mock them – unless those flaws are – I am a power hungry bitch who has absolutely no feelings for other human beings, fires them willy nilly and only cares about how much money I have and how skinny I am – in which case – you may want to change.  But if that’s not you – then embrace away.

Some people like to make to do lists each day but perhaps we should start each day with a list of not nice things we need to tell ourselves – read them – then fold them up and put them away.  If I did that today – here’s what my list would say:

1)   You are a fat pig because you at 32 pieces of sushi last night.

2)  You need to take a shower.  Spraying yourself with perfume and calling it a French bath is not the same thing.

3)  You really need to stop kissing your dogs on the mouth right after they may have eaten poop.

4)  You need to wash your sheets.  They are disgusting.

5)  If you buy another pair of shoes you will have to sell your house.  By the way – no ones looking at your feet when your grey roots are that big.

6)  You need bigger pants, again.

7)  You really should learn to wash a dish.

8)  You don’t call your mother enough.

9)  You suck at keeping in touch with your sweet little niece and nephew.

Nothing earth shattering here but hey – it’s Saturday.  I’m cutting myself some slack.  I think I’d like to do a little rewrite on that cliché.  How about – If you don’t have anything nice to say – make sure you’re talking to a douchebag asshole who deserves some honesty.  And you know who you are.

Wherever Hugo – There You Are

Published March 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Taco Bell has decided to ensure that Americas morbid obesity rate reaches epic proportions with the invention of the new Dorito Taco Shell.  Yes, you can now get your chicken flavored diced cat and hot sauce someone most definitely spit in or jacked off into – on a nice taco sized Dorito chip.  It’s called the Doritos Locos Tacos – which makes sense because you’d have to be a mental patient to eat a giant orange 9 grams of fat cancer casing for your shredded lettuce and what has never been beef.  I know fast food is cheap and easy but I don’t want a deep fried oompa loompa served through a window to me at any time of day no matter the savings.   I have been known to eat my fair share of fast food especially back in the days when I drank – a lot.  I remember discovering Fatburger when I first moved to Los Angeles.  I can’t tell you the amount of cabs I forced to use that drive up window at 2am so that their car – not mine – would wreak of the hideous mess they shoved inside a bun.   The scent of a fatburger will stay with you for days.  It permeates your clothing and your bowels.  Anything that sticks around for that long after its been eaten – cannot be good for you.  I will still eat an InNOut Burger every now and then but someone deemed this not to be fast food so it’s okay.  Sure you can order a box of patties in a box covered in greasy onions but the fact that you can watch them shove a potato into a machine to dice it up LIVE for your fries means it’s an ACTUAL RESTAURANT.  I’m sure someday we’ll find out it’s a fake potato and that machine leads to nowhere but for now – it’s safe to eat and it’s called the healthy choice.

People have been writing scads of reviews for this new Doritos edition to the Taco Bell family.  It’s as if a review on this kind of food mattered.  These musings about a piece of fried dust are almost as good as the review Marilyn Hagerty from Grand Forks North Dakota wrote about the Olive Garden for her column Eatbeat.  The article went viral thanks to phrases like “the Chicken Alfredo was warm and comforting on a cold day” and “the restaurant is fashioned in Tuscan farmhouse style with a welcoming entryway.”  Marilyn is a goddess.

Have you ever noticed that if it’s not YOUR coffee pot you’re trying to make coffee in your brain is sucked out of your head and you cannot – come hell or high water – figure out how to use it?  I’ve been making coffee in various coffee makers in my home for over thirty years but if you take me out of my home and ask me to make coffee in a pot somewhere else I will instantly prove to you I am a mental midget.  You may even present me with the same coffee maker I’ve had in my past or even one I’m currently using but the second it is removed from my own kitchen and my own counter I will not be able to figure out where anything goes, how much goes in when I do figure it out, and what to do once it goes wrong.   Every time I’ve ever gone to stay at someones house for a weekend or so and I’m up before them in the morning – I’m suddenly terrified to use their coffee maker because I know I will fuck the shit up hard.   I tried to make coffee at work the other day and clogged the entire machine sending grounds everywhere and causing a back up in the filter system that took three people to fix.   I supposed there is comfort in knowing that I will never be able to get a job as a Barista, that the Doritos Taco Shell will eventually go away, and that The Olive Garden does in fact have a nice warm breadstick.    What’s not so comforting?  The millions of people who thought Hugo was the best movie of the year.  But that’s a whole other Oprah.

Seacrest Out

Published March 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I wonder if the people who thought Sarah Palin was the second coming of Christ are now embarrassed.  I’m horrified and I didn’t even like the woman.  I smelled phony the second those floating glasses with no frames hit the stage.  They were as transparent as she was.  I knew the chances of having a smart woman in the political world  who also had really good hair and makeup – were nearly impossible.    You can’t worry about your highlights and be concerned about Iran having a nuclear missile at the same time.  Or in Sarah Palin’s case – you can’t worry about your lipstick and learn how to say Joe Biden instead of O’Biden.  Or learn where Russia is, or what a Supreme Court case is, or what the FED is, or the list is fucking endless.   When it comes to politics – Sarah Palin had the same level of intelligence as her son Trig – yes I just called her retarded – and I happen to think people with down syndrome are beautiful and special.  I just don’t think I’d vote for someone with that handicap to be Vice President.    Thanks to HBO – I’m embarrassed to be an American.  I’m mortified that I live in a country where someone with the intelligence of my French Mastiff Tulip – not that smart – can run for an office that involves making decisions about other peoples lives.   If you didn’t see the movie “GAME CHANGE” and you voted for McCain/Palin then please figure out a way to see it so that you die of embarrassment and never vote Republican again.  Sarah Palin is what YOUR people did to you.  They believed you were stupid enough to vote for a half wit – they believed you were as stupid as Sarah Palin.  I know that in America pretty always wins but wow – that was a close one.  Do I believe everything I watch on HBO?  Yes, and so should you, after all – it’s not t.v.

For everyone who’s ever been concerned that the Kardashian family magic would run out and we’d be left without any reasons to hate money grubbing fat assed dopey Armenian’s with no purpose in life but to take our money well fear no more because Bravo has now given us another group of people to despise – Persians.  “Shahs of Sunset” is a new low even for a reality show bottom feeder like me.   I watched an episode of this last night and I suppose my biggest problem with the show is that it’s mostly about Persian Jews and quite frankly my people – Jews – have enough other people hating us to last a lifetime.  We don’t really need a television show to amp up our level of people despising us.  Is there nothing else to watch on television?  Did we really need whatever block of airtime was available to be filled with another family of fucking shitty people.  This show is also from Executive Producer Ryan Seacrest  – who clearly has no problem shoving shit down our throats.  In fact – I believe Ryan Seacrest is the real problem.   He’s all sweet and American Idol on the outside and all purveyor of disgusting reality shows on the inside.  Ryan Seacrest is becoming the Sarah Palin of Reality TV.  He’s pretty to look at and so we believe that what he has to say means something.  Maybe he’s just the front man and there’s an Oz behind him pulling the crazy levers.  I wonder if he ever gets embarrassed when the credits roll at the end of one of his shows or if he just goes and lays his head down on a bigger pile of money.  I’ll never know – until he makes a reality show about himself, because that’s where the truth lives, on television.

Mad About You

Published March 9, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Kesha – the alleged pop star – has made a new PSA asking people not to club baby seals.  It’s an odd choice the humane society has made picking Kesha to be a spokesperson – since listening to one of her songs is akin to being clubbed like a baby seal.  I’m sure if they did enough research they would even find that hearing one of Kesha’s reported songs is what’s driving people to club a harmless animal in the first place.  And by the way – who’s still clubbing baby seals?  Can’t it just become legal to club these people?  Why are we keeping them around?  There can’t be one single thing anyone on earth can benefit or learn from a baby seal clubber.

This is just one of the difficult questions I find myself pondering after a month of being locked in a writers room with a group of really clever prisoners being fed amazingly great snacks. I find myself reading things on the Internet and saying “when did that happen?”  “How did I miss that?” and I’m not talking about insignificant things like Sandra Fluke being called a whore by a fat bloated untalented pig,  I’m talking about life changing things like missing the Marni sale at H&M and I’m not even sure how I’m going to get over that.  Major fashion shit went down and I was not there for any of it for the first time in forever.  Hearing that there were Marni handbags available is like a cold hard knife to my heart.  I’m afraid to go online and look at the collection because I fear I will fling myself out of my Prius into oncoming traffic.

I’m going to need to launch a few full blown investigations into some other things I seemed to have missed while tip tapping away on what will surely be the greatest sitcom ever of all time ever.  It’s amazing what goes on when you are not connected to your internet and email on a minute by minute basis.  I had no idea that we will change our clocks again this weekend and I was clueless that someone allowed Adam Sandler to make another retarded movie.  Is Nicole Kidman pretending she did not have two children with Tom Cruise and cut off all communication with them?  She seems very interested in her new family with Australian country singer Keith Urban which by the way must be an oxymoron.   Did she just sign her rights away to Conner and Isabella in exchange for not admitting that her marriage to Tom was a sham?  And when is the last time anyone has seen Isabella anyway?  I think she’s in some kind of Hollywood star children witness protection program because she’s the fat less attractive one.  I would like to exchange Dita Von Teese for Isabella.  Less Dita sightings and more Isabella sightings would be enjoyable.  If anyone can tell me why Dita Von Teese is famous I will give them their very own seal killer to club.

If I’m not careful I’m going to miss the new season premiere of Mad Men which I’ve been waiting for since 1962.  I live for Jon Hamm on my television set – especially Jon Hamm as Don Draper. Jon recently called Kim Kardashian and Paris Hilton fucking idiots so he has now been elevated to god status.  The fact that he looks like a hot Fred Flintstone will always keep him in a special place in my heart and underpants.   If this show ever ends I will go into a hideous depression.   I am going to film a PSA today to keep Mad Men on the air forever.  I will offer to club Kesha in exchange for a lifetime supply of cigarettes, martini’s and ad men.

Panty Raid

Published March 6, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t think porn leads to rape.  I think American Apparel ads do.  I passed a billboard the other day for the brand and I’m quite convinced that they should be banned.  I don’t need to see a kid in her bra and panties and knee socks spread eagle on my way to work even if the kid just looks like a kid and is of legal age.  If someone posted pics like these ads on their computer they’d be arrested for child pornography yet we’ve actually given the loony tunes who runs the company – awards for Marketing Excellence.       The other day I saw one with a girl in her underwear legs spread straight shot to her uvula.  I have no idea what they were selling but I guess it was vaginas.  The fearless leader of American Apparel shoots the ads himself using young girls and sometimes store employees.  He’s also been involved in several sexual harassment lawsuits.   Shocking, I know.  I guess if the clothes were at least well made enough to make it through one machine wash it would be okay but the shit is completely disposable and cut for people who have no shape to their bodies at all.  I’m thrilled it’s made in America but I’d feel better about buying the crap if I didn’t get an underlying feeling that all of the women in his ads are locked up in some basement somewhere being fed lollipops through cage doors.   I don’t mean to sound like an old woman but I am an old woman so it’s only natural to sound like one.  Get used to it.

Why can’t the universe just let Jennifer Aniston be happy?   Didn’t she entertain us enough during the Friends years to give her carte blanche for the rest of her life?   I mean – Rachel hair was big.  She styled a nation.  What did Matthew Perry do for us?  Nothing… and yet he still gets cut a break despite being a colossal fuck up – drinking drugging and smashing his car into things.  He just got yet another sitcom pilot.  There must be some kind of rule at the WGA that says someone has to write something for Matthew Perry every year.  Sure Jennifer Aniston doesn’t always make great movies but it’s not like she’s putting out “Jack and Jill.”  She’s button nose cute, seemingly quite nice, and never been in a tabloid for doing something awful like stealing someone else’s husband so I just don’t understand why she can’t have it all.  Can’t we be happy for her new romance and hope that it leads to a child so that people stop calling her barren?  I haven’t seen Wanderlust yet but I watched the trailer and I laughed – out loud – six times – I counted.  Who doesn’t love a good nudist colony romp? I know I’d like to spend a week having the same body she has.  I’d be doing naked yoga in front of my house everyday if I did and I’d invite the press to make sure they got great photos of my downward facing dog upward facing perky ass.  It seems like people love bonding over their hatred of Jennifer and while I don’t see a world where the two of us are sharing a pinkberry salted caramel yogurt cup – I do realize that someone else’s success does not equal my failure.  I’m just saying, let’s all get together and give Jennifer Aniston a chance.  Let’s cut her a break.   There’s room out there for everyone to be happy.  Except the guy who runs American Apparel.  He’s a little too happy.  In the pants.

A Religious Experience

Published March 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have decided that I’m going to have a baby.  Not because I necessarily want a child but because I’ve learned that having a baby allows you to discuss poop at all times and in any place you would like to discuss poop – the more inappropriate the better.  I have a scatological sense of humor so I enjoy discussing doody.  Last night I had dinner with a baby and realized if you have one around – the poop chat flows.  While enjoying a nice piece of sashimi I was informed that August Alykhan Brooks Mitha has a butt that is currently working like a soft serve doody machine.  I found this fascinating and was praying his parents would invite me over to see this or at least post a video of his magical ass in action.  Maybe this is what all babies do – I’m not sure – but I want to find out.  We had dinner in Brentwood with August’s grandparents Don and Leslie Tucker who live in South Carolina or as they describe it – a place where meth labs are hiding around every corner.  I was hoping they were about to tell me they were secretly running one and that Breaking Bad was actually based on their lives.  It could happen.  Having parents from out of town is always fun when they come to California because they are always amazed at how shallow we are and by we I mean the people you see dining out at restaurants in Brentwood.  If you are unfamiliar with Brentwood – it’s where all the white people live – in particular – white Jews.  Quite frankly I’m surprised they don’t ask August’s dad Salim and his naturally blonde wife Becky for their papers on a daily basis.  I love eating out in Los Angeles because you get dinner and a movie when you go to a restaurant and last nights feature was clearly a throwback to the sixties because I think I saw one of Hef’s old bunnies  at the table next to us.  How else can you explain a bustier and a choker on a woman over the age of sixty?

I saw a commercial last night for that religion the stars love.  I’ll call it Math-tology because quite frankly I’m afraid to write out it’s real name.  It’s the first time I’ve ever seen this so called religion advertised.  I’m obsessed with Math-tology.  I want to wear a wire and a camera and sneak in to their celebrity center and see if I can get them to admit that they all believe it’s a total fucking farce and that their leader Tom Cruise is gay.  I don’t think he is but the concept of them hiding a diary where he admitted he blew a guy once is the only explanation I have for why he hasn’t denounced these loony tunes.   Hopefully my house won’t be firebombed later today for writing something about them because quite frankly these are some seriously crazy people.  If you don’t believe me, read the article director Paul Haggis wrote about his experience with Math-tology.  I see their followers at my supermarket all the time.  They are almost all white.  They all have bad acne and they all clearly shop at the same bad store.  I believe it’s called “Androgynous R Us.”  I am well aware the world is made up of many kinds of people and I am thrilled that this is so.  I just get the overwhelming feeling that this particular group of people would like the rest of us to go away.  According to the Math-tology commercial, there are more than ten thousand churches and or missions and that 4.4 million new people become Math-tologists each year.  I wish there were less organized religion in the world.  I wish pooping was a religion and Baby August was our leader.

#Oscar 2012 – Americans Need Not Apply

Published February 27, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Here are my thoughts on the Oscars… as they happened.

Pre Show:

Tim Gunn is very gay.   He needs to take the gay down to 11.   Why is someone asking George Clooney who he’s rooting for?  That’s a stupid fucking question.  Tom Hanks and Jess Cagle look awkward in the winners walk.  This is so precious Gaby Sidebay should be doing it with Tyler Perry directing.  Most used words during pre show “over to you.”   This is clearly the first Oscar show ever produced.   Do they think no one watching has ever seen the Academy Awards or a movie?


Academy Awards:

Morgan Freeman – I smell pomp.  Billy Crystal got fat.  Justin Bieber was genius – four words that prove the apocalypse is near.  I think I’ve seen this open before.  Oh look two men kissing.  Is this “Some Like It Hot?”   Oh good let’s make fun of 9/11.  How many old Jews does it take to write an Oscar monologue?  If you are watching this telecast you have automatically been sent a walker.   This song is ridiculous.  This show is killing in Jewish retirement villages around the world.  Is this just the Jewish telecast?   Carl the seat filler should be named Best Dressed.  Guess I need to see Hugo.  I’m bored already.  J Lo is very shiny.  Shiny and Booby.   She’s Shooby.  Who fucked the hot out of Cameron Diaz.  Guess I need to see The Artist.   Why are all the nominees talking.  There’s too much talking.  I’m bored.   Are they showing all these old movie clips so we remember when good movies were nominated?  I like the movies but I don’t care about any of your dreams.  Money Ball is no Field of Dreams.  I had no idea Sandra Bullock was German.  I thought this was the Jewish telecast?  All the old people in the retirement homes just had Nazi flashbacks.  Now I get the Jesse James thing.  Oh goody more movies I haven’t seen.  Oh goody more borscht belt humor from Billy.  Henny Youngman called –  he wants his jokes where he is.  Nick Nolte looks pissed.   Note to Octavia Spencer – a standing ovation is Hollywood’s way of saying “we’re not racist.”  Shecky Green called – he wants his Catskills act back.  The Oscars just made Christopher Guest jump the shark.  Why is Billy Crystal constantly thanking people.  He didn’t win anything.   Bradley Coopers mustache is unnerving.  I just won a sound editing award for best lowering of the volume during this dullfest.   Guess I need to see Hugo.   Miss Piggy equals shark jump.  Hot naked bendy men – okay I’m back.   If  Robert Downey Jr. ever sees the playback of this he’s going straight back to heroin.   Can we get a microphone for this 4 billion dollar production that works?  Why do they have to cut people off?  Chris Rock is Afro American tonight.  Emma Stone saves the Oscars.  Oh look Ben Stiller is playing a douche – or himself.   There is no way a gay Von Trapp is gonna lose.  Guess I need to see The Beginners.  I wish Siri was hosting the Oscars.   Please make Billy Crystal stop.  Why are there popcorn chicks?  What is happening?  Owen Wilson is a weirdo.  Guess I need to see The Artist.  No idea what that French guy is saying.  Why are there so many French people winning – don’t you Jews know they hate us? I wish I could leave and go home now but I am home.   What is happening with Angelina’s leg?  Is it doing that on it’s own.  Why is she doing that?  I don’t understand what’s happening.  Who is she?   That was weird.  Mila Jovovitch?  When did she get in the  Oscar club?  Have they not seen her movies?  Isn’t she just a foreign Sean Young?   Reese Witherspoon just admitted “Overboard” is her favorite movie so she won’t be showing her face in this town ever again.   “Bridesmaids” saves the Oscars.   More French people winning awards.   Guess I really need to go see The Artist.  Meryl Streep is very classy.  I wonder if Tom Cruise gets bummed out that he’ll never win an Oscar.  Guess I really really need to see The Artist.  Lets all move to France and have an Academy Awards show where only Americans win.  That’s three hours of my life I’ll never get back.

The Hot Dog Man Cometh

Published February 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I missed Jewlicious 8 and I’m mad about it.  I think my mailman is a week behind all the other mailmen in Los Angeles because I got the flyer yesterday telling me to come to the Jewlicious Festival at the Queen Mary in Long Beach that already happened.   There was Challah baking, pickle making, comedy, music and star appearances from famous fellow Jews like Mayim Bialik.   Why a bunch of  Jews want to be trapped on a floating toilet for a weekend is beyond me but I don’t like finding things out after the fact.  I have a lot of errands and important things to do on the weekends but I would have carved out at least a few hours to check out the Jew happenings.  I scanned the website to see if there had been any cute men at the festival but it was hard to tell through the massive amount of facial hair which is clearly mandatory.  It should have been called the “Leave No Beard Behind” festival.  I’m not a fan of facial hair unless it’s an evil goatee.  One of the leaders of the festival seems to be a Rabbi Yonah who even has his own facebook page and pictures of his Mishpocha. (family in Yiddish)   He also has his own website and was named a top ten Jewish Influencer by @jewishtweets.  I don’t even know what the fuck that means but he seems like a cool Jew.  I studied Kaballah for a couple of years which I thought was pretty cool until I started realizing that the majority of Kabballists really didn’t believe non Jews could be Jews even through conversion but that didn’t stop them from taking their promotion of Kaballah or their money – i.e. Madonna, Demi etc. I once spent a Yom Kippur weekend with all of the Los Angeles Kaballists at a hotel in SoCal.  I don’t remember a second of it.  I think I was bored into a coma.  I never would have quit smoking or drinking if it weren’t for those two years so for that I am eternally grateful but at some point organized religion for me becomes just another way for human beings to segregate and I don’t like that one bit.    I remember going to one Shabbat service at the temple and pointing out a hot black man to one of the women.     I had seen him every weekend for months.  She said “Oh you don’t want to date him – he’s not Jewish.”  I stopped going pretty soon after that.

I went to have dinner with a friend last night and on may stopped at a 7 Eleven which is basically a really stupid thing to do after dark if you don’t own a gun.  The second I got out of my car one guy asked me for money and another guy started running across the street screaming to get to me.  He was a huge black man dodging cars and yelling “Can you please buy me a hot dog!”  I had no idea 7 Eleven hot dogs were that tasty.  He was barreling towards me and I quickly ran inside the store because all I could picture were New York homeless people who throw bricks at your heads.  I bought him a hot dog and when I came outside and gave it to him he said “What’s your name?”  I told him and he said “Thank You, my name is Terry.”  He was super happy about the hot dog.  I was super happy he didn’t kill me.  He was way up in my personal space.  I felt badly that I had possibly just handed him a ground up cat or rat in a bun but Terry didn’t seem like the kind of guy who would care.   It definitely wasn’t kosher.  People always tell me they don’t give homeless people money because they are just going to use it to buy drugs or liquor.  This is a ridiculous fucking thought.  Unless you are planning to open a rehab center for homeless people – give someone a dollar and hope they use it for food.  Stop judging people who don’t even have a bed.

Sometimes people only take care of their own kind which seems incredibly un-American to me.  Everyone has a parade and a festival and while I don’t think there is anything wrong with celebrating who you are I don’t think there’s anything right with  insulating yourselves from everyone who isn’t just like you.  Go buy Terry a hot dog.  He’s on Sunset Blvd. near Highland.

The Liquor Pig

Published February 26, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When I get to heaven I hope all the things I lose on a daily basis will be waiting for me in one fluffy white place.  This would mean that my cloud room will contain pens, socks, keys, and my invisalign mouth trays.  Not much of a swank palace but it works for me.  I found one of my 7000 dollar mouth trays in Tulips doggy mouth the other morning.   That’s the same mouth that gets within inches of her own poo and her Auntie Peaches ass.  There really isn’t enough boiling water in all of the land to get that thing back in my mouth.  Not sure if she thinks she has an overbite situation brewing but I didn’t want to tell her it’s not as much fun as it looks.  In fact – if I ever have a sleep over again – the night trays are going to have to be dealt with – because I’m not shoving one of those things in before I get it in – if you know what I mean – and you do know exactly what I mean if you watch Snookie.  She likes to get it in.  A lot.  I’m thinking about building a smoosh room in my house.  It will look exactly like my bedroom but it will only be used for sex.  I think if you have a smoosh room in your house it will cut down on that annoying guessing game you play with your other half – “I wonder if he/she/it wants to do it tonight?”  A smoosh room removes any kind of question and any kind of dignity.   I guess when you’re so drunk you forgot to wear underwear or your brain – it doesn’t really matter what kind of room you end up in at the end of the night.

One of the things that bums me out about no longer being allowed to drink without the fear of being arrested, waking up in a pothole or dying are all the cool things they’ve come up with to get people drunk since I announced I was a liquer pig.  Lower calorie beers have lead to gluten free beers and crazy vodka lemon drinks.  Everything’s infused with something and nothing is just a simple shot of anything.  More vodka’s have been invented in my lifetime than cures for anything which makes sense since everyone’s shitfaced.  Today I passed a billboard that said “Lights, Camera, Absinthe” so I guess now you can purchase booze that contains something that used to be considered a dangerously addictive psychoactive drug.  That pisses me off.  Who wouldn’t want to drink that?  Hey lets get so drunk we have no idea who we are! Absinthe was actually banned in the US in 1915 but I guess it’s back – in a big way.    Back in the late 19th early 20th century Absinthe was the choice cocktail among artists and writers.  Ernest Hemmingway, Toulouse-Lautrec, and Vincent Van Gogh loved the shit and look how good things worked out for them – after they died.  Why anyone would want to add this to their lets get so fucked up I can’t see my hands repertoire is beyond me.  Absinthe seems to be another lame thing to add to Demi Moore’s party bus list.  She can suck up a whippet,  smoke a little salvia and then finish off a bottle of Absinthe.  Why not?  Isn’t that why someone invented rehab?

I haven’t been to rehab but it seems everyone’s doing it or done it or doing it for the fifth and sixth time.  It’s either so much more fun than real life or it doesn’t work at all.   I think I’d rather lock myself in my smoosh room with some pens and draw fake mustaches on the gorilla juice head i just banged while he’s sleeping.  Shit – I just revealed my Saturday night plans.  Busted.


Wrap It Up

Published February 23, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Zac Effron dropped a condom on the red carpet at the premiere of  “The Lorax.”  He was passing his publicist something from his pocket when it fell to the ground.  Zac must be getting some serious twatalupe if he feels the need to have condoms on him at all times including the most inappropriate of times like the premiere of a children’s movie.  Who did he think he was going to meet there?  One of Brad Pitt’s kids?  Hey that Shiloh is looking hot even if she does dress like a boy.  I don’t know what “The Lorax” is about but I don’t think it’s an audience participation movie that involves anything you might need a condom for.  Maybe he wanted to make balloons for the kids in the audience?  Maybe he’s so busy he was going on a date right after the premiere?  Imagine being the girl he was hooking up with that night who today is finding out that he planned to bang her the entire time.  That’s awkward.  Even for a celebrity.   Thankfully it wasn’t a used condom and yes that could happen.  Who does that?  Famous guys who don’t want random chicks they’re banging to steal their spooge and implant it after they leave.  This is Hollywood.  This shit happens.

Back when I was having sex no one wore condoms because there was no disease.  It was also really hard to get to each other’s homes because we lived so far apart and not everyone had a horse and buggy.  Back then girls took the birth control pill which now seems like a really hideous idea and I can’t imagine it didn’t do massive amounts of damage to their systems.  How could it not?  Here take this – it kills all kinds of shit including shit that could lead to you needing a swing set.  I never took the birth control pill because the list of side effects terrified me.  Headache, Dizziness, Nausea, Breakthrough Bleeding, Decreased Libido, and Mood Swings.  What the fuck is Breakthrough Bleeding?  I didn’t want to find out.  Nowadays there’s the Nuvaring which I don’t understand at all.  It’s described as a ring you put in your vagina that prevents pregnancy for up to three weeks.  Apparently it has hormones in it that stops you from producing eggs.  How on earth can this be a good thing?   This has to lead to some sort of retardation and I mean in the woman not the eggs.    I bet if men got pregnant there would be a slew of new approaches that didn’t involve putting crazy shit in your body.  No man would shove some weird circle tubing with chemicals in it inside their scrotums.  Unless of course that tubing gave them unlimited orgasms and then the shoving would be happening at a break neck speed.   I know I’m not the first person to think – how come no one has ever invented the birth control pill for men to take?  The answer to that is – hahahahahahhahahahahahahahahahahhahahahahahaha.   The birth control industry is a multi billion dollar industry which  leads to me to think that maybe the world needs to take a giant pause in the fucking department.  Let’s all stop thinking about sex for two seconds and focus on something else.  If you’re having trouble clearing your brain just visualize scrawny Zac Effron wrapping up his hairless penis in a condom.  That oughta do it.

Bridge To Nowhere

Published February 21, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have a hot dentist.  He is young and sexy, a former Naval Officer and a Jew.  The last two are almost impossible to find together in one person.  Jews don’t enlist – at least not American Jews.  My dentist is the kind of dentist that makes you want to dress up for your appointments.  This is no sweatpants and uggs session – this is a Gucci dress and heels.  There is only one problem with my dentist – he’s a dentist – the single most barbaric job in the entire universe.  Hitler could have learned a thing or two from dentists.  A dentist is someone who enjoys inflicting pain and scraping food barnacles off of teeth.  This is not a sexy job.  Every time I walk in to the office the voice in my head plays the scene from the Dustin Hoffman movie “Marathon Man” – “is it safe – driiiiiiiiiiilllllllll.”  I could just be going in for a teeth cleaning but the cold sweat that occurs the second I hit the fifth floor offices is pavlovian.  I always delay the start of my session by grabbing that giant plastic toothbrush with the bathroom key and pee about sixteen times.  By the way – really?  Can’t we just have a regular key chain.  We’re adults.  We’re not going to lose it.   Must I carry a toothbrush from the movie “Big” with me for added humiliation?  Isn’t it bad enough that I’m going to be drooling all over myself and my paper fucking bib within the hour?    I’d like to see Adrianna Lima in the dentist chair drooling all over herself.  That would make me feel better about me.  If I could rewind a portion of my life it would be the parts where I ignored my teeth and didn’t floss enough.  I would spit out those hard candies I loved cracking with my super hard young teeth.  I would pay attention to my gums.  Sadly – I needed a bridge repaired yesterday – and it was two hours of my life that resembled a scene from the movie “Saw” in fact – it was all five “Saws.”   There was blood,  screaming,  chair gripping, and I believe in the end – tears.  My hot dentist used tools that could have only come from a Conan The Barbarian movie set.  He hammered chipped and pulled with what I can only assume were pliers and he kept shooting me full of novocaine but it didn’t matter – I felt like I could feel everything.   In a course of two hours I was transported from Brentwood to Buchenwald and the charge was 45oo dollars.  That’s why you marry a Jewish dentist ladies.  In fact, is there any other kind?  Maybe my death camp comparison isn’t that far off.  Maybe it’s payback.  Think about it.

Does anyone in the entire world think that the Daily News headline “Chink in the Armor” about Asian basketball player Jeremy Lin isn’t racist?  I’d like to meet them.  They are the most gullible person on the planet and I would like to sell them my dog run and tell them poop is the new oil.   I mean – I throw a racial slur around like a lightweight Frisbee but I don’t run a New York newspaper.  The guy who wrote the headline apologized saying he didn’t realize he was offending anyone and that it was a phrase he has used hundreds of times over the years.  I say – hahahahahhahahahahahahhahahahahahhahahahahahhahaha – you my friend are a massive douchetard.  That is some crazy shit even for a New Yorker.    Sadly, it’s a word I know all too well because back in the sixties that’s what all Jews used to describe Sunday Night dinner… let’s go for Chinks.   I’m not proud.  It’s just a fact.  The whole story is proof that we as a nation are so far apart from where we should be as human beings who support and nurture each other not tear each other down.  America needs our own in house superstructure.   I’m gonna ask my hot dentist to build us a bridge.

Little People, Smelly World

Published February 16, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Last night I came to the heart stopping realization that God really is listening to my prayers because for the first time ever there is a little person on the new season of Survivor.  I love little people.  I would love them more if I could call them midgets but I’m okay with the pc term they enjoy because I enjoy them just that much.  Peter Dinklage is a hero to me and not just because he can act his normal size ass off but because he gets chicks – in fact – he got a wife – a hot full size wife.  I have never met a male little person that had a problem with his height and I lived in New York so I’ve known a lot of little people.  I had one drinking buddy that was a dwarf back in the day and we used to get shit faced together every night at the bar.  I loved him.  He had a girlfriend.  I was single.  I fell off my bar stool.  He did not.  I don’t know if they hand out more confidence to little men when they’re born or it’s the knowledge that you won’t live a long life that drives them to be tough but I know a few regular sized dudes who could learn a thing or two from an under four footer.   Except Verne Troyer.  He took his shit way too far.  There’s a video of him doing stuff to a full size chick and it’s at a 13 on the creepy meter.  I don’t think I could date a little person.  I would feel like a child molester and I couldn’t wear any of my super high shoes.  I’d rather just date a really hot tall kid.  Some people have a real fear of little people.  I say if someone is too short to see my wrinkles – bring him on.

Remember back when dating was popular and you would interview someone over a steak and find out what kind of tricks they could do or weird body talents they had.  Nobody does this anymore.  They just read about them on Facebook or Google them before the date and never end up talking about important things like can you tie a knot in a cherry stem with your tongue or remove your bra at the table without anyone knowing.  Nowadays they just invite them to the South Street Seaport for drinks and get accused of raping them in an apartment before they go back to their now inappropriately named television show Good Day New York.   That chick should be run out of the country.    I never did like dating because it just felt like a hideously long interview but I think I’d rather do that than post a picture of myself on a dating site.  People seem to be really desperate these days and that makes me feel kind of sad.  I posted a picture of my dog Peaches on the website OKCupid and she’s had over 16 responses from what appear to be very old men who think maybe she just has a depilatory situation.

There was a commercial on last night for a new 12 hour fresh breath strip that completely eliminated morning breath.  This to me is not a good idea because morning breath is just one of the old fashioned ways to figure out just how much you care about someone.  If you can handle that and being trapped in the same bathroom when they’re dropping a paint peeling poop – it’s love.  Jeff Probst once told me that the only thing he wished about Survivor was that people at home could smell just how bad the contestants smell after a few days.  He said it’s beyond ripe and the hardest thing he does is keep a straight face when in close proximity to the players.  I love when they fall in love on that show because that’s all I focus on now.  The stench.  That’s love.  I hope the little guy gets a girlfriend this season but they say God doesn’t give you more than you can handle and that may just be too much for me.

Good Vibrations

Published February 15, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I just read that pumpkin seeds increase a woman’s libido.  Unfortunately I read this after I consumed a massive bag of them last night and became convinced that if I left the house to walk the dogs the pumpkin seeds would drive me into a lustful rage and I would hit on anyone who came my way which would not be a good thing on my block because everyone is either married or very hairy.  It does explain a lot about my youth though because I’ve always been a big fan of pumpkin seeds.  I guess if you’re looking for a good time a glass of wine and a pack of seeds is a lot cheaper than oysters.  So much has changed about sex since I first started having it back in the days of merkin’s and cod pieces and I mean just on the technical front.   I keep seeing an ad for Trojan Twisters that quite frankly I’d be afraid to put on my penis if I were a guy.  I don’t even know if it’s a condom or a vibrator but anything with the word twister in the title really should be reserved for something that happens in Kansas not in your pants.   I know lots of women like vibrators – in fact say that they can’t live without them – but if I were a dude I’d hide them from my girlfriend or wife because once you get used to “The Hitachi Magic Wand”, “The G-Swirl”, “The Rabbit Habit” and “The Water Dancer”, there really isn’t much point to having “The Mouth Breather.”  Just sayin’.   I have a vibrator somewhere in my house.  I just can’t remember where I hid it.

Seconds after I turned on the coffee pot this morning I forgot that I turned it on and went back over and flicked the switch again – thereby turning it off – which I of course didn’t realize because the printing on the on/off switch is so small I can’t read it without my glasses on which I don’t have handy first thing in the morning because I can’t remember where I left them when I fell asleep.  I am blind without contacts or glasses and I need reading glasses on top of my contact lenses anyway which is just another thing for me to lose.  I really wish I could see.  People who have lasik always say  “Oh my god I had no idea leaves on trees looked like that?”  What the fuck did you think they looked like?  Toasters?  I will never get lasik surgery because I will be the one person who has a laser on their eyeball when an earthquake hits and all I will hear is the eye doctor say – oops.  No – I’d rather stumble into the end of my bed and knick my shin in the exact same place for the 290th time just this week.    I went to get my eyes checked yesterday and I did find out I’ve been wearing the wrong contact lenses for about  a year so blindness is just around the corner – or cataracts – which are also very sexy.   My dog had those and she fell down the stairs a lot.  She once fell out of the house –  so I have that to look forward to as well.  I went to take my friends Brian and Nick out for dinner the other night and when the bill arrived I realized that I didn’t have my wallet with me.  I remember at some point before leaving the house thinking “don’t forget to grab your wallet” but once again that thought was replaced seconds later with – where’s my lipstick or what purse should I use – or is that dog shit I smell?  I did the panic dance at the table as my face flushed with red.  How embarrassing.  I was truly mortified.  But not so mortified that just three and a half moments after I pulled out of the parking lot I pulled in to the supermarket to grab some things, hit the check out , and oh fuck I don’t have my wallet.  How can I forget something that happened three and a half minutes ago?  What is happening to me?  Do I need to just move to Florida now?  I feel like I should at least get the diapers out of the way.  I lose my slippers on a nightly basis yet they always show up in the same place after I’ve checked there two or three times.  I think I have a slipper fairy.  She has a fantastic memory and terrific eyesight.   I bet she eats pumpkin seeds.

Houston We Have A Problem

Published February 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“I’m at the airport in New York, where are you?”  So said the voice on the other end of my phone that I answered in my bed in Los Angeles.  I had left for the airport the night before on my way to the Hamptons for a long weekend.  At least that’s what I thought.  Somehow I was back in my own bed.  Hmmmmm.  Perhaps there are airport security tapes of what went down at American Airlines that night before but I’m not asking.  The year was 1999 and this was far from the first incident.  Two other memorable moments – arriving at the airport in a limo to pick up two friends visiting for the weekend bleeding profusely from my wrist because I had broken a wine glass in the back seat while getting shit faced on my to the airport and didn’t realize I cut myself.  The blood was pouring out of my hand as I traipsed through baggage claim and hugged my friends.  The look on their faces was pure horror.  Their first stop in Los Angeles was the emergency room where I got ten stitches.  Another fantastic memory is waking up in my apartment to the sound of the LAPD banging on my gate.  I answered the door in my pajamas to find my friend Joey and two cops.  “What the fuck is going on?” I demanded to know.  “I just wanted to make sure you were alive.” said Joey.  “Why wouldn’t I be?”  “Because I left you in front of The Staples Center two hours ago to go get the car to drive us home and you disappeared.”  Hmmmmm.  I was at the Staples Center?  How the fuck did I get home.  Joey never spoke to me again.  And yet after that – I still drank.   It ended in the year 2000.  I would not be where I am today had it not.  I had to quit on my own.  You always do.

Last night Hollywood proved to be the most disgusting place in the entire world.  In fact today, I am ashamed to call Los Angeles home.  It was not a complete shock that Whitney Houston died at the tender age of 48.  She had been an addict for years despite her proclamations that crack is whack.  No one could help Whitney because apparently Whitney didn’t know she needed help.  At 3 o’clock in the afternoon Whitney died in her bathtub at a fancy hotel in Beverly Hills.  At 7 o’clock that night – everyone she’s ever known in the industry that made her a star – partied the night away while she remained in that bathtub a few floors above.  Sure they were sad at first.  Sure they sang tribute songs to Whitney.  Clive Davis – Whitney’s biggest mentor in life – held his annual Grammy eve party at the Beverly Hilton hotel and said “Whitney would have wanted the music to go on.”   I think she would have wanted the music to go on in her life – while alive – not at a party in the hotel where her cold dead body was lying – but maybe that’s just me.  Having people walk a red carpet where camera crews were waiting to interview them makes me feel sick and sad.  Today are the Grammy Awards and Whitney will be honored for the gift she had and the joy she spread through her music.  We will brush her demons under a carpet until Monday when all the entertainment outlets and news organizations will print headlines like the one I used today.   Her life will be rehashed in hideous detail and everyone who knew her will say they tried to help.  That’s the problem with addiction.  There is only one person that can help you – you.  So in honor of Whitney Houston today I write not so much from my usual moronic place – but a place of pure joy that I overcame my demons – well most of them anyway.   I’m still a cynical bitch whose first thought upon hearing about Houston’s death was – thank god I don’t have to cover this.

I’ll Have The Spotted Dick

Published February 11, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Which one do I sign?”  Like the old Jew I’m becoming – this is how most of my evenings out at restaurants end.   I get my credit card back in that plastic booklet with more paper than my accountant files at tax time.    I am forced to play receipt roulette over and over again.  Which one is mine?  Which one is the restaurants?  And what is the meaning of the shorter random third one?  I feel like all the eateries in all of the land have gotten together and said – every time a table of chicks comes in and splits the bill 7 ways – let’s bury them in paper.   I do not enjoy this.  It’s not our fault we like to share.   I am an even bill splitter.  I don’t drink but I don’t care if you do and I pay for it.   If someone at a table starts doing the – “what did you have again?” – and itemizing the bill figuring out which meatball was yours and which salad was mine – they are guaranteed never to be eating out with me again.   Last night the ream of receipts arrived lady style – with the amount of tip figured out for you at the bottom.  You got to pick which percentage you wanted to give and it had calculated how much that percentage was.  One of the choices was 25% and had the waiter not come to our table with his dick out – I would have considered this amount.   Victoria, Julie and I were just trying to enjoy a nice Vegan meal at a local Echo Park restaurant when our hipster waiter with Abe Lincoln sideburns came to the table with his zipper almost all the way open and his penis almost all the way out.  At least – this is what the girls told me.  I did not look because I believe I would have vomited on sight.  The whole place looked like they were holding a casting session for a new show called “I Have Skittles Colored Hair.”  It was like a fucking rainbow in the place on top and a funeral on the bottom with almost everyone in black.  Kind of like a Marilyn Manson convention.  There was also a lot of eyewear because apparently if you eat vegan you have poor vision and must wear Buddy Holly glasses.  I never understand why people who like the same things dress alike.  There are girls who only dress like Betty Paige and boys who only wear biker gear.  I like to keep people guessing with my choices in clothing.  It’s hard enough getting bitch pegged when I open my mouth but at least they can’t decide who I am just from walking into the room.  One thing I truly do not enjoy about Vegan restaurants and health food stores is the smell.  It’s akin to death mixed with mildew or a root cellar that’s gone unattended for a very long time.

People who poop in restaurant bathrooms should be arrested.  The fact that you can’t wait a mere hour to dump at home base is just disgusting and unfair to others.   Offloading while dining out is proof that you are a narcissist.  Unless you are suddenly struck with some hideous form of food poisoning while eating – please refrain from deboweling in my neighborhood bowl.  There is nothing I hate more than walking into a restaurant bathroom right after someone pooped and not even because of the blinding stench but because I know the next person into the bathroom is going to think I’m the one that left the paint peeler in the porcelain.  I wish there was a sign you could turn on the front of the ladies room door that said “It Wasn’t Me.”  In fact, I think that should be printed on the back of a receipt that arrives tableside.  At least then I’d know what one of them is for.

Feeling Saucey

Published February 10, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce ever stops coming in that brown paper wrapping you will know the world is coming to an end and everything you love is over.  Every time I buy a bottle – which is every 16 years – I am thrilled that it is still fairly close to the original packaging. It makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside which is a twofold problem.  1) I don’t really do warm and fuzzy.  2) It’s a condiment and probably shouldn’t make me feel anything.  I love condiments.  In fact – I collect them.  I don’t have salt and pepper shakers from around the world or snow globes from the states I’ve been to but if you need a mustard – I have fifty.  I am in fact a condimentaholic.  My friend Victoria is constantly opening my refrigerator when she comes over to see what nutbag substance I’ve added to my never gonna use it repertoire.  I have some supremely weird shit in there and some of it dates back to other homes I’ve lived in.  I am so attached to my condiments that I pack them up and move them like lalique figurines that are irreplaceable and by the way who’s collecting that shit?  If you have a shelf in your house with expensive glass frogs on it then you have too much money and by the way you’re weird.  I have no room in my fridge for actual food and sometimes I have to play Sophie’s Choice with the pickles.  Straight Dill always loses.  My spice drawer is also a vision of lunacy.  I have three cumins.   Enough said.

Sometimes it’s a little mind boggling to think of all the things that have been invented in my lifetime like computers, cell phones and cars.  I remember my first Motorola flip cell phone.  I thought I was the fucking shit.  It was the size of my head and the battery died at the end of one single phone call.  We carried them around like gunslingers on the streets of NYC.  We’d whip them out at restaurants to look cool.  It looked like we were holding shoes up to our heads.  The microwave did not exist when I was growing up.  You had to do the unthinkable with your food – wait.  The computer was also nowhere in sight during my first job.  I used a typewriter, whiteout and mimeograph paper.   Flat screen televisions were invented in my lifetime and cost ten thousand dollars when they first came out.  My old television was the size of a Buick.  It had a back end bigger than Kim Kardashian.  Other things that have happened since 1960? – ATM machines, CD and DVD players, soft contact lenses, and boob implants.  Okay so there’s one thing we didn’t need.  It’s impossible to imagine living life without these things and I don’t really remember what my life was like before they came to be.  Did I have dirt floors and wear a bonnet?  Did I sleep in one bed with my six brothers?  Did I go to school in a covered wagon while my mother suffered from consumption and laid in the back sweating with a rag to her head while we roamed the country?  By the time I’m 80 describing to people what a Prius is will sound like I come from another planet and every story you tell will sound like “when I was your age we had to walk to school” even though it will be more along the lines of “when I was your age people died from a disease no one wanted to cure because the drug companies made too much money” or “when I was your age 12 year olds were bullied to death because they were different.”  Change is good.  Change should happen in all aspects of life -except my Lea & Perrins.  I pray they never take away that little brown bag.

August Baby It’s You!

Published February 7, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

All Madonna needed was a nice pair of flats and everything would have been okay.  Instead I spent the Superbowl halftime watching my drunk grandma dance at a Bar Mitzfah with all the young kids.  I had to stand in front of my television because I couldn’t sit down and watch the Madonna show – it was just too uncomfortable.  It felt like watching the Hindenburg – exploding before my very eyes –there was nothing I could do to stop it – and parts of it were firey and beautiful.   Madonna was doing the white girls overbite – she was dancing like Betty White.  What happened to my Madonna?  Heels.   I have always loved the material girl.  We used to work out at the same aerobics place back in the day in NYC when she was just starting out and they would actually play her songs in our class and she would sweat it out right along with us.  Much like I think all female comics should hail Joan Rivers – all female singers especially Lady Gaga should hail Madonna for what she has accomplished and how long she has remained relevant in a world that wants to forget you the second they see your vagina getting out of the back of a cab on your way to a Hollywood party.  Madonna is a legend.  Madonna invented reinvention.  Unfortunately the legend needed some sensible shoes Sunday night.  That M.I.A. chick is appropriately named because that’s what she needs to be from now on.  Who flips the bird anymore?  Babies?  It’s so incredibly passé and juvenile.  She probably mooned someone out the back of her limo on her way back to the hotel NBC was paying for.   She definitely doesn’t wear underwear.  I can tell. If she tried out right now for American Idol or America’s Got Talent or The Voice or Holy Shit Who The Fuck Is Watching This Karaoke Contest – she would be thrown off, gonged off or buzzed right off the stage.

I don’t have any talents that would get me on one of those shows.  I can cross one eye at a time but that’s more creepy than contest worthy.  I have an interesting way to cure hiccups but this is more of a medical oddity than a talent.  I wish there were an X Factor show for writers.  I’d write the fuck out of the competition and read the shit out of anyone on that stage and I know Simon would say “Well done Heidi” and Paula would do that weird circle clap that proves her mom and dad were brother and sister and I’m sure I could make that Pussycat Doll cry because apparently everything makes her break down into a pool of tears.   I’m not sure about how L.A. Reid would react because that is one cool cat and he definitely does not suffer fools – especially white fools like me.  He is swank personified.  Only a guy that cool can get away with having a nickname that stands for Los Angeles – perhaps the capitol of uncool.  However  – when L.A. announced that I was the winner of Xfactor –  I would take my five million dollar prize and buy myself a Starbucks so I would always have somewhere to write.

My friend Becky just discovered she has a talent she never knew existed.  She could sustain labor for 347 hours before giving birth to a beautiful baby boy named August.  If ever you needed proof that dreams come true – that proof is Becky Brooks, Salim Mitha and baby August Alykhan.  He is the picture of perfection.  Daddy is ecstatic and Mommy – one of the most beautiful girls in the world – is about to take on the greatest chapter of her life and discover she has another talent she’s been waiting to showcase forever – being a mom.  She will teach him Rock n Roll lyrics of which she knows all, she will recite movie lines to him I thought only boys knew, and she will tell him that when she was younger the old woman they’re watching dancing on the hologram on the wall was the second coming of pop music.  Remember that Lady Gaga.  Respect.


The Elephant In The Room

Published February 5, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I am terrified of Snuggle The Bear.   Every time the creepy little furbot does his creepy little shuffle and starts talking in that baby voice I am reminded of how many times I tried to use that exact same voice to get my way with men.  Snuggle The Bear reminds me that I was once a giant loser asshole.   It’s not a thought that embarrasses me – it just pisses me off.  In fact – there is very little that embarrasses me as I get older – which I’m quite certain means I am about to give up on life.   When you are younger – everything rockets you to a place of insurmountable shame.  The older you get – the less you care.  This is possibly the only good thing that comes with being an older woman.  The sagging flesh, cellulite, gas, grey hairs and mind boggling amount of men who no longer notice your existence would be the bad things.   Last night my girlfriends Suzanne, Karen, and Lisa B tried to embarrass me while at dinner in Glendale.  They lied to the waiter and told him it was my birthday.  He delivered an ice cream sundae with a sparkler bigger than me shoved in it and forced the entire restaurant to sing happy birthday.  This did not phase me in the least.  If I’m already eating at an Armenian restaurant in Glendale that is lit up like the surface of the sun on a Saturday night with four girlfriends than I do not know the meaning of shame.   I was also wearing nude pantyhose.  Further proof I do not get embarrassed.  I have started telling people that nude hose are all the rage and that I am a trendsetter.  So far, I walk alone. Crickets.

I just found out that a friend of mine is pregnant and I almost feel badly because I’ve been telling everybody she looks like Miss Piggy and I don’t want to stop saying it just because she’s with child and no it’s not Jessica Simpson although she too looks like Kermit’s gal pal at this point.  My friend really does resemble this particular muppet however and it has nothing to do with the fact that she’s popping out a carbon copy of herself.  Thankfully she lives in another state so I don’t have to feel embarrassed FOR HER.   I am always stunned at the rate with which ugly people feel the need procreate.  It’s almost as if they don’t know they’re unattractive but don’t they have to know?  Doesn’t the ugly battering start when you’re a kid in school?  Haven’t horrible people been telling them they’re hideous since birth?  Maybe they have children so that together all the uglies will outnumber the pretties one day.  I knew not to have children because they would have gapped teeth, jew hair, and cellulite by the bucket load not to mention low self esteem until they turned forty.  I did not want to unleash that kind of ugly on the world.  I am positive that Hollywood will start putting a cap on ugly.  It can’t be good to have too many of them in this town.  It would taint the city.  This is not a thought that would embarrass a pretty person.  They would gladly wipe out ugly.  They only talk to each other anyway.  Have you ever seen a group of famous people that have one ugly friend?  I think not.

I wish the Republicans running for President felt some form of embarrassment or shame.  Maybe it would shut them the fuck up.  Strapping your dog to the roof of your car, planning to build a community on the moon, or wearing a sweater vest when you’re over the age of ten should turn you red in the face which is weird since that’s the color of their party and party is a weird name to use because it is the exact opposite of what these people plan for America.  I don’t think the elephant is the right symbol for the Republican party and I’d like to offer them another – Snuggle The Bear.  If it walks like an asshole and talks like an asshole…

Not So Pretty Woman

Published February 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If your wife catches you signing in to your Ashley Madison account – she should legally be allowed to blow your cock off.  Over 12.5 million people are signed up for this disgusting website and while I could be horribly wrong I would imagine 12.2 of them are men.  There are no pictures of hot men on the website – just nearly naked fully stupid women.  How do I know they’re stupid?  Because God divides.  The motto of the company is “life is short have an affair.”  Fuck you.   The newest jingle I hear every morning on The Howard Stern Show has lyrics like “I’m an Ashley Madison man doing what I can to save my family.”  I don’t even know if I believe in marriage but I’m going to become the biggest supporter of monogamy if these people don’t shut the fuck up and get off of the airwaves I listen to.  Why can’t we be like French people and just fuck other people while our wives are out buying more Chanel?  Why do Americans have to advertise their failures as human beings?  Ugh.  The founder of the company is a 39 year old dude who sounds suspiciously like one of my people – a Jew.  I’m revoking his card.

It’s not easy being a woman.  We have to deal with things that men don’t want to know about involving body parts they can’t stop thinking about.  Case in point – my niece – who had an incident yesterday you might be reading about in the L.A. Times this morning under the headline “Woman Shot in Boob at Julia Roberts hotel.”   Without going in to too much detail that would further humiliate her – I had sent her to my boob doctor to have a tiny thing checked out yesterday morning.  It was all good.  At 2pm it was not.  Amy was picked up at the famed Beverly Wilshire Hotel – where they shot Pretty Woman and Tom Cruise likes to dine at Wolfgang Pucks Cut restaurant –got into the car to go to an interview with an Oscar nominee – and looked down to see that her DVF dress was suddenly covered in blood.   Unless this was a new trick frock from Diane’s collection – there was a problem.  She is so dedicated to her job that she thought – I’ll just button my blazer and go but when the amount of blood pouring out of your lady parts exceeds a bullet to the brain – you gotta change direction.  Next thing Amy knew “she was sprawled out in the hotel lobby bathroom with her dress hiked up around her boobs and half the hotel staff knowing what her vagina looks like through tights.”  She had to be taken up to her room in a wheel chair to change and finally made it back to the doctor who said – oops must have hit a blood vessel.  I almost murdered all the doctors.  This is not how we do things in Hollywood.  Poor Amy was horrified and is now embarrassed that the hotel staff had to witness a blood bath where celebrities like to have brunch.  I tried to make her feel better and tell her they probably don’t even notice incidents like this at that hotel – after all Jack Nicholson and Warren Beatty used to party there back in the 60’s.  These people have seen some shit go down.   I’m sure if I research it I’ll find out this hotel is where the Donkey Punch, Cleveland steamer, and Dirty Sanchez were all created.  Where do you think all the hookers that don’t tuck their penises hang out in LaLa land.  It’s like this at all of our fancy hotels.  The lobby of the Four Seasons should just let the escorts who work there have free rooms.    If Amy walked out of her room right now and door knocked the people next to her she would for sure find some douche in bed with someone who wasn’t his wife and if she’s lucky before she checks out today I will have a law passed that allows her to shoot that douche in the penis – and then her little catitrophe won’t feel so bloody awful.  For now, she will go back to a place no one will notice if you bleed from your boob – my real home – New York City.

Light, Bright & Tight

Published February 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Thanks to Maroon 5 singer Adam Levine – I have just been self diagnosed with ADHD or Attention Deficit Hyperactivity Disorder or Total Bullshit Made Up Disease.  I saw a PSA starring the hottest and smallest man in rock and roll urging me to take a quiz and find out if I too suffered from ADHD – so I did.  I scored a 15.  Scoring between 12-15 means I am ADHD Possible.  Holy fuck nuggets who knew?  It said I should not take the results as a diagnosis of any sort or a recommendation for treatment but it would be advisable and beneficial if I sought further diagnosis.  Well shut the front door I’m calling my doctor today.  If Adam Levine can score me hyperactivity drugs the way he scores hot vagina – I’m in.  I’m not sure how I feel about this disease.  Maybe it exists – or maybe you need a time out.  I know the brain is a confusing place but it seems like we find new ways to explain what we used to call a tic every day.

“17 year old Lydia Parker is now speaking out about the medical mystery that’s shocking the nation.  Lydia is one of 12 girls from an upstate New York High School who have all suddenly been struck with uncontrollable body movements that have been compared to Tourette’s Syndrome.”  Ruh Roh.  I’m going to go out on a limb now and say that news is definitely not shocking the nation.  Apparently they can’t stop shaking and jerking and it’s making their lives a living hell.  Holy Shizz.  I saw this riveting report on the most mysteriously high rated program – Inside Edition.  The sound was off at first so I thought it was an SNL sketch.  It’s almost impossible sometimes to tell the difference.  How that show is still on the air is proof that America is filled with white trash.     It’s been running non stop for 327 years which is exactly how old Deborah Norville is.  Les Trent broke this story.  He definitely has a picture of that Dorian guy in his closet.  As for these kids flailing around the television screen – a doctor examined them and said there is no way they are faking it but I call bullshit.  This is Faux-rette syndrome.  It’s the same as those nut bag high school whore girls who all wanted to become pregnant at the same time and started banging some homeless dude who thought he hit the jackpot.  I think everyone just wants to be part of a Lifetime Movie.   One doctor believes the girls are suffering from Mass Psychogenic Illness, which is a rare mass hysteria that is psychological and linked to stress and fuck I know what that is and I know the person who gave it to me.  If someone famous starts getting what Lydia has – there will be a telethon and a star packed PSA that will have it’s own theme song.

There’s an old expression you used to hear around news rooms back in the day – “If it bleeds it leads” – meaning the bloodier and more gruesome the story – the higher it goes in the show – most likely the “lead story.”  In Entertainment News we say – it’s “A Block worthy.”   We love when a celebrity is struck with some disorder because it helps in our whole build them up knock them down rebuild them plan.  Kim Kardashian has psoriasis,  Tom Cruise is dyslexic,  Howie Mandell is obsessive compulsive.  Etc. etc. etc.  Quite frankly I think Kim’s skin is just staging a coup and trying to leave her body.   I think when I’m famous I’m going to develop an affliction or more likely an addiction.  I’m going to make sure it’s hideously embarrassing for people to report.   I will get someone equally famous to write me a theme song and together we will make a PSA.  I will call it ABA – or Anal Bleaching Addiction.   I will not go into hiding.  I will take camera crews with me every time I get up on all fours at Pink Cheeks to have bleach poured on my anus.  I’ll be in the first segment of Inside Edition  and all the producers in the office will say Heidi Clements – welcome to the A Block.

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.


Dead Girl Tweeting

Published January 13, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

If you listen very closely right now I’m pretty sure you can hear Justin Halpern the writer behind the twitter phenom and sitcom “Shit My Dad Says” screaming from the anal tearing he has to feel each and every time another douchetard comes up with another way to say Shit My Whatever The Fuck Said.  The first time was probably flattering.  The second time may have seemed cute-ish.  The third time was definitely annoying.  And now as we reach number 7,642 – it’s got to be down right fucking ponderous not to mention a hideous reminder of what was.    Maybe he doesn’t feel this way at all.  Maybe he’s okay with the fact that his brilliant idea got turned into a network version of itself and got cancelled and now he has to listen to all of you verbally rape him daily.  Maybe he has sixteen other dads and so he has sixteen other great ideas and doesn’t mind the constant minute by mind numbing minute reminder that he came up with the whole Shit Being Said thing.  I don’t know.   I’d be pissed says the girl who changed the uber popular Book of Mormon into The Book of Moron.   If I see one more Shit Somebody Said I’m going to take someone out.  I also don’t care what you’re listening to on Spotify all day long.  I can’t hear it.  I don’t want to know it.  You’re slowly driving me insane.  That’s what I’m listening to on Spotify – the sound of my ears bleeding from your spotify status updates about shitty music.  I’m going to start a site called Poopify.  It will update you every time I poop.  You will be thrilled.  You will imitate me and tell me when you pooped.  The interweb will be filled with people updating other people about their poop.  It will be amazing.  It will be craptastic.

I was watching a fantastic t.v. show tape today featuring a truly remarkable psychic medium.  For protection purposes lets call him James Van Capital of The Czech Republic.  He was counseling a woman who’s boyfriend had been killed and he was telling her that the boyfriend was right there with them at that very second.  She was pretty destroyed from his death and this medium was talking so fast I felt like he was battering her with his words.  He was clearly on speed dial with the dead guy and the dead guy would not shut the fuck up.  “He used to play the guitar right?”  Crickets.  “You keep his earrings with you at all times don’t you – in fact you have them with you now.”  Crickets.  Then – “Well I was thinking about bringing them with me but I didn’t. “   “Yes, I knew that. He wants you to know he sees the big furry dog jumping on the bed.”  “Uhm – we didn’t have a dog.”  “Okay – he says the wings tattoo you got is a great representation of what he meant to you.”  “Actually I got a heart tattoo.”  “Really, pull your sleeve up?  Let me see.”  I wanted to call security.  This guy could not get one thing right until he said – “You have a notebook that you write in and you brought it with you and wrote on the plane ride here, and he was with you.”  The control room went silent.   I don’t know how he knew but he knew.  The guy was most definitely there.  Everyone was very excited.  All I could picture was that Twilight Zone episode where William Shatner kept seeing a gremlin on the plane wing and I thought there are dead people we used to know flying around on wings watching us.  I love anything psychic or medium or channeling or any of those people who talk to people who can’t talk to us but I started thinking about how creepy it would be if your dead loved one was just always there watching you.  Maybe it would be comforting.  I’ve been blessed in life not to have lost too many people, yet.  I think if I fell in love with someone and I lost them I would be not be able to be fixed.  That would be a deep kind of broken for me.  Especially since at this point I will have waited fifty one fucking years to find him.  If I left first – I would haunt the fuck out of him.  I would make sure he saw me or felt me every chance I could.  I would log on to his computer at night and fill his Facebook page with status updates that say “Heidi is listening to Tears in Heaven on Spotify.”  I would open a twitter account called Shit My Dead Girlfriend Says and he would smile.

Whore to Door

Published January 12, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I drove behind a Mary Kay Cosmetics car on my way to work today.  I had no idea someone was still doing this for a living but I guess there are a lot of shut-ins in desperate need of lipstick and foundation.  Perhaps if you’re fused to the couch you at least want to be wearing a nice blush.  It wasn’t a pink Cadillac like back in the day, it was a dull grey van, which I found super disappointing because if you’re going to sling nail polish and eye liner out of the back of a trunk – that trunk shouldn’t look like it also holds chloroform and dead kids – it should at least be attached to an atrocious Pepto Bismol colored gas guzzling automobile.  I don’t know that I’d hand my face over to a woman in a plain grey SUV with a logo I could barely read.  There are quite a few Mary Kay’s I don’t want telling me how to apply makeup – Olsen, Latourneau, etc.  The company slogan is “enhancing women’s lives” which it says right on the car .  I believe this may be a bit of an oversell.  I enjoy my Giorgio Armani foundation quite a bit but I don’t think an application has ever enhanced my life.  Maybe I’m using it wrong.  Maybe I need someone from Armani to come show me how to use it.  That would never happen.  I’ve never had one of those in store makeovers because you end up looking like Cruella Deville or Madam and then they pack you up “your bag” of makeup items and you have to sell your kid in exchange for the goods.  You never know how to put it on the same way anyway and if you don’t write it down you won’t remember what product goes where and you’ll end up with eye liner as lip liner and that’s not a good look as my friend Kelley who put hers on in the dark one day by accident can attest to.  I counted my lipsticks this morning.  I have 43.  That’s not counting glosses of which I have 16 or lip liners of which I have 27.  I have been in search of the perfect pink for 36 years.  Maybe I need to switch to Mary Kay.

I love the fact that in this day of getting every thing you need on line there are still companies willing to come to your house to get you hooked on their product. The way this country is going though those Mary Kay ladies will just be selling from their cars to yours but I guess we should always look our best even when our back seat is our bed.  I wish my supermarket would come to my house and use chefs to come to my kitchen and cook a little something for me.  How do you feel about edamame?  Don’t know?  Chef Ralph will be over at three to cook a little thai peanut chicken and see how you feel about it.  In fact, if I could do all my shopping at my house I would be thrilled.  Buying pants from the back of a van would certainly cut down on the sick feeling I get every time I see myself in my underpants in fluorescent lighting.  The only thing worse are the group dressing rooms at Loehmanns and let me tell you I have seen some choices in undergarments that were not only terrifying – they were confusing and possibly life altering.

I feel a little disappointed by Google today.  It’s the standard red blue yellow and green Google.  One of the highlights of my day is seeing what the logo on the search engine will look like.  It seems to be different every day and I think that must be an awesome job if you work for the company – the person who gets to remake the Google.  If you go back and look at some of the designs they’re kind of remarkable.  They’re officially called Google Doodles and the original doodler was a kid named Dennis Hwang who now has an entire team of people who help him create his logos.   I sent Dennis a letter this morning and asked if he and his team could work on Mary Kay’s image.  I haven’t heard back but I’m sure they’re busy creating a look for tomorrow which is National Make Your Dream Come True Day.  It’s also Blame Someone Else Day which is I guess what you do when your dreams don’t come true.  Unless you’re a Mary Kay Cosmetics gal – and then every day is a dream because you’re enhancing someone’s life.

The Salad Tosser

Published January 11, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

In a sign that can only mean the end of the world as we know it – Hostess has filed for bankruptcy.  I may never get to eat a deep fried Twinkie and I’m really mad about it.  The end of individually foil wrapped Ring Dings and Yodels was almost more than I could bear but now there will be no more Ho Ho’s, Zingers, Sno Balls and Ding Dongs – not to mention Fruit Pies?  What is happening to my America?   What kind of life am I supposed to look forward to if I can’t at least envision living in my car while eating a Hostess Cupcake?  My youth is disappearing right before my very eyes not to mention the cancer cells I’ve most definitely derived from these products but I don’t care – I want my fucking Suzy Q!!   I don’t know who to write to about this injustice but there is seriously something wrong with America when the Donette could disappear from store shelves forever.  Apparently the company is 860 billion dollars in debt so whomever hasn’t been paying for their mother fucking Twinkies – start forking over the cash now before I have a completely oil based filling breakdown.  If you have to grow up in this country without the joy of biting into a completely manufactured carcinogenic cake filled with a heart attack than you may not grow up to be any kind of American at all.

Dilemma – this morning at the supermarket a woman said to me “You have gorgeous hair.”  She then launched into a three minute conversation slash argument with herself.  Do I take the compliment?   Crazy people are constantly telling me things – paying me compliments – and I don’t know if they are having one moment of sanity when they look at me or if this is the continuation of their crazy.  Maybe they went nuts from lying to total strangers all the time and I’m actually making them nuttier?   The amount of lunatics inside my supermarket is astounding.  It’s like a mental ward on some days – brightly lit with music playing and people wandering around the aisles muttering to themselves.  I always feel like I’m buying mustard in One Flew Over The Cuckoo’s nest.  I go to the supermarket everyday because I can’t figure out what I want to eat more than one day out and my new job at work is making salads.  Oh how the mighty have fallen.  Actually it’s a job I created because I finally get to cook for someone.  I am the salad master.  I can make a salad appetizing enough to make it your prison meal – the last meal you ever get before they fry your ass.  That’s a good fucking salad.  Every day I march into the kitchen with my giant bowl and knife and cutting board and a bag of ingredients I picked up that day at the supermarket and by 12:30 Lisa G, Theresa, Jeremy and I are feasting on something pretty darn good.  It’s becoming an addiction – a crouton cult if you will.  All we do is talk about what will be the salad lunch and it’s becoming the only thing we talk about.  I’m desperate to up my salad making skills because you can be talented at what you do but if you can feed people you will never lose your job.  It’s like an episode of Survivor in the office every day and I’m the Ozzie hitting the ocean to bring back fresh fish.  I went on the internet at work yesterday to look up new recipes and got succotashed… that’s when you try to watch porn or puppies being killed and the company deems the material to dirty to view at work and a Sylvester the cat cartoon pops up and says Suffering Succotash that site is no good you disgusting piglet who likes to watch a man blow himself at your desk.  All I did was type in fresh green salads which obviously translated into salad tossing which trust me I keep that activity inside my prison cell.

Today in honor of the Hostess Holocaust I will be making a deep fried twinkie salad.  Lunch is at 12:30 if you care to join.  But you gotta toss it yourself.

Politicking Me Off

Published January 8, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

In the biggest DUH statement of 2012 so far – Kristy McNichol has announced she’s gay.  We know Kristy.  We’ve always known.  Buddy likes chicks.  I have zero problem with this – in fact I’m super happy we live in a world where it’s almost okay for Kristy to make this announcement – but it is an election year and if something completely crazy happens and one of these Republican candidates makes his or her way into the Oval office – all bets are off – and all homosexuals will probably be shipped to their own island.  It will be like Survivor with better clothing and really good restaurants.  What I know about politics can fit inside a thimble so I decided to do some research this morning and read about the candidates throwing their hats and mental instability into the Republican ring.   I started with who has already dropped out – just to make sure I understood how nuts they were.  Herman Cain couldn’t keep it in his pants but I can’t count that because I don’t know a powerful man who can -especially one running for or already in office.   However, Herman Cain is a shockingly dopey dude.  He once said “stupid people are ruining the country.”  I guess he thought stupid people should be running the country.  Now he’ll never get his chance.  Oh well.  Bye bye Herman.  Sarah Palin and Michele Bachman both dropped out and the only reason they were in in the first place is because they were pretty.  My favorite thing Bachman did was wish Elvis Presley happy birthday on the anniversary of his death.  She also thinks you can “suffer” from mental retardation which I guess makes sense since it’s something she suffers from.  I almost want to elect her for the fun of it.  She would be awesome to mock on a daily basis.  She makes George Bush look like a human being.  America loves a hot candidate.  We will put sexy in the White House over an actual viable candidate every time.  If Ryan Gosling ran – we’d elect him.  Hot can run a country.  Hot is what makes America a great and powerful leader.  Rick Perry is not hot – he is also extremely dumb.  He doesn’t know the voting age, he thinks we are at war with Iran, he doesn’t know what century the American Revolution was in, and he doesn’t know how many Supreme Court justices we have.  Then again, I don’t think I do either.  I have three things to say about Rick Perry.  1) He’s dumb 2) He’s an idiot 3) I can’t remember the third but it doesn’t matter.  Rick Perry has a degree in animal science – so if we ever elect a president of the animal kingdom… Peaches and Tulip said they’ll vote for him.  Maybe he should have a chat with Mitt Romney who strapped his dog to the roof of his car and said PETA doesn’t like him because his dog likes fresh air.  No Mitt – PETA doesn’t like you because you’re vile.   He’s out.  This Mitt belongs on a baseball field… not the White House Lawn.   Jon Huntsman scares me because he has the handsome factor and he’s adopted children from China and India.  This is dangerous.   Rick Santorum is completely unstable.  He is pro life, anti gay, and actually wanted to legally punish people who didn’t leave New Orleans when hurricane Katrina struck.  He also said he will be awake and ready when an important call comes in to the White House at 3 a.m. because he will already know what’s going on in the world so apparently he’s not just psychotic – he’s psychic.  I hope he sees that the White House is not in his future.  Ron Paul thinks sexual harassment victims are also at fault because they didn’t leave the harassing situation and that AIDS victims should be blamed for forcing innocent citizens to pay for their health care.  He’s a fucking loon.   When asked if he ever actually sees himself in the Oval Office he said no.  Okay so he’s not a total idiot.  Newt Gingrich is a penis.   His sexual deviance may or may not be overlooked but his stupidity can’t.

I’m embarrassed by all of these people.    My parents were democrats so I was basically raised to be one as well.   That seems to be how it works for most people.  I know everyone is unhappy with what Obama has or hasn’t done and he has pretty much been dubbed the pussy President and for once not because of affairs but because of his weakness.  It’s going to be an interesting year.  I still don’t know a dam thing about politics other than my tax situation sucks and everything I own is worth less than I paid for it.  I would like someone to fix that.  I don’t want to hear about your hideous views against homosexuality and I don’t want you to think it’s a good idea for you to decide when I terminate a pregnancy.

One of the greatest minds in the world  – Stephen Hawking – recently announced that there is still one big mystery in the universe that continues to perplex him – Women.    He must never have studied Republicans.

Pop Goes The Rodent

Published January 6, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

There was a large dead black rat next to my drivers side door in the parking lot at Trader Joes yesterday that I saw on my way back from shopping which means – there was a large dead black rat next to my drivers side door when I arrived that I clearly didn’t see and walked right past and probably stepped right over and what if it jumped out of it’s dead state and bit me.  Vomit.   I don’t know how Michael Jackson ever wrote a song to a rat.  I don’t care how cute Ben was.  They are such a level of disgusto that I can’t even think of it now without getting the complete heebie jeebies and hives.  I wanted to immediately toss everything in my bags because I know exactly where dead rat walking must have been before he ended up next to my car  – inside Trader Joes  –  gnawing on my freeze dried mangos and steel cut oatmeal or whatever dumb Trader Joe name those people come up with for some delicious food item that makes me feel dumb when I buy it.  Yes, Trader Joes is another place I feel like an asshole when I have to ask for something.  “I can’t reach the Trader Tater Tots.  Can someone help me?” Nothing is simple.  I had to ask the parking Valet to come get the rat so I could get back in my car but he looked at me as if I asked him to remove a boulder from my roof or my bladder.  He had dopey white gloves on so I don’t know what the big deal is.  Actually, I don’t know why they have a parking lot guy anyway.  All he does is stand there and wave you in to a clearly open spot.  A mental patient and I can do this on our own.    Then again – the guy looked like he had just been rescued from a Thai teenage hooker sweep.  He literally just pointed at the rat and laughed at me so I had to get in through the passenger side door which meant hiking up my pretty dress and hauling my fat ass over the hump in the middle of the seat.  So the opposite of sexy.  What if the guy watching the security video of the parking lot in the back of the store thought I was cute.  What if he was about to ask me on a date just then – it could happen – and this deterred him.  Once I got in the car and locked all the doors and rolled up all the windows, I started to pull out and noticed there was a couple in their car waiting to pull in so I did them a kindness and said “there’s a large dead rat over there.”  They could have fucking cared less.  They wanted their Joe Bananas, or Joe Cakes, or Joe Cigarettes real bad.  They may have wanted the cleverly Mexican themed line of food – Trader Jose.  Nothing says racist like a Trader Jose Taquito.  If you ever walk out of that store paying more than twenty dollars – then you have bought enough groceries for an entire year.  The place is astounding.

I heard a report on the radio the other day that a man was suing the makers of Mountain Dew because he found a dead rat in his soda can.  The Mountain Dew people actually had the nerve to tell the man that it was impossible that he found a dead rat in his can because there is no way a rat body could have remained whole inside a sealed can of their delicious Mountain Dew.  In fact they said, the rat must have crawled in after he opened it because the rat carcass would have been completely dissolved by their soda pop had it been in there since canning.  Holy stomach tearing – anyone who drinks soda after hearing that – clearly wants to die.   Right now that cola you’re sipping on is boring a hole through all of your innerds like you read about.  Try the battery acid.  It’s delicious.  I thank god my parents didn’t let us drink soda.  We were raised on Kool Aid which I’m quite certain was powdered cancer mixed with water but it was a drink I grew out of.  I hear Diet Coke is more addictive than crack and heroine and cigarettes and  louboutin shoe purchasing which leads me to the conclusion that it has to be terrible for you.  All I know is when I drink a soda I could burp the National Anthem in one fell swoop.  That shit is gassy and I know gassy.

The concept of rodents in food is as old as the concept of a rodent up Richard Gere’s ass and both types of stories have the same effect on me.  I don’t really believe it until I see it with my own eyes and while I was horrified by my Trader Rodent – he didn’t look like he had been inside anyone’s coke can or inside anyone’s ass.   So there’s that.

Leave Your Hateful Message After The Beep

Published January 5, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I went to a Plastic Surgery Convention yesterday called Neiman Marcus in Beverly Hills.  I know I’m not supposed to be shopping but there’s a big sale on and I’m a Jew and I’m quite certain I’ll be arrested if I don’t show up or have my “I’m a Proud Hebe” card taken away.  I think the big stores send out some kind of mating call or spray Los Angeles with the scent of corned beef and chopped liver on rye because I was literally drawn there like a magnet.  My friend Lisa had to pick up some clothes she ordered – also known as – things she’ll be hiding from her husband Gary – and Theresa needed some nice dresses – also known as – things we’ll never see because she has to wear them under a giant sweater because our office is a meat locker.  I just took notes.  Well I may have bought something.  Don’t tell Bank of America or either of my two mortgage companies.  Or my husband – who probably died in Vietnam or lives in London.  While waiting downstairs to go inside – an eighty year old woman and her Asian helpmate wandered up – well shuffled up really.  She was done head to toe in what could only be called a sailor look.  Not really a sailors outfit but everything had the mariner theme – down to a little white hat with anchors on it.  She had on all the makeup they have at all of the counters in Neiman’s and nothing was going to stop this woman from getting inside that sale and teaching it a thing or two.  On her way in – another 80 year old was on her way out.  Her hair looked like strawberry cotton candy and she waltzed out like it was Dancing With The Stars and the Valet was her partner.   She stopped and whipped around and said to the other octogenarian “you look marvelous.”   Sailor Sade said “I do?”  Now I don’t know if her cataracts were so thick that she actually has no idea what she is wearing or she has incredibly low self esteem but if it’s the later than that’s it I’m totally done.  If I’m not feeling great about myself by the time I get to be that age – count me the fuck out now.   I really hope that by the time I’m eighty – when someone tells me I look good my response will be “You bet I look marvelous.  In fact , I’m fucking spectacular.”  Women spend our whole lives judging ourselves and worrying about what we look like.  If I can’t at least look forward to the fact that by 80 I will finally have it together and proudly sport elastic pants at the canasta table – then I’ve got to start making some counseling appointments immediately.

I came home to the most hilarious answering machine message I’ve ever heard.  And yes, I still have one.  It was hilarious because it was not left for me and I’m sure the person it was intended for would not have found it the least bit funny.  It was meant for someone named Darren  – who I’m pretty sure is going to be thrilled he didn’t get this call.

“HI DARREN IT’S  (female name withheld).  LISTEN, WE NEED TO HAVE A MEETING.  I UHM, LISTENED TO THE MUSIC AND I’M NOT HAPPY.   (translation: Darren you are a fucking stupid asshole)  YOU NEED TO PLEASE COME OVER HERE.   (translation: I need to tell you in person what a fucking stupid asshole you are)  THE VIBE THAT I GAVE YOU IS DEFINITELY NOT COMING THROUGH AND I’M REALLY CONCERNED.   (translation:  I knew you weren’t fucking listening to me when I told you what I wanted you dumbass douche.)  SO PLEASE CALL ME BACK.  I LOST MY PHONE – WELL I DIDN’T LOSE IT BUT MY PHONE GOT WET AND I DON’T HAVE YOUR OTHER NUMBER.   (translation: My kid dropped my phone in the toilet again and I’m having a nervous breakdown.)  I THOUGHT WE WERE ON THE SAME TRACK AND THEN I HEAR YOUR MUSIC AND NOT – NOT ON THE SAME TRACK AT ALL – UHM PLEASE CALL ME BACK ASAP.    (translation: I may get fired if you don’t fix this.)

She left her number but I didn’t call her back and let her know she reached the wrong moron.  Maybe if she presses pause she’ll rethink that message.  I can’t tell you how many phone calls like this I’ve had over the years and they really do wear on your ability to believe in yourself.  Yes everything is subject to criticism especially creativity, but come on – at least say it in person.  I’m super happy I was able to stop this one from getting to Darren.   I hope I get to meet him one day.  I’ll take him shopping at Neiman Marcus in my best sailor suit and I’ll tell him I think he’s fucking marvelous.

Two Girls. One Barf.

Published January 4, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Is there a Facebook police force out there because I am stalking total strangers and their photographs and I don’t want to get cuffed and carted off because I wasn’t up to snuff on the social etiquette of social media?   I am pointing and clicking and laughing and sighing and judging the fuck out of all of you people out there.  “Why did she wear that sweater – to the beach?” “I can’t believe he thinks it’s okay to kiss his dog like that.” “Doesn’t she know they all think she’s a whore.”  “Why do ugly people have kids?”  I absolutely love looking at photographs of people I don’t know.  I particularly like finding a hot guy on someone else’s page and then tracing it back to his page and then clicking through his photographs only to find out he is not the hot guy in that one shot but the fat guy in all the other shots.  Who puts one great pic of themselves in their profile and then leaves the rest of the crazy fat old no makeup tired ass loony shots up on their page anyway?  Oh wait – me.  I look like a mental patient in a tutu, with a killer dog, in a field, possibly where I just buried one of the men I found on Facebook.  Which is probably true to form anyway.  The second someone friends me – I’m off and running – flipping through the photo albums of their lives and making up crazy stories in my crazy head about what all the photos mean.  I’m glad no one can tell whose photos I’m pouring over – at least I don’t think they can but I do wish there was a way to find out who was reading my shit and what they were doing while they were reading it.  I wish there was some kind of creepy alert that goes off when a nut bag starts virtually drooling over all of your stuff or giving your picture the finger or raising an eyebrow in disgust although right now I am that nut bag.  The first step is admitting it.  The second is staring at the photos. The third is cutting out a mural of heads and pasting them over my bed.  I haven’t done that yet – but it could happen.

I need a new button on the Facebook page – an “I like this but I don’t necessarily care what your friends think” button.  Maybe a thumbs up with a little face on it and tape over its mouth.  I want to comment on people’s pages but I don’t always want the barrage of shit that comes from their friends.  I don’t know them.  What if they start secretly going through my photos when they see my name come up?  What if one of them builds a weird shrine to me with candles under it?  What if they are judging my comment and laughing at me?  Isn’t it amazing that the things I worry about are the same things I do to other people?

I love this social media world we live in but there are two things on you tube I never want to see again – that 2 girls 1 cup video which I still don’t believe is real and that guy who blew his brains out on the highway.   I remember the day I first saw the poop video and every frame still plays in my head and still creates bile in the back of my throat.  If you haven’t seen it – I’m not sure I can recommend it.  Lets just say you need to enjoy the sight of doody coming out of a girls ass like soft serve ice cream into a cup that another girl then eats.  It’s more like P-You Tube but yes,  that’s the internet.  I saw the video years ago and shrieked in disgust but I’ve always been curious what happened to those two girls.  I really want to interview them and find out what they’ve been up to?  Maybe they’ve been making new videos but haven’t posted them.  Two girls one box?  Two girls one pan?  Three girls two cups?  The possibilities are endless and I may never find out – unless of course a friend of a friend of a friend is friends with them on Facebook and then – let the stalking begin.

I Didn’t Ask For The Anal Probe

Published January 2, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Who’s going to the Debbie Allen Dance Academy?  I passed one Saturday night in an area called Baldwin Hills here in Los Angeles.  I guess you could call it the African American Beverly Hills.  The big difference is I’d actually want to live there.  Everyone isn’t white and annoying.  Beverly Hills is the opposite of what I enjoy and it looks like a set for a cheesy movie called Jewtopia or Plasticalifornia.   Unfortunately it’s where all the good shit is.  My favorite shoe store, my favorite salad, my dentist – duh, and my favorite future plastic surgeon are all in Beverly Hills.  But, Baldwin Hills had actual people I had conversations with and I’m not gonna lie – I think I want to take a class with Debbie.  Dancing is the one form of exercise I haven’t tried yet.  I am fully intrigued by Zumba but I know I’ll just be doing the white girls overbite in the corner and be embarrassed.  For all the ranting I do I’m horrifically shy and always think everyone’s watching me make an ass out of myself which I truly hate.   I used to drink to get that accomplished.   For now I just run on my treadmill and listen to uber cheesy pop music.  If anyone ever saw my play list I’d have to lie and say I robbed the ipod from a 12 year old.  That would be less of an embarrassment.  My taste in music is anything I can sing – another cause of embarrassment.  Despite the fact that I was the star of dozens of Camp Indian Head musicals like West Side Story and Dam Yankees – I can’t hold a tune.  That may have something to do with a favorite phrase of my youth – “get mommy a scotch and a cigarette.”

Justin Bieber has 16 million twitter followers.  Ashton Kutcher has about 8 million.  Isn’t this a sign that the world is coming to an end?  It’s already crystal clear to me that we are a dumber nation.  My friend Chris says just stop anyone on the street and ask them to name two Kardashians which they will within ten seconds.  Then ask them to name the Vice President and his wife and watch them put on their big “duh” face.  Now I’m not going to lie, if you go deeper than that on a governmental level with me like supreme court justices or state senators I too will show you just what kind of a moron I am but I at least know we have a Supreme Court.  Most Kim Kardashian  followers can’t even tell you how many states there are.  I follow all of these people on twitter because I keep hope alive that they will one day say something earth shattering and amazingly smart.   What a moron.   I am starting to worry that the sound of their idiocy is going to drown out the rest of us.  I’m sure there are other life forms in outer space pointing their long silvery fingers and laughing at us.  Perhaps one day we’ll find out that Kim and Justin are alien life forms put here to suck the brains out of our heads.  It’s working.    I’m not sure if I’m convinced there are such things as aliens.  I kind of want to believe it but I definitely don’t want to be one of those people they swoop up every year and give an anal probe.  Unless they drop in and tell me how to turn cupcakes into a weight loss product I’m not all that interested in meeting them.

The neighbors pool filter has now been whirring like a jet engine for two months and I’m pretty sure it’s talking to me like David Berkowitz’s dogs did back in that Summer of 1977 and I may become the Son Of Peaches killer.   I can hear it in my bed when I’m trying to sleep and out on the street when I’m getting into my car and I’m slowly being driven insane and I keep thinking I’m gonna drive up there and give those people a piece of my mind but then I never do.  I watch far too many horror movies to go into anyone’s house I don’t know.  I’ll end up hog tied to a bed while someone with a chainsaw and a skin dress dances in the dark corner telling me I’m going to die while playing Never Say Never over and over again.

Nailed It

Published January 1, 2012 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I think I’m slowly being poisoned to death by the UV light at the nail salon.  Am I risking my life to have nails that last two weeks without chipping?  It’s bad enough that I always feel like I’m in that Seinfeld episode when I get a manicure.  I know they’re talking about me and I don’t know what they’re saying.  I want to bring a translator with me so badly but I’m sure I’ll just find out that they’re saying – “Can’t we just have pizza for lunch?”   One time I knew exactly what they were all cackling about because the girl I got – got new boobs – and every fifteen seconds she had to go in the back to show them to everyone.  It was torturous.  I already hate sitting there for an hour – and this particular manicure lasted a lifetime.  I always get the girl who has to answer the phone so she gets up every fifteen seconds.  It’s always a different girl and she’s always the phone girl.  Maybe that’s what they’re saying when I walk in.  “You take her and get the phone if it rings.”  I finally switched nail salons after ten years when I kept getting the old woman my friend Brian calls The Butcher.  I always walked out of there covered in bloody nicks.  My friend Robin took me to her place called Pampered Hands which is amazing.  It’s like a Manicure factory or Nail Mall with hundreds of colors to choose from but it’s too far from my house and everyone knows you have to have a local nail salon and a “girl.”  These new Gel Manicures haven’t been around for very long so it’s difficult to know what will happen ten years from now after bimonthly trips to the salon where I shove my hands into what could possibly be a death trap.  I would look it up on the internet to see what happens from too much UV exposure but I’m sure it will lead to something that will terrify me like anal leakage or a necessary decapitation.  Going to the internet to find out what’s wrong with you is a guaranteed way to totally freak you the fuck out.   I saw a man at the nail salon yesterday who was way more woman than I’ll ever be – maybe she’s been getting gel manicures for years and that’s what happens?  The bottom line is I’d probably keep having it done because the invention of something that stays on my nails perfectly for two full weeks is so brilliant I have to have it done.  Ask any woman what happens the minute she has to go somewhere and she’ll say – Ugh I have to get my nails done.  You never have to get your nails done when you do this process so it has to be something that will kill me in a hideous disfiguring way.

It’s only the first day of 2012 and I already have a million questions.  Who is Jeremy Kyle and how did he get a talk show and where was I when he got one and did all the promotional ads that I have seen none of?  I found this show yesterday and it’s some dude with an Australian accent bashing black people for having too many babies.  Granted that was just one episode but everyone knows that if you have a daytime talk show and you want it to work in the ratings it will become Who the Baby Daddy in six weeks or less.  I don’t care how smart you thought the show was going to be – that’s what the audience available at that time wants to see.  It only took Anderson Cooper about six weeks before he had some midgets on.  Katie Couric will be doing live paternity tests within two months.  It’s just the way it is.

When did DJ’s who spin records become rock stars?  I saw a concert the other night and it was a DJ named Deadmau5 – pronounced Dead Mouse – who wears a giant mouse head and stands on a stage and spins records.  He’s a gazillionaire.  People were going insane standing in the audience cheering and dancing.  Apparently he’s been nominated for quite a few Grammy’s.  What happened to the days of watching an actual group or band?  Is that done now?  Am I that old that now kids are willing to just watch someone spin records?  Fuck I’ll get my turntable out of the garage and start mashing my Hall & Oates with my Chicago albums – throw in a little Neil Young and maybe I can make a mint too.  I bet if I could train Tulip and Peaches to spin I’d be richer than my wildest dreams.  I’ll have to doll them up first.  Some gold chains… Cat heads… and definitely polished nails… just not Gel… they’d never sit under that UV light and they can definitely tell when people are talking about them.


I’m Classy You Fuckball

Published December 31, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I wore a skirt to work with fishnet stockings yesterday and every time I got up it felt like my butt was showing.  It’s like that moment when you leave the ladies room and you feel a woosh of wind on your butt because you tucked your skirt into your tights by accident.  Maybe it was the air whipping through the netting or maybe the skirt was too short but it was awkward the entire day because I kept reaching around and touching my own ass to see if it was covered because the last thing anyone needs to see as their last image on their way out of 2011 is my year of eating dangerously ass.  Maybe it was a sign from above telling me I’m too old to be wearing the outfit I chose but I can’t help myself if I don’t feel my age.  I clearly don’t act my age as referenced yesterday when I told a new Facebook friend he may not want to read my blog for fear he’d learn things about me that may make him feel awkward at work when he has to face me every day.  It can be uncomfortable when you know that they know you asked Santa for a new vagina or that you once ate food out of your garbage can or that you’ve peed in your sleep or any of the other too much information moronic like things I’ve revealed when I vomited words into my screen.  It is because of these thoughts that I warned this new friend to read at his own risk.  He said – “Why because you’re worried you’ll be knocked off that classy pedestal I put you on.”  Now if I weren’t a grown woman I would have burst into tears at that and while he claims he didn’t mean it the way I took it – it was a knife to the heart and it really made me think because this is something I’ve been told my entire life by people who don’t fully know me.  If you are a potty mouth tell it like it is woman – you are not considered classy or charming or any of the other things any woman – even a woman like me – loves to be.  I can’t tell you the amount of times I’ve been asked what charm school I went to followed by a giant guffaw.  People love to tell me that I’m hard on the outside but they know I’m a giant softie on the inside thirteen seconds after they’ve met me.  Actually if you get to know me you’ll see I’m a softie on the outside as well.  Telling the truth, having no filter, and or cursing – does not remove my charming button.  Peeing in the street does.  And I haven’t done that since college.  I may want to wait fifteen minutes before I drop an F bomb or talk about nipple hair on people in 2012 and while it’s impossible to change the way I enter a life – I’d like to enter in a less car wreck kind of a way.  I’m just one of those people you really need to know before you know… ya know?  Maybe I’ve been given this personality to prove to me that I myself judge people way too quickly.  If that’s the case – gotcha, I hear ya, I’m in, check the done column, I’m going to press pause on what I really think about your personality for at least 20 minutes – fifteen tops – actually better say ten I’m kind of impatient.

I had dinner with my friend Chris last night who asked me what I was doing for New Years Eve and I said “sitting on the couch watching War Horse on dvd” and he said “I hear it’s slow, sad and epic” which is weird because that’s exactly what my year has been minus the horse and Steven Spielberg.  I’m still waiting for him to show up at my house and buy something I’ve written – Speilberg not the horse.  The horse is busy over at “Two Broke Girls.”   I won’t be making any real New Years resolutions but I will be thinking about who I am and where I want to go next and yes – how others perceive me.  An acquaintance of mine has a website that tells women what men really think and while I spend an hour a day staring at his website and thinking about how many ways I can say fuck you who gives a fuck what men think of me and stop telling women whats wrong with them douche knuckle  – I guess I do care how I’m perceived – so I’ll be signing up for Charm School first thing Monday morning.

Pluck You!

Published December 30, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

36% of all women polled told Allure magazine that they would give up sex for a month in exchange for not having facial hair.  60% of women “I” polled said they would do the same for a pair of Louboutin shoes.  75% said they’d give up sex for a month for a Chanel handbag and 100% said they’d give it up for a year for an unlimited shopping spree at Barney’s or Bergdorf Goodmans.  They did however want to keep their toys.  0% were willing to give those up no matter how good the goods were.  Now my independent poll may not be as scientific as Allure magazine but who the fuck asks women if they’d give up sex not to have facial hair anyway?  Who’s reading Allure magazine that made the editors think this was a common poll question?  The Kardashians?  I mean – are we talking the stray mole hair or are we talking beard and mustache because I may have a lot of issues but thank god that is not one of them and trust me I’d admit it if I had it.   There is only one kind of hair women do not want to talk about – ever – nipple hair.  I have had many conversations with many women about many subjects some of them far too disgusting to repeat and not once did anyone ever bring up nipple hair and I know for a fact everyone has had to deal with one or two in their lifetime.  There is nothing more horrifying than a nipple hair.  Gag now.  I get it.  I’m not admitting to having any myself but I know a girl who knows a girl who told her about a girl that once knew another girl that had one or two hairs tops – but just once.  The last thing you want to do on a sexy night out with a guy for the first time is unstrap your bra and unleash your boob beard.  Hideous.   Embarrassing.  Most definitely not leading to a second date and men will pretty much put up with anything for sex – but not a follicle filled fun bag.

Last night  I went for my appointment with Chaz Dean and I really should have brought some pajamas and a pillow because this was not a hair appointment it was a hair marathon and let’s just say in hour four I thought – gosh I could really use a cookie right now and a gun. This man does not fuck around.  I even let him cut off my hair security blanket  – those dear old dead fried ends that I’ve been holding on to since the first war.  The experience was amazing and my hair is healthy and the staff is spectacular but I just have one little question – if we can put a man on the moon why can’t we make a hair wash sink that doesn’t break my neck and possibly leave me a paraplegic with incredibly shiny hair?  I don’t understand how we haven’t fixed this sink situation.  It’s like being tortured and water boarded in an extremely nice spa complete with scented backdrop while listening to Enya.  The struggles we women go through with hair and dieting and trying to filter our catty comments that pop into our heads twenty four seven all to make ourselves more presentable is quite ridiculous although my male friend Carlo has now put himself on a major diet after splitting his pants wide open at a bar called GYM.  Can you say irony?   Yes men suffer too.  As for me – at least I know I’m doing these things for myself and not for the three people I currently have a crush on.  And by crush I mean – I don’t speak to them and they don’t speak to me and that is why I find them attractive – for now.  Thankfully only one of them reads my blog and if the other two ever find it – it will pretty much solidify my solitude.  The farting in cars, shitting in bags, and other assorted details of my sordid life really aren’t going to do much in the romance department.  I don’t care how many glossy finishes Chaz Dean puts on my hair.  Once the nipple hair comes out – it’s all over but the crying.

Noah’s Arc de Triumph

Published December 29, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

My entire life needs to be portion controlled.  Everything is done to excess.  I need to have all the food taken out of the refrigerator and the pantry.  I need all the credit cards taken away.  I need my iTunes account shut down immediately before I buy Season everything of everything.  It’s always been all or nothing for me.  Especially when it comes to shopping.  Credit card to me equals free.  If the cash doesn’t immediately come out of my wallet or off of my debit card – I look at it as a free item.    Being able to just point and click on my computer is becoming more than a bit of an issue and makes me so giddy I’m starting to worry about myself.  The fact that I can lie in my bed – delete season three of “The Wire” and immediately purchase and download season four makes me happy to be alive.  I feel badly for other people my age who don’t embrace technology.  Technology put a new skirt in my closet in less than 48 hours.  We will soon be able to point our remotes at Lady Gaga’s meat dress on television and order it from Saks Fifth Avenue with the click of a button.  This is something to embrace, and then cook and eat.

I just noticed that Facebook is reconnoitering the ads on my wall again.  Lately they’ve switched to old people promotions.  I think it happened when I turned fifty one or when I was too busy posting something important like “just ate a sandwich, now off to a nap.”  There are the usual ads for things no woman should live without like Weight Watchers and Kim Kardashians Shoe Dazzle but now I noticed a new one for Cedars Sinai Hospital aka where old Hollywood stars go to die, and something for on line gambling.  This is all I need, to start playing the slots on line.   Next thing you know I’ll be in some kind of moo moo and house coat and my hair will be blue and I’ll be on some greyhound bus to Vegas with a bucket of quarters and my best friend Marlene who weighs six hundred pounds and has one of those jazzies that you sit on and drive around and her basket will have her bucket of quarters and a pack of Marlboro’s unless Marlene is black and then it will be a pack of Kools.  I don’t know why that is – it just is.

I saw a commercial on television the other night and while I don’t know what it was advertising it is forever seered into my brain because it featured the hairiest arm I’ve ever seen in my life.  It was truly astounding.  It was like the man was wearing an actual hair sleeve from his hair shirt.  The commercial was very focused on his arm and hand and I couldn’t help but think why the hell did they hire Fozzy Bear to promote their product.  It’s not like they were selling a depilatory – that much I can remember.  I do know that this commercial should have a rating and it should be blocked when children are watching t.v.  This could be damaging to young boys who will think this is their future.  I have become obsessed with my wonderment of who hired the hairy armed man and who he is.   I will never know.  I will be up nights thinking about this.

My friend Jeremy brought his son to work yesterday and we all had to do something adults suck at – act like adults and not talk like sailors.  Jeremy said fuck three times within the first ten minutes of our morning meeting.  Noah quickly realized there was money to be made and decided his dad and anyone else who cursed owed him one dollar for every swear word.  He started at twenty bucks but we all collectively jew’d him down to one dollar.  We quickly realized we’d all be broke by the end of the day so we sent Noah to the second floor to keep him away from us and his foul mouthed father but just an hour later Jeremy yelled fuck again and out of nowhere Noah popped out from behind a wall and yelled “That’s four bucks dad.”  The kid was pure comedy.  Later that morning someone showed up with Sprinkles cupcakes.  Noah grabbed a red velvet one.  I looked at the box, then opened it and smelled them, then walked away and went to sit at my desk like the fat girl alone at the prom.  Noah said – “this is the greatest day of my life” as he bit into the delicious cupcake.   I looked at him – took a dollar out of my wallet and said “Fuck You Noah.”  He’s 8.  Even my mouth needs to be portion controlled.

The Suckit List

Published December 28, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

The countdown to America drinking excessively and irresponsibly is on!  In just four  days millions of people around the country will put on their best outfits,  go to a depressing bar, club or party, drink until they vomit, get alcohol poisoning or both, go home with someone they don’t remember the next day, or mow someone down with their car or possibly all of the above.   American’s love an excuse to PARTY!! and have truly adopted the fiddle dee dee I’ll worry about that tomorrow attitude when it comes to holidays that involve booze.  I don’t do New Years Eve.  I haven’t had a drop of alcohol in 11 ½ years so the only thing I dislike more than drinking – are drunk people.  I don’t mind drinkers… but I hate slurrers.  I can’t tell you how many parties I’ve been to where some person I don’t really know finally finds the courage to tell me something they’ve been dying to tell me for years.  I dare anyone to remember a great New Years Eve party they’ve been to other than those Kardashians because they’re paid to tell me how awesome their lives are.  The pressure people put on themselves to have a great New Years Eve is mind boggling.  People who have paid zero attention to their lives suddenly find themselves counting down to tabula rasa.  It’s as if the minute the clock strikes midnight the past is erased and their lives are going to get immensely better at the bottom of their champagne glass.  “This year is going to be so awesome” glug glug glug.  Whatever you say Drunky McLiquorPig.  Imagine if you actually sat down and took stock of your life on New Years Eve and made some plans for the future.  What a concept.  And don’t tell me it’s just one night because I’m not that much of a moron.  But you kids go ahead and do whatever you want.  You’ll find out when you’re my age what a massive waste of time drinking your face off while making plans is.  And there it is – I’m now a lecturing old woman you would like to shut the fuck up.

I have decided not to make a bucket list because I don’t want to limit myself on all the awesomeness I’m prepared to encounter in the coming year – I will however make a suck it list in honor of some of the things from this past year – that can just fucking SUCK IT.

1. Ikea and their annoying little tools and one missing screw can suck it.

2. Whoever took Honey, Zoey, Izzy, and Oscar before we were ready can hang their heads in shame and suck it.

3. Cancer can suck it.

4. Menopause can completely and utterly suck it.

5. My FUPA can suck it hard.

6. My fat pants that no longer fit even after I suck it in can suck it.

7. Skunks can death spray themselves and suck it.

8. Abercrombie and Fitch and their naked models dark hallways and vile smelling cologne they spray on you as you enter can fully suck it.

9. The molecular DNA structure of the Kardashian family can shut the fuck up and suck it.

10.  Men who cheat can figure out how to suck it themselves.

11. People who give me their opinions when I don’t ask for them can suck it.

12. The people tapping my ass mic and stealing my thoughts can suck it and then shut it down.

13. My neighbors with the water leak can suck it up – literally.

14. Bullies can suck it.

15. People who check in can check in to suckitville.

16. My reading glasses and old hair can suck it.

17.  People who out gay people can be outed themselves as douchetards and suck it.

18.  The movie Something Borrowed can suck it, rewind, press play and suck it again.

17.  Mr. Pee Pee can suck it with a latte.

18.  My period can bleed to death and then suck it.

19.  Reply All can suck it. suck it. suck it. suck it.

20.  My alcoholism can suck it straight up with a twist.

21. When I’m being an ass – even I can suck it.

22. And most of all – everyone who’s ever doubted me, wished ill of me or told lies about what kind of person I am and you know who you are – can suck it so hard that your meaness whips around blows back in your own face and you discover the true meaning of ass sucking KARMA.

Happy New Year Everyone.

The Real Housewife of Pajamaville

Published December 27, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have an obscene amount of pajamas.  They fill three very big drawers in my dresser.  The entire Duggar family could come over for a sleep over with their cousins and an aunt or two, possibly an uncle and I could outfit each and every one of them in some pj’s.  I could throw a pajama party for the Rockettes,  dress an all girls basketball team or clad all the women in my office on pajama day which we don’t have which we most definitely should because nothing says productivity like a newsroom filled with feety pajamas and yes I even have those courtesy of my friends Kevin Frazier and Chris Jacobs.  They thought it was a gag gift on my fiftieth birthday – I thought it was magic with an ass trap.  I love pajamas.   If there was a Pajama Town – I’d be the Mayor.  I especially love fresh clean pajamas.  There is nothing I love more than taking a shower, putting on fresh pj’s and climbing into crisp clean sheets each and every night.  An evening of pure joy is pajamas, the couch, and all of the contents of my dvr.  Isn’t my life exciting!!!  Don’t get me wrong – I’m not siding with Hefner on the whole wear your pajamas every day lazy ass borderline nutbag trying to hide saggy nads crazy person bull shit.  I just like my pajamas for bedtime.  I also like a robe and some slippers.  My sister Alison travels with hers which is perhaps one of the most impressive things she does –  even more inspiring than raising two perfect children.  Having the where with all to take your robe and slippers when you travel – makes her the Amazing Kreskin.  Now, if you want to know what I sleep in when I’m sleeping WITH someone, well let’s not go there because I’m not allowed to open the scotch anymore.

Suzanne bought me a pair of maternity pants.  Actually she bought them for her sister Karen who was disgusted at the thought of wearing them – so she gave them to me.  I was thrilled at the idea of wearing pants with an eating panel.  I’ve joked many times about wearing maternity clothes but this was the first time I’d ever tried some on.  They were sequined.  I was pretty excited but they didn’t fit quite right.  I guess I have the maternity stomach part down but not the maternity ass and they were kind of droopy and low slung so I guess I should be happy I never had kids because apparently your ass drops about a foot.  If you’re wondering why Suzanne bought pregnancy pants in the first place well number one she’s Jewish and there was a sale and number two – she’s fairly insane.   We have been friends now for eight months and I just saw her apartment for the first time yesterday.  I like to see where people live so that when I’m NOT talking to them on the phone I can envision where they are calling me from as I ignore the ringing.  I accused her of being a hoarder within fifteen minutes which is why she’s never invited me over in the first place.  I really have to practice using my indoor voice in 2012.  I’ll let you know how that goes.

Is it weird that when I’m watching any of the Real Housewives shows I know which housewife is about to come on the screen by the theme music?   I know NeNe from Kyle, Phaedra from Theresa.  I can do this for all of them – Bev Hills, Atlanta, New York, New Jersey, Del Ray Beach.  Well they don’t have that one yet but it would be hilarious if they did.  It would just be a bunch of women sitting around a pool whining about how their grandkids don’t call.  My mom lives in Del Ray Beach.  Your mom probably does too.  I bet they’re sitting around some condo complex somewhere taking off their pajamas and putting on their one piece bathing suit and a bathing cap with giant flowers stuck on it.   I’ll be ready for that look soon.

Reality Check Please

Published December 26, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Oh my god it’s on fire!  Somebody put the cheese out!  Oh shit, now your hair is catching.”  And so began my second annual Christmas dinner at Carrie’s house.  The only thing better than watching an episode of “Flipping Out” is actually living in an episode for the night but that’s what happens whenever I hang out with Jeff Lewis and Gage Edward.  Stand back a second while I pick up the names I just dropped.  What can I say, some of my best friends are reality television stars.   Oops sorry I did it again.  Actually, I’m a reality show whore.  If you don’t watch their Bravo show “Flipping Out” then you are completely insane and we can no longer be friends.  It’s probably the only truly authentic reality show left and I know this for a fact because I’ve been with them when the cameras aren’t rolling and there is absolutely no difference except for the fact that people think Gage is some kind of menacing mastermind who fires people which is possibly the funniest concept on earth because Gage is sweeter than a baby kitten.  I think that’s redundant but he’s just that sweet.  He’s also wickedly funny.  Jeff is just as hilarious off camera and he can cut you with his tongue – but he’d also give me a kidney if I needed one.  Of this I’m certain.  He’s just that good a person.  He’s also so honest you  may leave your first meeting with him in tears and not just the kind from laughter.  He once told my friend Becky that he thought her life choices were ridiculous and she needed to fix her relationship situation.  This was about five minutes after they met.   The first time he came to my house he said he loved it.  The second time he said I needed to paint it.  The third time he told me to gut it and rebuild it.   The fourth time he said I should just sell it.  This is the cycle of Jeff.  I think the latest thing he told me to do is burn it to the ground but I can’t keep track.  Carrie is Jeff’s sister in law and this was the second time I was invited to their Christmas Day dinner.  She is an amazing cook and super sweet and despite the brie catching on fire –  and Jeff saying he was starving and how rude it was that dinner was late – it was another awesome meal.  Gage didn’t complain.

It was after dinner that the true horror happened – with my hair.  No it didn’t catch on fire but it might as well have.  One of the other dinner guests was Chaz Dean – as in – the hair guy who makes Jose Eber look like a total loser.  He is the new hair king.  His product is called Wen and it’s massive on QVC and anyone who’s anyone uses it – including me.  When I told Chaz I used his product – he recoiled – in a combination of horror, disgust and shock.  “Well don’t tell anyone that please”,  he said.  “Your hair is so dry on the ends.  You can’t be using it the right way.  At least let me show you how to use it before you go around announcing that you use my product.”  Ow.   Was it possible that I didn’t know how to “use” shampoo?  “It’s a cleansing system.  Not shampoo.” said Chaz.  Yes it was possible.  I can’t even wash my own hair.  Twenty minutes later I had an appointment for the next Friday with Chaz for a complete redo on my hair.  You need base color and a gloss and we’ll show you how to blow it so you don’t have to kill it with a curling or flat iron.  Thirty minutes later we were out by his car where the gold was – the full Wen line of products – lined up in his trunk like Prada purses – gleaming under the street lights.  “Shhh, don’t tell anyone I gave you this – it’s the 613.  15 pumps of this, 16 of the other.  If you can, sleep in it.  We need to get your hair in shape before you come see me.”  Holy Shit.   My hair was not only dry – it was out of shape.  This was going to be a major undertaking.  I started to panic.  I can’t afford a hair care system right now.  I can barely afford to just have hair.  Getting an appointment with Chaz is harder than getting into heaven but he really is the ultimate hair angel.  The truth is the only thing in life I want more than being painfully skinny – is long luxurious great hair – and if you’ve seen Chaz Deans work than you know – that man makes great hair happen.   So if you see me next week with my thumb out – it’s because I sold my car – for my hair.  Pick me up.  That’s my reality.

One Hundred Morons

Published December 25, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Why does the parking lot attendant have to stand directly behind my car within inches of my bumper as he’s telling me how to back up?  First of all – I will take you out if you don’t move and second of all – I’m not a complete idiot – I can back up without your brilliant instructions.  I bet you thought I’d write something sweet for Christmas.  Well guess again.  Just because you’re all smiles in your bad pajamas opening your Norelco underwater shavers and Jean Nate Bath Oil Beads doesn’t mean I don’t have something to bitch about.  I tried to pick up a holiday gift someone sent me yesterday but I lost two hours of my life I’ll never get back because they made the hideous decision to send it UPS which stands for Unbelievably Pathetically Stupid.  There was one couple there in their pajamas so I just assume they had slept there the night before.  I mean – you could send me a free car in the mail but if you choose UPS I will choose not to pick it up.   Those little slips of paper they leave on your front door should just say “please bring a government issued ID and a gun for your pick up” because you will want to blow your brains out.  If you choose to have a career at UPS because you like the uniforms and moving at a speed slower than an ant – make sure you gain five hundred pounds first – apparently there’s a weight requirement to work there.  The good news is, it seems you never have to wash your uniform or yourself.

After spending the morning de skunking my house – which involves coffee grinds, vinegar and a lot of very expensive candles – I did what all Jews do on Christmas eve – I went to the movies and for Chinese food.  I couldn’t even get in to my favorite restaurant because all of the Jews in Los Angeles had also decided to eat at Yang Chow.  They have this one dish called Slippery Shrimp which is the crack cocaine of Chinese food.  Lucky for me – my neighborhood restaurant which I’ve never tried in 15 years – has completely ripped off every dish that’s popular at Yang Chow.   Upon discovering this I was fist pumping faster than Pauley D.  It was like my own personal Christmas Eve gift wrapped in rice and sweet and pungent pork.    Victoria and I went to see The Girl With The Dragon Tattoo, which we both thought was pretty spectacular.  Rooney Mara gives an unbelievably gut wrenching powerful performance that grips you from the second she walks into frame.   I never finished the book and I didn’t see the Swedish version so please refrain from telling me how much better both of those two are because all I can tell you is this is one of the best movies of the year.  The second it ended I had two thoughts.  Wow.  And… why the fuck did every single so called entertainment reporter ask Rooney whether her tattoos or nipple piercings were real.  Are you fucking kidding me?  The girl blows it out in such a major way in the movie and all you can think to ask her about is whether her nipple ring is real?  I don’t want to give away what she goes through but let’s just say it’s a bit more intense than poking a hole in your boob you boobs.  It’s so insulting on so many levels.  Did anyone ask Tom Cruise if he paralyzed himself for Born on The Fourth of July?  I hope the next time someone asks Rooney this she asks these reporters if they went to journalism school to play one on television.  Dodo heads.

This is the one hundredth chapter in The Book of Moron.  I have written one hundred little bits of my life into my computer for more than 100 days.  I haven’t posted them all here because a few could get me sued.  It is Christmas and while I enjoy being a constant cynic I would like to say – thank you to each and every one of you who take the time to read me – typos and all – and an even bigger thanks to those who comment and share.  My holiday wish is to write for a living.  The kind of writing that makes people laugh.  And to make enough money to hire an assistant to got to UPS for me.  Fingers Crossed.

Male Whoreticulture

Published December 22, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I would like to say something potentially upsetting to all the people who think Kobe Bryant did not cheat.  Please sit down.  Okay take a deep breath.  Here we go.  There is no Santa Claus.  I’m sorry.  It’s true.  Kobe Bryant not cheating is like me not buying shoes or me not eating friend things when I’m depressed or me not being slightly insane or me – well enough about me.   There are just certain things in life that go hand in hand.  Certain things that are just plain old predictable.  Here’s a list: athletes and whores, rock stars and whores, actors and whores, men and whores.  Married women see a wedding ring on their husbands hands – single girls see a penis – with cash – and prizes – and then maybe a few hours in – a wedding ring – but by then the shit is out and it’s on.   If your man travels on a train, plane, automobile or bus – he is punching his ticket to Whoreville on a regular basis.  He can’t help it.  He was hatched that way.  If you want to marry someone who won’t cheat – marry an extremely short fat guy with alopecia and halitosis.  He’ll worship you for life.  Any one who hooks up next with Ashton Kutcher or Kobe Bryant or Tiger Woods, or I can’t go on because my computer will run out of ink, should consider themselves stupid.  Ashton Kutcher is hot and charming just make sure you fuck him then chuck him before he chucks you.  If you’re okay with having someone else handle the blow jobs, anal sex, cleveland steamers, donkey punches and any other kinky shit – go on – marry a hot guy.

While I don’t think you should get all of your husbands money in a divorce – I do think it’s important to get enough to cover your beauty and wardrobe expenses.  It’s important to always look your best so that he gets really angry when he sees you with another man – which you should hire with his money – and make sure he’s super hot.  You many want to have someone follow you around and take pictures of you and your new hot piece of ass and send them to your ex – by accident.

All of these stories help convince me on a daily basis that being single really isn’t so bad.   Jealousy is a horrible feeling and being cheated on is the worst.  You never get the picture out of your head – no matter how many carats he brings home – or if you’re not married to a rich cheater – how many tubs of hagen daz and flowers he brings home.  You might as well let a cheating boyfriend or husband make a porno and then watch it over and over again because that’s what you’re going to see every night for the rest of your life anyway.

Today I have a few pictures in my head that come courtesy of being single and having a mind akin to a hamster on a wheel.  If I knew where the off switch was I’d hit it.  My first picture is me in front of a department store mirror in my underpants and bra.  Is there even a supermodel who can look good under florescent lights?   I don’t think so.  I almost had a coronary at Nordstrom today.   The sales girl heard a scream and came running.  It was just me noticing that the dress I was trying on that fit quite well,  was a size 8.  Call the police later – there’s more.   I have two new zits on my face.  If anyone can explain to me why I have pimples at the age of 51 I’d like them to call me immediately or send me an email.  There can’t possibly be one single reason on Gods green earth why I need a zit.  Thankfully I have the worlds greatest pimple remover.  It’s from Israel.  It dries anything annoying on your face in seconds and makes it disappear like it never even existed.   It’s very much like the  Mossad.  I’m sending a vat to Vanessa Bryant and Demi Moore.

Oscar! Oscar!

Published December 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

It was a magical day at my house yesterday.  Three packages arrived in the mail carrying things I do not need or can afford.   Yay, me!  I didn’t even remember buying two of the three things but I didn’t care.  You could wrap up a dead squirrel, put it in a box, and send it to me and I would be thrilled to see that package on my steps when I got home at the end of the day.    I love packages.  I should have been born in the 1800’s when everything you purchased was wrapped up in paper and strings – like cheese – and horse meat.  Two of the packages where on my front steps behind the gates which means the UPS man may have come in contact with Peaches and Tulip.  I really wish I had cameras at my place so I could see his face as those two giant beasts came thrashing through the doggy door or the giant hole in my house as I like to call it.  They didn’t eat the boxes which is a plus but that’s probably because Tulip was too busy eating the dead baby bird she left for me on the couch.  And… vomit.  I think it was Tulip.  Peaches isn’t into dead animals and Lola’s teeth are a vile piece of property that should be condemned so my deductions lead me to Tulip.  I believe I will soon be getting a fourth package in the mail because I received an email  yesterday informing me that I had ordered something.  At least I think that’s what it said.  It was in French.  Apparently I’m now ordering blindly from other countries.  The price is 232 CHF.  What the fuck that means – is a mystery greater than who Carly Simon wrote “You’re So Vain” for.   I love shopping on line but I don’t like to wait for my things to arrive.  However if you order enough than something is always arriving.  Right about now most of you can see why I have difficulty paying my mortgage.   Maybe I should wrap my house up in brown paper and string and slap a To: label on it.  Then I wouldn’t feel so empty paying for it every month.

Suzanne and I went shopping downtown this weekend again.  There was a sample sale which in Jewish means – “go” – no matter what the clothing is.  Everything was particularly hideous but very sparkly.  I didn’t find anything but Suzanne found an entire wardrobe.  This is what I love about her.  She is one of the most positive people I’ve ever met even when faced with improper tailoring.  We talked about her little dog Oscar who shockingly I had never met.  I think Suzanne was afraid my kids would eat hers which is a fairly good assumption from the looks of them.  As the 2011 shit fate would have it – little Oscar died yesterday.  He was fifteen years old and took a spill he just couldn’t handle at his age.  Suzanne and her sister Karen are now without their little man who was fond of USC clothing and had his own burberry stroller that I openly mocked on a regular basis and was waiting for a date to see live and in person.  That date won’t be coming and now there is yet another little man in doggie heaven.  Which brings me to my wrap of 2011.  Enough already.  I’m exhausted.  2011 should be renamed the worst year ever in the history book written about me and all of my friends if someone is working on that right now please take note.  I’m going to take this year and wrap it up in brown paper and mail it somewhere very very far away.  I say hell to the no dot com on 2011.  Stick a fork in it – it’s done.

My David Mametgram

Published December 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Someone has kidnapped actor Kevin Spacey.  I think he’s been snatched by an alien that was grown in a pod because there’s some very nice version of him out there – smiling – and tweeting.  I found this out after Twitter suggested I follow him and saw a tweet that said “Happy Thanksgiving” and another that posted pictures of him at a photo shoot  – smiling.  I have seen Mr. Spacey on many red carpets and interviews over the years and this is not the Kevin Spacey I’ve seen.  Maybe twitter is having some kind of mellowing effect on celebrities.  Maybe they’ve never actually been able to say what they want and without the mouthcuffs of a publicist are now finally getting to tell their fans all the important things they want to say like “played tennis for two hours today” and “great to hang out with Kate Moss last week.”  Who knew?  I will follow Kevin Spacey because it’s so nice to know he’s not just an amazing actor – he’s a human being – who can type.

These days everyone wants to be famous and they all have twitter accounts.  Ordinary people are tweeting their heads off and getting book deals.  I can’t get past 103 followers.  Every time it goes up – it comes down.  The twat police are clearly keeping an eye on me.  “Don’t let too many people read that moron.”  The whole social network experience is now such a part of our every day lives and daily vocabulary.  Yesterday I saw two old acquaintances run into each other and one said “Oh my god I just friended you!”  It sounds like something you need to be tested for and then buy a cream to get rid of.  Every other day someone asks me if I’m on twitter.  No one talks anymore – we just tap at each other – and for someone who hates the phone this is all very genius to me but I can’t help but think – what will it be like in 2525?  Mind melding?

Today I was really wishing that Steve Jobs had invented the iMute before he died – a little remote I could point at people who won’t shut the fuck up and have no idea what personal space means.  “My son is David Mamet’s assistant” I heard Jewy Jewerstein tell the woman sitting in between us at the Mammogram Center.  They kibitzed like mental patients and five minutes later they were exchanging cell phones and iphones and blackberry emails and texts and whatevers.  I was just thankful I wasn’t in the hot seat and then… the woman sitting next to me left and kablam!!!!  – I was in Jewy’s sights and she was like a dog staring at a juicy kosher bone. “My son is David Mamet’s assistant.”  That’s terrific.  “Are you here for one of the surgeons because I have to tell you – you need to go to my guy – Dr. Markowtiz – because these guys will just do you to do you.  My guy is not pushy like these people.  I mean look at me – I’m sixty – can you believe?”  I wanted to tell her – yes – I believe – because you look seventy.  But she didn’t give me time to get a word in.  “I have to be checked for cancer because my sister is stage four.  I have no idea where she is but she’s stage four.  She’s basically a homeless person wandering around with cancer and she used to be married to David Yurman.  Can you believe?  My life is like a reality show and as a matter of fact my daughter and I are going to be doing a reality show because we’re so crazy.”  At this point my ears were bleeding so I’m not sure where she went next.  There I was – in my jeans, sparkly louboutins, and robe, having my brain seep out of my ears while waiting to find out if I have any spots on my boobrays.  I really wanted to tweet but there was no cell service.    I bet she’s a tweeter.   She probably tweets – My son is David Mamet’s assistant – over and over again.  My boobs came out clean.  Now I’m off to an ENT to be de-jew’d.


Merry Christmas. It’s Malignant.

Published December 17, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Dear Santa,

No one asked for the Breast Cancer and I’m still fat.  You’re clearly not reading my list.

I stepped on the scale for the first time in about six months yesterday.  It was like watching the Wheel of Misfortune spinning and ticking but I didn’t win a car or a boat or a new washer dryer.  I won 23 pounds.  That’s how much I’ve expanded in the course of a year.  At least now I know why my pants don’t fit.  I was playing the “this can’t be possible” game with my clothing before the scale incident of 2011 but the numbers don’t lie and apparently neither does the dry cleaner I accused of shrinking all my shit.  All I want for Christmas is to be anorexic again.   I want to be so thin people stop me on the street and try to feed me things.  I want to be so skinny total strangers will feel the need to check me into a clinic immediately.  Last night I wore sequin pants to the Extra company Christmas party.  They were so tight the little sparkly things dug into my skin and I think I saw blood when I finally got to take my pants off at the end of a long and painful evening.

Today, I consider myself lucky that this is my biggest problem in life because this is something I can actually control.  On the other hand – my friend Victoria – stepped on the life scale yesterday –  and the little needle hit – Breast Cancer- Doctor recommendation right now – double mastectomy.  Now for those of you who don’t know Victoria I’d like to inform you that this is a big thick slab of fuck me icing on the largest shit cake of all time.   Her mother died a year ago, her dog was eaten by the neighbors beast, throw in a few other truly horrendous incidents and fast forward to yesterdays diagnosis and realize that when people say god doesn’t give you more than you can handle – the “you” was Victoria.   I broke down into a sea of tears – Victoria handled the news like someone said you need new tires.  She is one tough bitch.

I took her to the Extra Christmas party because that’s where the Cancer Mafia was hanging out – a group of people so connected to the best doctors in Los Angeles you’d think they were Jews but actually they’re producers.  They spun into action producing lists, making appointments, shoving a crystal down Vic’s bra, and promising her that if her insurance didn’t cover these people – they’d make sure it was “taken care of.”   It was the most amazing thing I’d ever seen.   By the end of the night we were toasting what would be her guaranteed weight loss and new breasts.  Joe Francis was there which was weird since he has made a living off of women exposing their breasts and many people think he too – is like a cancer.

There are two things I now know for sure thanks to Victoria.  I need to stop whining about the small stuff and friends are the greatest things in life – even the ones you didn’t know were still there for you.  I would like to say to God, or Santa or whomever the fuck is handing her this shit storm  – okay – whatever you’re trying to tell her – she hears you – we all hear you – now shut the fuck up. If you know Vic, send her a hug.  If you don’t, send her prayers.  She is 37 years old.  Cancer can suck it.  And this is not going to stop her either.

F, Marry, Kancel

Published December 16, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Does anyone know where the off switch is on the Kardashian family because I’m done.  Last night the Klueless Klan were in Las Vegas to open their new “lifestyle store” – Kardashian Khaos.  First of all, the use of the letter K on every word that comes out of their mouths is making the spell check on my computer go Kablooey and making me want to Kill either myself or them.  Secondly – if I’m going to emulate a celebrity lifestyle it’s not going to be one based on having babies out of wedlock with drunken dandy men and marriages that last as long as a pair of tights.  Getting knocked up, marrying someone you don’t know, or having an enormous ass are not things to be celebrated since they are tasks a drunk 16 year old could master.

Last night the girls were all interviewed at their home away from home  – a red carpet – and said they were excited to see their store – in person – proving once again – that they have barely anything to do with the brand they are shoving down your throats that is turning them into Kajillionaires.  The store is apparently filled with “souvenir products” designed by Kim, Khloe and Kourtney.  Souvenir products?  I guess that means there are racks and racks of Dead On The Inside key chains, Welcome to Vapid Town postcards, and I Am Famous For No Reason shot glasses.  I know taking pot shots at this family is easier than making fun of the way Richard Simmons dresses but I really think it’s time we turned the volume down on this group – for good.  I have no problem with reality television and the so called stars it creates as long as these people take their fifteen minutes and leave the area immediately when that clock runs out.  The Kardouche-ians minutes are up and I think I have to finally put my foot down and say to you people – stop making them famous for spreading shitty values.  There are no lessons to be learned here.  At least when I watch The Real Housewives I glean valuable information like how to throw a drink, take a dead beat husband to court, or remove a weave from another woman’s head in less than five seconds.  I know these things sound like something you can learn from a Kardashian but it’s just not the same.  The Real Housewives don’t think they’re stars.

At the end of the day I think I’m going to have to take some drastic measures in my life and actually stop watching all reality television.  As a writer who wants to live the second half of her life on a scripted show – preferably my own – I can’t keep giving air time to those Komplete Knuckleheads.  It would be easier to get off crack than give up The Bad Girls and losing my weekly visit with Phaedra may send me over the edge but I’m willing to do it if it means I don’t have to look at life on K street for one more second.  The only shows I don’t watch are the competition ones and I’m starting to think those are the only ones that should be allowed on television.  Let’s not make earning millions for doing absolutely nothing the new AmeriKan dream.  Just say no or just say Kancel.


Published December 15, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I do not enjoy the rain.  It is not romantic, snuggly, curl up on the couch with a fire and watch “Say Anything” while eating deep fried twinkies kind of weather to me.  Rain + Dogs = Shitprints, lots and lots of doggie shitprints and a fine helping of mud trailed through my house turning my living space into a dirty fecal war zone.  If you turned a blue light on in here it would probably look like my dogs had polished the floors with their own poop.  They run outside.  They step in stuff.  They come back in.  They smear it around.  It’s my very own Shat House and I didn’t even have to pledge or get hazed to get in.   I have a dog run area or the poop tank as it’s been dubbed out back behind the house.  It is a 17×25 foot space where the dogs can go during the day when I’m not home.  When I’m home they like to shit anywhere they fucking well please… including inside the house when they are sick because they want to make sure you see the steaming pile of I’m not feeling well mommy.  My dogs are also extremely talented when it comes to vomiting on my most expensive items.   The poop tank has been filled and refilled with every kind of stone, grass, chip, and or sand, known to man in a continuing effort to make the area more pleasing to Peaches or as I like to call her – that stuck up Bitch.  Peaches will walk over to the yard and gingerly walk on whatever surface has been laid down for her pooping pleasure like Tony Robbins is forcing her to walk on burning hot rocks.  Tulip is a perfect poop tank dumper.  Peaches would rather go on my nice people area patio.  It’s a doody mine field.  When it rains – it pours – rivers of shit.  There is nothing more difficult to pick up than the wet excrement from a 120 pound dog.  It’s a shit storm out there and I need bigger thicker galoshes.  Anyone who owns a dog and lets that dog in their bed after its rained and they’ve been outside – is sleeping on the newest mattress by Pooperpedic.  And yet, I almost don’t really care.  I love my dogs.

On the other hand – people germs need to back the fuck up out of my area.  As I get older I’m getting very germaphobic about weird things and I’m oddly selective about what freaks me out.  I don’t like to eat in restaurants where I can see the kitchen because I start thinking about all the weird places the chefs hands have been before they’ve been on my gnocchi.  I don’t like using my hand to flush a public toilet but I have no problem putting my hands on a supermarket shopping cart that some kids dumpy diaper was just propped up on.  I hate when people stick their hand into a bag of my nuts or m&m’s.  I immediately envision their fingers shoved up their noses.  I am starting to get weird about trying on clothing in stores.  Especially when it’s a pair of pants.  I once knew someone who didn’t wear underwear when she tried on clothes.  This is so utterly stomach turning disgusting I just threw up and gagged on it as I typed the words.  If I find out my panties are touching your left behind pubic hair I will hunt you down and kill you.  I can’t help but feel that everything I touch has been touched by someone else and it’s starting to gross me out.  At the rate I’m going I will hermetically seal myself and everything I own and I’ll be Silkwood showering like you read about.  I’m sure there will be some crazy futuristic shit going down in the germ warfare department and maybe I’ll be around for that as they telepod all of us to Planet Clean.  I do know that I still won’t care what’s covered in poop, piss, or other doggie DNA.  At least I know where the dogs have been.

Happy Howl-idays

Published December 14, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Your red is blending nicely.  It’s not as brassy as it was.”  A lovely man I work with said this to me in the office kitchen yesterday.  I stabbed him with a swizzle stick then threw a blueberry bagel at his head.  Yes blueberry.  If you want to know how to ruin a perfectly good bread item – move to California.  But I digress.  It is at this time I would like to offer some extremely important information to all people dealing with any woman over the age of fifty – or me – do not give me your opinion unless I ask for it – and even then, tread lightly.  Unsolicited advice, thoughts, opinions, etc. should be kept snapped shut in your pie hole.  I won’t tell you that your shoes are meant for club footed people and you don’t tell me what you think about my choice of hair color that by the way I did myself thank you very much.  Ugh.

Yesterday I saw a man being tortured within an inch of his life at Nordstrom.  He was in the shoe department with his wife who could not make a decision on what size Uggs to get.  She kept going back and forth between two sizes and dragging every store clerk into her Ugg cluster fuck.  Her husband looked like he would have traded his seat holding her purse for a spot inside Abu Ghraib and a round of water boarding.  I mean for fuck sake – they’re Uggs.  They are akin to slippers.  Who cares what size they are.  If you’re wearing them outside and you’re not surfing you obviously don’t care what you look like anyway.  I could feel him screaming on the inside and wanting to shove the soft bootie inside her mouth to shut her up.  Every time she was close to a decision he would stand up ready to leave – then she’d start the gut wrenching decision making process all over again and he would sink back down into his seat with a decibel level 12 sigh.    He should wrap up some divorce papers and shove those in her Uggs for Christmas.

What is it with gays and Christmas?  Last night at L.A.’s outdoor mall The Grove – scads of them were lined up with their dogs at Santa Paws Workshop.  No, I’m not making this up.  Gays from all over Southern California brought their dogs – in full Christmas outfits – to sit on Santa’s lap for a holiday shot.  Now I love my gays and I love dogs but this was a scene even I couldn’t believe.  Santa looked pissed and his elves were dressed like Hooters waitresses and all the dogs were fighting with each other on line.  The whole thing felt like a Fellini film.

Christmas time in California is pretty funny especially at The Grove.  People will do everything possible to make it feel east coast and chilly.  They even drop cancer causing snow flakes to make you feel like you’re walking around shopping in flurries.  Everyone looks like they have really bad dandruff.  This is not Christmassy. Five years from now people will find out they have something from whatever is they are dropping on you at the Grove. Some incredibly gay elf clearly did all the decorations because it looks like Santa’s workshop exploded and fell in front of Victoria’s Secret.

All the festivity does make you want to shop which in my case is a very bad thing because I just buy things for myself.  Every time I make another purchase the clerk launches into some inane conversation about what a great gift this is and isn’t the person I’m getting it for so lucky and can I gift wrap this for someone?  Yes me.  Now shut the fuck up, hold my dog,  and give me a pink bow.

Introducing The FUFA

Published December 12, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I broke up with Jon Hamm last night.  I’m now dating Idris Elba.  I know he’s a drug dealer who’s killed people but if I can go out with a misogynist who sleeps with everything that walks and only speaks in ad slogans from the sixties than I can certainly handle a man who sells crack cocaine in the project towers and co owns a strip club.   I’m sure I’ll start cheating on Idris when Jon is back on the air but for now my iPad affair with Elba is on and it’s serious.

I didn’t think men had it as bad as women do in the aging department, in fact, I didn’t even think men thought about what happens to their bodies as they get older.  I have never heard a straight man comment about weight gain, puffiness, cellulite, or anything even close to that.  As a matter of fact – I didn’t even think most straight men ever looked in a mirror – even the ones who know to dress themselves.  The only thing they seem to care about is losing their hair and ever since white boys were allowed to shave their heads and be deemed cool – the whole hair loss thing seems to have been handled.  And by the way – fuck them for that.  I can’t shave my head because I have hard to handle Jew hair.  This weekend however a fifty something straight male friend of mine told me he noticed his ankles were fatter than they used to be.  I being the comforting friend said – thank you Jesus.  This was the single greatest piece of news I had ever heard.  I can only hope he finds cellulite next week.  I will dance for joy.

My best friend Brian Unger was the emcee for the CNN Heroes event last night.  He by the way is not aging and it makes me mad.  He asked me to come along and be his Bruce Vilanch.  I think he meant it as a compliment though I sometimes feel as bloated as Bruce.   Brian certainly doesn’t need me as he is the single funniest person I know.  He had to deliver some opening remarks at the awards show and then speak throughout the event to keep the audience entertained.  The first thing I did was give him an adult diaper joke.  Not really a good move when the whole night is about celebrating people who are stricken with something or suffered some horrible fate that left them unable to walk.  Shitting your pants is not funny to people who have probably shit their pants.   Brian and I spent three hours writing some fantastic lines that will never be heard.  We basically held our own CNN Heroes Roast in the food tent.   Because that’s what we do… when no one is listening.   There were lots of stars there trolling around backstage where we were hanging out.  Sofia Vergara was gorgeous and told me she liked my shoes.  She is now my best friend who doesn’t know who I am.  Jerry Seinfeld was practicing his speech.  Mary Louise Parker was so spindly thin I thought she was going to keel over.  I hated her for that.  Everyone was so nice and friendly and I ogled Anderson Cooper the entire night who has quietly become a major news rock star.     People went nuts when he took the stage.  He was extremely focused backstage and very connected to his blackberry.   I think he was looking for a war to drop into.  The dude clearly eats, sleeps, and breathes news.  Thank god Brian didn’t use the diaper joke.  AC 360 didn’t look like he would stand for that kind of humor.  Brian was amazing.  He ignored everything I told him.  He is a smart man.

At the end of the night I noticed yet another indignity of getting older.  The FUFA.  The fat upper foot area.  I am now so old my feet and ankles swell.  My friend Jeremy had a fat teacher when he was a kid ironically named Mrs. Tubs whose flesh oozed out over the tops of her shoes and I always thought the fufa was a ailment reserved for chubby people.  It’s not.  Turns out my male friend with the old swollen ankles isn’t alone in his degradation.  Color me Pissed.

File This Under Ew

Published December 11, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Have you ever been so drunk that when you woke up in the morning and saw long hair on the pillow next to you – you thought – oh shit I slept with a girl – by accident.  I have. I hate when boys have better hair than me.  They don’t even need it.  I am not a fan of the ponytail on a dude and if I have to fight you for the hair accessories – we’re not going to make it.  If I wanted to sleep next to something with long flowy hair that hangs in my face or sweeps up against me – I’d buy a long haired daschund or I’d bang a girl.  I have also done that.  Once. That’s kind of all you need if you’re straight.  It’s a memory I will never get out of my head.  No offense to those who drink the lesbionic tonic – I’m just a bigger fan of the other kind of cocktail.  They say that girls know how to perform oral sex better on another girl because they know what’s down there. They are liars.  I have no idea what’s down there.  I’m on a need to know basis with other people’s vaginas.  In fact – I’m on a need to know basis with my own.

There are many reasons I no longer drink but I’m thinking about starting again so that I can purchase the Corksickle.  Have you seen this ingenious invention?  It’s a long thin plastic ice pack attached to a cork that you shove into your wine and it stays cold for hours.  Granted I never needed my wine to stay cold for hours because a bottle lasted about thirty minutes but this is the kind of shit that makes me mad I can’t drink anymore, that and the low calorie cocktail.   If that Skinny Girl Margherita were around when I was a pathetic slurring fall down drunk I would have at least been a skinny pathetic fall down drunk.

The only person who looks cute stumbling around and smiling while trying to walk, is a baby.  My friend Sean brought his little boy to work the other day.  He’s about 14 months.   While he was holding him he turned the baby to me and the baby reached out his arms to come to me.   I almost passed out.  I held this delicious baby smelling pile of flesh and thought – oh shit – I totally should have had one of these.  He was so warm and yummy and smiley and if they could just stay that age I would totally get one.  We put him down to walk and when he took his first steps he made this face that made me realize just how awesome walking is.  I kind of forgot.  We take this for granted.  We also take not having to poop in a diaper for granted but that’s something I hope I don’t have to do anytime soon.

Mayim Bialik aka Blossom was on television the other day talking about how she’s still breast feeding her son – at three.  I threw up in my mouth and then realized why she doesn’t work that much any more.  She’s too busy feeding a full grown boy from her boob and no one wants to see that on the set.  She said it so matter of factly that the reporter just breezed right past it but I didn’t hear a word she said after that jaw dropping confession.   I believe she said – “I still make milk.”  Well that’s terrific Blossom but this would come under the category of shit you shouldn’t tell people.  I don’t want to know it.  I don’t want to see it.   There’s a photo of her doing it on a New York City Subway.  I would attach it here but I don’t want to be arrested for child pornography.  Just because she holds a PHD in Neuroscience doesn’t mean she’s a rocket scientist about everything.  Maybe this is really healthy for children but I can’t help but think it leads to weird behavior for men later in life like a crazy addiction to boobs.  I think I slept with one of these guys once.  He had a ponytail.


Published December 10, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

You know your life is a shitstorm when you can’t even make it out of the Walmart with your meth products to get your cook on.  Starting a lab in aisle six next to the Garth Brooks cd’s is never a good idea.  In fact, using any product while you’re still at the store should be frowned upon.  Don’t cook your steak in the meat department and please don’t use the toilet paper anywhere inside the store.  I don’t think that’s what any grocery store shelf stacker needs to find when they hear clean up on Aisle three.  I’m surprised there was anything inside a Walmart that could be used to make methanphetamine since they’ve pretty much banned anything interesting from entering their holy doors.  I’ve never been to a Walmart and I won’t be going anytime soon after the real life Breaking Bad incident and the black Friday pepper spraying situation.  Bad things are happening there and I can’t help but think it’s payback for their hatred of anything other than picket fence white America.  You can’t make meth or heroin out of a Kanye cd but you can make heroin out of baby formula which you can find in Aisle 7 at Walmart.

I expect to see all of these real life horror stories on my favorite shows – the Law & Order series.  Last night an episode ran and there was no sound effect on one of those chyron location cards and I hope someone was fired for this infraction.  Not hearing the doink doink come up when the black and white letters told me we were at Precinct 9 Downtown Manhattan nearly sent me over the edge.  I almost lost my place in the show.  Were we in the Law part or the Order part?  Are they trying to lose the doink?  I don’t think I can watch this series without the sound effect because I won’t know when to pause my DVR and get a snack or pee.

I’m pretty sure my house is being bugged by some television overlord.    I can’t tell you how many times I’ve said something to a friend or written something down that I thought was a completely unique or original thought only to hear someone else saying the exact same thing on television as if it were theirs.  I have written entire skits for SNL on my couch and fantastic lines for Jay Leno in my bathroom and I know they didn’t pay me a dime for these things.  I am quite certain I was the first person to write the word fucktard in a script and I know nobody read my genius made up words because if they did I wouldn’t be sitting here staring at three dogs who want to eat,  I’d be staring at one hot man feeding three dogs and then taking those three dogs for a very long hike.  A man that I would have purchased with my fuck you money for being a genius writer that everybody is reading.  I could be wrong but if it’s not my  house thats bugged then there is some kind of microphone planted on me somewhere that I just haven’t been able to find which probably means my ass because that ramp has been closed for any business other than it’s business for years.  If you don’t know what I’m insinuating there are dozens of websites that will explain it to you.  Maybe aliens aren’t after us for our knowledge of anything other than comedy.  Maybe they’ve implanted people like me and are stealing all of our ideas for Planet Xion.  Maybe that’s where all the great sitcoms are being played.

Today I’m going to try to locate my ass mic.  I didn’t ask for the anal probe and while I don’t care what you do with yours, mines not an INtrance.   I would go to Walmart to find a product to help me remove the probe but it’s pretty clear to me they don’t sell anything you can use to pull things out of your ass – especially their own heads.

Lady Parts and Louboutins

Published December 9, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Well it’s finally happened.  I can no longer suck in my stomach. There’s just too much to suck.  Every girl in the free world sucks her stomach in … even the stick figures.  When you see ribs – keep sucking.  A flat stomach is the gateway to happiness.  Having a no belly – belly –  equals pure joy and no woman can ever achieve a stomach that’s flat enough.  I think I had one once and totally didn’t appreciate it.  I would have paraded that shit around like nobody’s business if I knew then what I know now.  I’ve learned to deal with the humiliation of having to lie down to zip and or button up my pants while doing a dance that only amuses my dogs and I’ve perfected a way to look past the side of my closet where the skinny jeans are hanging their seams in shame but I cannot handle the painful fact that when I try to pull my stomach in– nothing moves.   I mean what the fuck people?  Haven’t I suffered enough?    When does the estrogen parade of unhappiness and degradation end?  It’s like my bodies on The Hormone Tour 2011 and not only did I not buy tickets but I want to get off this fucking tour bus now. What’s next?  More gas?   The day starts out normal enough but by the end of it I’m like some misshapen piñata nobody wants to crack open.  I’m Super Peri Menstrual Woman and that won’t fit in at any party I don’t care how cute it looks hanging from the tree.

When do I switch over to mom jeans and do I wear mom jeans if I’m not a mom?  Will I get a memo about this?  What do single older ladies do?  Do we have a spokeswoman?  Maybe I should be her.  I would declare leather pants okay to wear at any age because what most women don’t realize is that the leather pant is a genius fupa girdle.  Do not fear the leather.  The leather is slimming.  Who cares if you look like an 80 year old at a Miley Cyrus concert – you’re thin!!  I do think some of my younger clothes are mounting a campaign or staging a coup to get me to stop wearing them now that I’m fifty one.  My Britney Spears catholic school skirt has been missing for months and there’s nobody in my house that could have borrowed it so unless the handy man is parading around in it while I’m at work it’s gone into the Clothing Protection Program and won’t be back until someone young enough moves into my house or I die.  How short is too short when it comes to skirts and older women?  If I can see your uvula… it’s too short.

Lindsay Lohan has posed for Playboy and I’m not sure I want to see her Vagina.  I am sure that it’s seen a lot of action.  I could throw a dart at a Hollywood phone book and hit some piece of man candy she’s licked more than once.  Her mons venus probably has some battle scars that had to be airbrushed out.  I think her vagina may want to start acting like a website and just shut down when the traffic gets too busy.  I’ve seen my fair share of sex capades but I don’t know what level you have to get to – to have your vagina stretch out like the rest of your body.  If it’s anything like what ‘s going on with my stomach – Lindsay Lohan will be able to tuck her lady parts into her Louboutins any day now.

Tinsel Town Trauma

Published December 7, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Walter from the DWP is blowing up my cell phone like you read about.   He’s called me three times in the past twenty four hours – to check in.   My not so fine romance with Walter started because my neighbors pool is slowly leaking out down their  hillside into my yard and after lodging about 832 complaints with the water people and even driving to my neighbors house in my pajamas to inform them they were soaking me out of house and home – Walter finally showed up.  Walter – or Walt as he told me he likes to be called –  is a short fat very old black man.  Walt has now put my ass on speed dial.  This pretty much sums up my entire dating life because this is the kind of guy that thinks they can “get me.”  “Hey baby, it’s Walter the water man.  I think we got the situation up here figured out but if you need me for anything else… and I do mean anything, you give me a call.  This is my personal cell phone number.”  And delete.  Please insert shitty cliché why don’t you let him clean your pipes joke here.  I never get the hot fix it guy ever.  I’m not that girl.  I want to think I’m the cool chic that has cool things happen to her but I’m the girl who shows up in her pasta stained thermal shirt and sweat pants with zit medicine on her face to tell you your pipes are leaking only to have a Ryan Gosling look alike renter answer the door in disgust.

I had the incredible opportunity this past week to work in my friend’s writer’s room.  Basically this meant spending a lot of hours with really funny people tossing inappropriate and often really filthy humor around a room.  Did you know that the web is so filled with porn that we had to come up with a new domain – XXX.  So if Chocolate Fuck Dot Com or Shove Shit Up My Ass Dot Com was taken and you are sad about it – you can now get Suck Me Off Dick Face Dot Triple X.  Hope you’re happy.  Anyway,  I thought I was the coolest kid on the planet yucking it up with some seriously funny brains who have spent countless hours on the coolest sitcoms in the world until the cooler guy across the table from me said – “Why are your hands blue?”  It was true.  My hands were blue.  Really blue.  Like I had died and no one told me blue.  The whole table looked at me.  Turns out my super cool j brand jeans were bleeding blue.  It’s hard to write a joke when you’re the punch line.

I only wear pants now because it’s winter and that means my old skin is even older because it’s so dry out here you’d think we lived in a desert.  We don’t do we?  I’m addicted to La Mer but that’s not really in my price range so the other day while I was shopping for a new lotion I saw a black woman a few aisles over and if anyone knows about ashy skin it’s a black woman so I followed her all over the store until she hit the body cream aisle and picked up something called Yu Be.  It’s Japanese but it sounds like they know exactly who their customer is.  Yu Be smooth black lady.  It’s good shit but sadly nothing can turn back the hands of time on my skin and I think the secret to staying young as we get older is to actually wear a few extra pounds and spread out the crepe paper  that is now covering our bones.

I saw an ad the other night for Pizza Huts Dinner Box.   It’s a box filled with cancer.  A Deep Pan Pizza, Chicken Wings, Breadsticks, Lasagna, Pasta, the kitchen fucking sink.  It’s five thousand calories of dough covered crap.   I know I’ll go to hell or a place where they only play Two Broke Girls for saying this but I think former anorexic Tracy Gold may be ordering from this side of the menu because she’s chunky again and far be it from me to want to see a woman die from anorexia but I think Tracy may want to dip back in to the dark side for just a second.  What’s wrong with a little post Pizza Hut puke?  God knows Santa Claus is busy throwing up all over Los Angeles.  I know we call it Tinsel Town but you can’t toss a dreidel two inches without hitting a jew in Beverly Hills but if you drive through there now you will be blinded by Christmas lights.   I feel like I’m gonna stroke out.   I think I need a time out.

Vice Purse-a

Published December 4, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I don’t care how many women Herman Cain has slept with.  I care that he’s clearly retarded and no one seems to notice.   This is a problem for me.  Not his infidelity.  His wife has to deal with the fact that there’s a sexual clean up on aisle three, four and five of her life on a daily basis – not me.  I’d have to deal with the fact that he can’t even grasp the English language if he became President and that is a problem for me.

My parents are going on a cruise today and I’m praying it’s not secretly some 80 year old swingers situation.  My mother sounded very apprehensive about going so I thought maybe that’s why.  It could just be the fact that she’s about to be trapped on a moving toilet for 8 days with a man she’s spent over sixty years with and massive amounts of deserts in the shape of penguins.  Either way, my parents are way busier than me.  I’m dying my hair today… again, and then going to the outdoor mall near my house which will be playing loud Christmas music in the 80 degree sunshine.   My version of a cruise ship.  My friend Suzanne just texted and said she was desperate to get outside today.  I suppose I could go hiking, or biking or walking somewhere but there is no prize at the end of that and while I appreciate the outdoor life I really need a goal – like – you get a handbag when you’re done with this hike.  I’d hike to get inside Barneys or the Saks shoe sale.

A woman selling fake Chanel, Louis Vuitton and Prada handbags came to the office the other day and her shit was really good.  Faux designer stuff was flying out of the conference room.   I walked in and out of the area about fifteen times picking up and then putting down almost everything in there.  I am torn by the fake handbag.  I have four real Chanel’s that each cost more than my monthly mortgage payment and some other designer handbags that set me back quite a bit and they are all very coveted items.  This woman’s bags looked just as good as mine.  This infuriates me.  I didn’t buy any because I need a new purse like I need a hole in the head and while that excuse has never really stopped me before,  I managed to restrain myself.   I did get her email address.  The only problem is that ever since the office handbag sale went down everyone is asking me if I got my real Chanel from the purse lady.  Apparently the only person who knows my handbag is real – is me.  I’m going to put a sticker on all my designer stuff that says THIS SHIT IS REAL BITCHES and I’m not even really sure why that matters.  Do I really want someone to know I’m so dumb I spent four thousand dollars on a purse?  It’s taken me fifty years to understand that the real reason we buy designer items is that they’re really well made and won’t fall apart the minute you drop your wallet inside but the truth is – you carry something real quite differently than a knock off and while every Jew I know has a knock off person they go to – to get their shit – I just want my shit to be real.  I’m not gonna lie – I’ve been eyeballing that wine colored patent leather Louis Vuitton handbag Real Housewife NeNe carries around and the purse lady has one for 300 dollars.  I may take the fake plunge.  If you see me with it and ask me if it’s real I will say yes and possibly punch you to accentuate my infuriation.  You have been warned.

Homeless of The Month Club

Published November 29, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Breaking News!  My pajama jeans just arrived.  It was a two for one deal so I also got those penis enlargement pills.  I can’t imagine it will be hard to find someone to take those off my hands.  It was either that or prozac and if I start taking that I’ll stop being mental and that wouldn’t be fun for anyone.  I know I’m the last one to get the pajama jean but I had to find just the right pair – the official pajama jean – the ones that are good for travel, shopping, exercise and more!!  What more is there?  I don’t know, but now that I have my pajama jeans, I’m going to find the fuck out!!  They came with an instructional video so I have to carve an hour out today to watch that.  Maybe it will explain to me why I need European Styling in my pajama jeans.  They say there’s a fit for every figure and you can get up to a XXX which I’ll betcha is the most popular size.   The ad promises that I’ll “look put together all day long” and this is something I had no idea you could get in a box in the mail for two easy payments of 19.95.  I know Chanel can’t say that.

I love having things arrive in the mail.  The absolute highlight of any day is coming home to find a package at my front door – one that hasn’t been chewed to pieces by my dogs who think the mailman has tossed a big paper chew toy over the gate.  They have devoured quite a few “as seen on t.v.” products.  I never did find out what happened to my Miracle Socks.   I’m thinking about getting into one of those something of the month clubs.  They have so many now -Pickles, Dessert, Puzzles.  I don’t know who’s getting the Pickle of The Month but they’re probably the same people getting the Chips and Salsa of the Month along with the Bloody Mary of the Month.  These are real.  I do not lie.  How about Soup of The Month?  It’s real.  Why go to the supermarket or store anymore?  The Breakfast of The Month Club says “nothing starts the day off right better than breakfast” so they send pancake mix or waffles or scones or crepes.  Crepes?  That doesn’t seem possible.  I want to join to find out.  What does a muffin that arrives by mail taste like?  I’ll have to interview Peaches and Tulip if I get this club.

I think it’s awesome that so many companies are making it so easy to become a big fat poor shut in.  After all – how else will A&E’s Hoarders stay on the air?  Without all these people staying home and ordering shit for six easy payments –  there would be no morbidly obese white people living in trailers parked next to their houses that are filled to the brim with shit they bought online.  Where do all these fat people get all of these old cars anyway?  Do they acquire them when they get too fat for one and have to move in to another?  It’s hard to find a skinny hoarder.

Maybe if we started putting the names of poor families and homeless children on line we could convince people to buy one.  For three easy payments you could save this family… heck they’ll move in with you if you want.  Go ahead America – strap on your pajama jeans – shove some Beef Jerky of The Month in your face – and buy yourself a Homeless Person of The Month.  You’ll feel better and I’ll bet A&E will make a show about you.

License to Bred

Published November 28, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

I have decided to become a Pity Party Planner.  Everybody is having one so I’m pretty sure I won’t have a hard time making money in fact – I should be a gazillionaire within a week.  The entire country sounds like one old jew – pissing and moaning about things that just don’t matter and the way everyone carried on this past black Friday pretty much proves my point.  When you are ready to kill someone for a television – you need a time out.  A big time out.  Obviously the theme of the pity party would always stay the same but there are endless possibilities for how I could switch them up.   I would imagine the pity party honoree would be a difficult client since they are razor focused on themselves and no one else.  If you got one tiny detail wrong you’d have pity party squared and nobody wants that.   The most difficult thing about throwing a pity party for someone is getting other people to show up.  No one wants to hear someone else’s complaining ass bullshit especially if that bullshit is “I didn’t get what I wanted for Christmas.”

The holiday themed music has started here in Los Angeles and I don’t know whether to hum along or stab someone but I have to be honest and say it’s usually the later choice.  Why can’t everyone wait before they start shoving Santa and his sleigh down my throat?  I know Rudolph has a red nose but the concept of letting him play regular reindeer games is lost on me – or being drowned out by all the merriment.  It’s not just the fact that I’m Jewish that makes Xmas a problem – it’s the fact that I’m cranky and Jewish that makes Xmas a problem and go ahead all you non Jews right now who are horrified that I “took the Christ out of Christmas” by using an X.  Christ left Christmas a long time ago – probably the day we started giving each other diamonds and Xboxes.

Everyone is just so darn happy this time of year.  I saw a couple making out at the supermarket yesterday.  They weren’t just showing some affection they were full on dry hump mashing in the cosmetics aisle.  Maybe they are a brand new couple and just can’t keep their hands off of each other or maybe they were just so happy they found the product they’d desperately been searching for like baking soda toothpaste or fluoride rinse or herpes cream but I really don’t need to see this in Aisle 2.  Thank kind of behavior belongs in the meat aisle.  I wanted to give them some sort of citation or at least tell them their behavior was unsuitable in front of children and me.  Thankfully I keep most of these thoughts in my head which is why it is certain to explode some day soon.

I think you should have to have a license to have a child.  If you want to see some parents that should have their children taken away from them you should go to you tube and type in Sparkling Wiggles.  It is there you will see stupid white people egging on their child to say the phrase Sparkling Wiggles, only when she pronounces it – it comes out Fucking Nword.  Isn’t that hilarious!!  These people should lose the right to have children and if they apply for a license to have more children this is the videotape that should play at their hearing.  They will not be allowed more children.  They will probably have a pity party for themselves and I will gladly be their planner and blow up all the balloons that say – “Congrats.  You’re dead inside.”

Is There An App For That?

Published November 27, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

My hair is old.  I don’t mean it’s grey – which it is – I mean it’s old.  If my hair were a pair of jeans – I would have to throw them out or cut them into shorts.  I don’t want to cut my hair into shorts and I’ve already had extensions three times which is a very pricey undertaking but my hair refuses to grow past my shoulders.  Well just below my shoulders if you count the dead crispy ends that I am hanging onto for dear life.  I take hair vitamins and I use the Chaz Dean Wen System but it just won’t get longer.  I’m not sure where the length goes when it grows in because god knows I have new roots every thirteen seconds so something is getting longer.  This seems like a mathematical equation for Stephen Hawking.  He’s still alive and by the way – married- for a second time.  Yes, he was able to find someone.  This makes me feel like a loser.

I think all the minds in the world are very busy these days creating Apps I cannot live without.  My ipad and iphone are filled with pages and pages of things that make my life infinitely better.  Calorie Counter, NY Post, i-fart,  etc.  There are Apps for everything.  Have you heard of the truly ingenious website and app RunPee.Com?  My friend Berman told me about it and quite frankly it may be the greatest thing ever invented in the history of the world and all the heavens.  What RunPee does is tell you when the best time is to pee during a movie.  They have already worked all of this out for you for all of the current movies out there.  Yes I am dead fucking serious.  Not only do they tell you when to pee – they tell you what happened while you were tinkling.  Who needs a fucking cure for cancer people – this is the kind of shit I’m talking about.  This is the kind of technology that wins wars!  All you do is start your RunPee clock when the movie starts and away you go.  For instance… I checked out the RunPee times for Breaking Dawn Part One – a movie so riveting I can’t imagine how or why anyone would choose to tinkle at any point during this poignant vampire drama.  However – RunPee has given you a few choices.    Here’s what it says.

PeeTime starts 37 minutes into movie

PeeTime lasts about 4 minutes

Cue to RunPee: When the aerial shot of the island villa appears after their first night together.

What happens during this Pee Time:

Bella wakes up with feathers in her hair.  You can see that the room is in shambles from their previous nights activities.  She gets up and goes into the bathroom.  She looks at herself in the mirror and replays in her head what last night was like.  Edward comes up behind her and asks, “How bad do you hurt?”  She says to him, ”I’m perfectly happy.  At least I was five seconds ago.  Now I’m pissed off.  I think what we did last night was amazing for me.  I know it’s different for you but for a human it doesn’t get any better.”

Now I know what you’re thinking – RunPee must be insane to pick this little section of scintillating dialogue to miss but that’s just how good this movie is.   They had to work hard to find pee moments.  RunPee makes me proud to be an American.  What I’m curious about now is – how long before RunPoop hits my iphone?  That kind of activity needs some time so a good test movie could be “Jack and Jill.”  I bet that’s a good poop movie.   What I really need is RunEat because it is inevitable that I will not buy popcorn before the movie starts and then I will be mad about it and dream about it the entire time the movie is playing to the point of distraction.  I have missed entire plot lines due to popcorn envy because I never know what time to run out and get some once the movie has started.  I’m going to invent this app.  I will become a millionaire.  I will buy new hair.

Beware The Thanksgiving DuWaWa

Published November 26, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

“Are you done with menopause yet?” Swinging a pointed finger between my sister Alison and I, this was my brother in law Steve’s pre Thanksgiving dinner chit chat.   And so begins this heartwarming episode of “Heidi Goes Home for The Holidays.”  I flew back east to Boston for Thanksgiving on Wednesday morning.  The whole family tries to gather at my sister Wendy’s house each year and usually it’s when we find out just what kind of mental patientry is involved in our family lineage.  This trip started with my normal packing dilemma.  I hate to travel only because I hate to pack.  I like to have my entire wardrobe wherever I go because I have no idea what kind of mood I’ll be in “fashion wise.”  I would take a few steamer trunks with me if it were possible but unfortunately I’m not Bette Davis in the middle of a 50’s movie with stewards at my beck and call.    I always end up on a vacation with random shit I never wear and have no idea how it got in my suitcase.   I usually dress nicely for an airplane ride because airport workers aren’t just racial profiling they’re class profiling and they will treat you like a douche bag if you dress like one.  If you’re trying to get moved from coach to first class it will not work unless you look like you deserve to have a hot cookie at thirty thousand feet.   I unfortunately chose to dress like a gang banger.  An old white jewish gang banger.  I did not get my upgrade.

The flight was fine other than the fact that the pilot was definitely shit faced and thought he was operating a tour sky bus and did not shut the fuck up for one second the entire time.  “If you look to your left you can see Minnesota.”  Guess what fly boy – I don’t want to see Minnesota.  I want to watch this shitfucking hideous movie Cars 2.   Upon arrival in freezing cold Boston (it was probably 60) I went outside to wait for the car my sister and brother in law had so graciously sent for me.  After the other twenty people waiting for their cars left – a car finally pulled up right next to me.  I was now the only person there.  He was now the only car in the arrivals lane.  He looked at me.  He pulled out his placard.  He started writing one slow letter at a time and then comparing it with whatever was in his blackberry.  C…ten seconds…L… ten seconds…can I buy a fucking vowel?  E???  “Are you writing Clements???”  Hello?  He was Russian.  I guess they’re used to waiting in lines for things but I am more valuable than a loaf of bread.  Finally, we were off.

I truly love hanging out with my family.  We laugh – a lot.  We mock – a lot.  No one is left standing at the end of a Clements Sisters dinner.  Throw in the spectacularly sharp wit of my neice Amy, the cutting humor from her boyfriend Berman and my brother in law Steve, and the “holy fuck did he just say that” moments that always come from my nephew Mike, and we’re talking an episode of Meet The Jews that would most definitely get an R rating.  Basically it’s a room full of people with knives in their mouths and anyone could cut you at any given moment.  Thank god for my brother in law Dean who has assured our passage into Heaven because he’s the nice one.  My mom and dad are now into their 80’s so they’re used to us.  They also don’t hear as well as they used to so this works out quite nicely.

Everyone dresses beautifully for our family dinners.  You do not fuck around with fashion in my family.  Sadly – I am too fat for anything but flannel.  I was the ugly step sister and my buttons were already undone.  Our first dinner on Wednesday night started out fine until Steve launched the Menopause Round Table.  We were all innocently eating our Chinese food which by the way is what all Jews are doing the night before Thanksgiving or on any given Sunday.  If you want to find a jew in a town that doesn’t seem to have any – go to a Chinese Restaurant on a Sunday night and you’ll find every “witz” and “stein” there is.   The menopause question reminded us of Steve’s obsession with wanting to smell 9/11 – which led us to beat that joke again for about half an hour.  Then out of nowhere Mike said “I had a Chinese teacher once who said – the vagina is like a poisonous doll – duwawa.”  Apparently DuWaWa is Chinese for my lady parts.  Okay Mike. Thanks for that update from the odd family dinner exchange files.  Little did I know – this was the calm before the shit storm.

The next night – Thanksgiving dinner – was delicious.  Once again we all gathered around the dining room table and once again we all hung out to chat once the meal was done.   My sister Alison looked at me from across the table and pointed to my dad’s ear and said “What is that hanging?”  And just like when we were kids I felt her silently egging me on to do something bad.  I pulled on the mystery string attached to my dad’s ear and unfortunately pulled out his hearing aid.  This resulted in gales of laughter from Alison.  I had no idea my dad wore a hearing aid.  I was horrified.  I also really wanted to try it on.

The conversation shifted to Hollywood and stars and people were asking questions like “Who’s the most beautiful” and “Who’s the most handsome” and from nowhere my 82 year old dad says “Who do you think is the most SENSUAL.”  And… crickets.   Eventually we all threw in a few answers and thought we were through.  Then came, “What is the sexiest love scene with clothing on?”  Okay this is getting weird.  I left the room to check on my Pumpkin Smoosh desert only to re-enter to hear this question from my dad being posed to the entire table – “Who is the horniest?”  Uhm, I’ll take My Dad Is Freaking Me Out for 100 please Alex.  Yes folks, welcome to Awkward Family Jeopardy!  My brother in law Steve then launched into a conversation about Debbie who lives across the street whom he happens to know has an insatiable appetite for sex and when her garage door is open it’s a signal to men from around the Wellesley area to come get a piece of Debbie. This of course – is total bull shit.  It was even too much for my dad.  Man do we know how to clear a room.  We all fled the area.  We forgot it happened.  We moved in to the living room and watched Bridesmaids which if you want to know the definition of creepy its watching a John Hamm Kristen Wiig seemingly endless sex scene with your eighty year old parents.

Of course it was an awesome holiday gathering filled with the kind of nutbaggery that makes me love the family I have.  We are unabashedly raunchy and rude.  Every funny moment is comedically crushed – and there is always laughter to be had at anyone’s expense.  No one leaves unharmed.  If you want to know who’s being slashed thrashed and dragged through the mud – just look to see who has left the room.  Thank goodness for the innocence of Thanksgiving represented by my niece and nephew Isabella and Jordan – who taught me how to play Angry Birds.  And thank goodness for my amazing family who will always have my back… or at the very least – my duwawa.

To Have Me Killed, Please Press Zero

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Why is everyone Checking In somewhere?   I know we’re friends but do I really need to know where you are every second of the day?  Maybe you people need to check in to a job every once in a while because that will keep you busy.   There are no “check in” buttons for the places I go, the couch, the refrigerator, my bed.  Isn’t this button just a way to tell everyone to go rob your house or steal your car?  What kind of mental patients are following your check in buttons?

I am slowing being driven insane by a TerrorMarketer.   Six, seven, eight times a day, my phone is ringing off the hook with calls from companies that have names I can’t pronounce.  I don’t know what they want and I don’t care.  This weekend it was Caratechea Enterprises –  the latest in a long line of fuckwads that have my home phone on speed dial.  Trying to stop telemarketers from calling your house is harder than finding an Indian restaurant that doesn’t smell like curry and I believe these things are very deeply connected.  I have a home phone just to field calls from assholes who have no problem dialing my house at three o’clock in the morning.  I hate when the phone rings in the middle of the night because I am convinced if I pick it up the voice on the other end of the phone will say “I’m in the house.”  I am also terrified the killer will leave a message on my machine and I’ll hear it while I’m upstairs in bed and sometimes I want to shut the machine off at night but I can’t because Greenpeace is speed dialing me and if the machine doesn’t get it they’ll just keep dialing.  Sometimes I sit there and stare at the call waiting screen wanting to pick up the phone and say “Fuck You Dental Technological Services, I’m not home!”  But I don’t.  They’ll just call again tomorrow.   Some of these callers are unstoppable and have dialing tourettes and the same number will come in rapid fire succession.  If I wasn’t picking up two minutes ago I’m not going to do it now Diabetes Foundation.   If someone ever calls to tell me I’ve won a million dollars or that the government has decided to pay for my house I’ll never know because I won’t pick up and I immediately hit delete on the machine.  I love when a pre recorded message tells my answering machine things to do.  I come home to bizarrely recorded messages like PRESS ONE TO TALK TO A REPRESENTATIVE.  Maybe my high tech machine is doing business for me while I’m at work.  Maybe the dogs are calling people.  I hope they’re having more success than I do when trying to settle something over the phone.  I know my home phone is directly connected to a call center in India and I know they’re laughing at me.

I think that same call center is handling all of my unsubscribe emails.   What really happens when I hit that button on the bottom of an email?   Is there a group of people in Bangladesh just standing around their computer screens pointing and shrieking with laughter at all of us?  “Oh here comes that moron again thinking she’s getting off of the Bloomingdales spam list.  She’ll be back so let’s just keep her on.”  I have unsubscribed to Saks Fifth Avenue at least twenty six times and I instantly get an email from them the second after I do it.   “You are now unsubscribed.”  It’s almost always followed by an email telling me about a sale at Saks.  Thinking that it probably takes a few days to register my unsubscription I do nothing until a few days later there it is again.  Saks Motherfucking Fifth Avenue.  I am on a giant Unsubscribe Ride and I can’t get off.  What the fuck is happening to my unsubscribe emails?  They are like letters from Santa, no ones reading them.  I bet all of these people have the secret spam block that stops this from happening to them and they’re not sharing.

I saw that we’ve developed a car that can drive itself and while I think this is a very interesting idea I believe we should put that on hold until we can develop a robot to answer our telemarketer phone calls and spam emails.   They could maintain our Facebook pages  and make sure that we “Check In” somewhere incredibly important every ten seconds.

Push It Real Good

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI


     I don’t know which is worse, the fact that my neighbors had a Van Morrison cover group at their party last night – or that I knew all the lyrics.  It’s a nerd toss up.  I wasn’t invited to the party – which doesn’t surprise me – I’m not very nice to that neighbor.   If you put me in a line up and told him to pick out the girl who lives in the house below his,  he would not be able to pick me.  He makes wine. He once passed me a bottle through the fence like prison mates sharing a shiv. We talked for about fifteen minutes and he said “You should come by some time.”  So later that week Peaches and I took a walk around the block and went over to say hi. He said, “do you live around here?”  I said “no” and went home.  He loves to talk on the phone.  I know this because he does all of his phone talking outside on his deck which he built on top of my deck.  It looks like a giant crib.  He is extremely loud and very busy on that phone.  He might as well just come inside my house and make his calls – that’s how loud it is.   I’m sure he’s a pretty cool dude – he speaks Italian so he can’t be that bad.
     I actually have incredible neighbors.  They are sweet and fun and have amazing little kids and there is screaming and happiness on my street all the time.  It’s like a throwback to when I was growing up and you played outside and got hot and smelly and only came in when you heard your mom calling “dinner.” I don’t think that happens all that much here in Los Angeles but it happens on my block.   There are big wheels and bicycles and helmuts and animals all mingling together.  Except for one neighbor.  She’s mean.  I guess there’s always one.
     Rachel Zoe had a baby.  I honestly didn’t think she had enough body fat to carry a child.  I really want to live in her closet.  It’s filled with magic.  She got a six carat cushion cut diamond ring from her husband for having a baby. Apparently it’s called a “push” present.  I want a push present.  I’ve pushed enough shit out of my vagina in my 51 years to get at least one.  God knows I’’ve had my period enough times to deserve a gift.  I’m not sure who would be the person to buy me one though and as usual it seems like I’ll have to buy it for myself.   I have already bought myself all the things I love most.  Maybe I could register somewhere for something like this.  I think single women should be allowed to have a party for themselves and register somewhere.  I believe that if you turn fifty and haven’t killed someone you should hold a press conference and then have a giant fancy event and get gifts.  I would register at Neiman Marcus and put everything in the store on my list.  Maybe I could do it like Kim Kardashian and host the event in different cities because I’m so fucking important I need more than one coast to celebrate me.  I could start in New York, then Los Angeles and the Las Vegas.  Maybe I could get Ziegfried and Roy to perform  – they would be in my age range.  I could get also nice band.

Ante Up Bitches

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 If you watch the Oprah Winfrey Network do you immediately get cancer and die?  How else can you explain that more than a million people signed on for her internet chat but she can’t get more than five people to watch OWN.  Does your Neilson box and television immediately blow up when you tune to that channel or do you just die trying to find it because it’s around channel 1,762.  I thought Poperah was Midas but so far the gold fairy dust isn’t landing on OWN.  I personally think the problem is that her shows are too happy.  Nobody wants to see that.  We want to see Melissa Gorga shredding her sister in law as Theresa, as Theresa misuses perfectly simple English words like distant, educate and ingredients.  She’s so dopey, I don’t know how she gets dressed in the morning.  I bet that’s why all of her clothes are so shiny – so she can find them.  Maybe that’s why all of her outfits have sparkly medallions on them because that’s how she communicates with her Planet,  Retardra.  It’s hard when you can easily say Melissa is the smart one – thank you baby jesus.  Melissa is inspiring.  She is now wearing a fat suit to see if people treat her differently.  I’m going to put on a Jew suit later and throw money around so I can capture people’s shocked faces proving everyone really thinks Jews are cheap.  Oprah’s still wearing her fat suit but people are really nice to her.  I think it’s because she’s also wearing her African American suit and I hear that one makes people act scared.
     I ate a block of cheese last night.  I didn’t mean to.  It was just there – on the nightstand.   I’m just trying to keep it 100.  (that’s what the kids are saying)  I remember when you didn’t have to say things like – just trying to keep it real – because you actually told the truth.  The cheese was helping me read a book.  I went to bed early because quite frankly Peaches was watching Bad Girls on Oxygen with such fervor that I think I need to start monitoring what she’s viewing.  They don’t have a lock program for dogs on my DVR.   What if she imitates the kids on these shows and starts drinking, fighting and having sex with strangers.  Maybe that’s how she got the herpes?  I really have no idea what she does all day.   She could easily have learned to turn on the t.v. and may be spending her entire day watching Maury Povich to see who the baby daddy is.  I’m thinking about installing a Nanny Cam.  My friend has one for his dogs.  He can watch them do nothing on his Iphone while he’s at an audition or a meeting.  Usually they are just sleeping in their crates but occasionally they get up and run out of the area where the camera is.  That’s when you really don’t know what they’re up to unless you have a second camera outside so it’s kind of a little Blair Dog Project and feels kind of like a horror movie.  WILL THE DOGS COME BACK? I think if I install cameras in my house I’ll see Peaches, Tulip and Lola in a throwdown game of Doggie Poker.  They’ll all be sitting around some card table I didn’t even know I had with all the neighborhood dogs playing poker and drinking all my non alcoholic beer and eating my snacks.  I bet that’s how they came up with that velvety painting of Dogs Playing Poker.  Someone had to pose for it.  I wonder what the ante is at a card game at my house?  Maybe I should tell the girls to start playing for cheese so I don’t eat it at two a.m. in bed.


Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

Jerry O’Connell got another tv pilot.  He seems like a nice enough person but he must have pictures of every network executive in Hollywood blowing a goat.  I’m just saying.  The article about O’Connell’s new show said he wanted to translate the “hilarity” of being a dad into a show and started “bouncing around ideas” with a couple of guys.  Hilarity and bouncing are the words you hear right before a show gets cancelled.  But this doesn’t stop the machine that is Hollywood.  Everytime a new article gets printed about someone getting their umpteenth pilot – I want to vomit a little.  I have a friend who has now sworn off reading Deadline Hollywood because it’s starting to feel like he’s reading a suicide note of his own career.  I know as a writer I’m supposed to feel happy for everyone and live under the tenet that there is room on television for everyone to succeed but if they keep making these sitcoms when will they have time to make mine – a hilarious look at a fifty year old who bounces ideas off of her dogs?   My friend Lisa G paid me the highest compliment ever today – she said I write and think like Larry David.  Larry David probably just drove his beemer into a tree but  I am going to buy her a picture of someone she doesn’t like doing something bad to a goat.  She doesn’t need this, but I’m a giver.

     I am people intolerant.  There is no pill for this.   I’m thinking about hiring my friend Mary to be my Minister of Happiness.  She’s always happy.  It’s because she’s skinny.  She doesn’t know this – but I do.  I think if I were thinner I’d be nicer.  My muffin top has a muffin top and it’s hanging over my pants like Archie Bunkers beer gut.  This is not sexy. They say fat people are jolly but I see a lot more happy skinny people in the world.  Maybe fat people wheezing sounds like laughter if you’re not listening really closely.  I try to tell myself every day that nothing tastes as good as skinny feels but the churros dipped in chocolate sauce that I ate last night tasted pretty fucking good.  I should have just stuck them to my fupa because that’s where they’ll end up anyway.  If you don’t know what a fupa is – then you probably don’t have one – so consider yourself lucky.   My friends and I used to shout FUPA!!! Greek style whenver we saw a chick with one – now I am that chick and this doesn’t seem so funny.   If you want to blackmail me – this is the photo you’d need.  No goat. Just my fupa.

Rah Rah Sis Boom Blah

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   My memory is having melancholy flashbacks of someone else’s life.  I drove past my neighborhood high school last night and there was a football game happening and the bleachers were filled with happy people shouting and the band was playing and the cheerleaders were pumping their pom poms.  I thought to myself – gosh – how did I end up here at fifty one?  Why is it I’m still not doing what I want to do?  Is this it?  Why can’t things be like they were back in high school, easy and fun and filled with joy?  Well, I’m not sure whose memory of high school I was having but it certainly wasn’t mine.  The closest I ever came to a football game was getting drunk on Boones Farm Strawberry Hill wine and making out with some kid under the bleachers and then throwing up.  I did try out to be a cheerleader at Susan Wagner High but I didn’t make it past the first round of auditions.  I was not “in” with the right people.  I wasn’t friends with the other cheerleaders who really just picked their friends to be on the squad.  I eventually became the captain of a squad at the JCC – that’s Jewish Community Center – but cheering for a bunch of short kids with jewfro’s wasn’t exactly the same as being a high school cheerleader.  Being a high school cheerleader was the shit.  It meant you were popular.  It meant you were going to be somebody some day.  We did have some great times on the big yellow school bus that drove us to other JCC’s where I would perform masterful cheers in my corduroy jumper with a big megaphone patch on it and white gloves and saddle shoes.  I had a pageboy haircut which was incredibly hard to maintain with my own jew hair but I straightened that shit out before every game.  I remember making out with the only non jew who played on our team.  That’s me – always the rebel.  I think my friend and I fought over him.  I may have even lost that friendship over this guy I barely knew and have never seen since.  His name was John. I wonder where he is now.  I wonder if he’s living his dream life.  I wonder what he remembers about me and what meeting him means in my bigger picture of life.
     I am a person who mocks, pokes fun, snickers, points and laughs at things.  It just so happens that the first thought that strikes me about something is usually a funny one.  I don’t remember if I was always this way or if life has just beaten me into a point of humorous submission.  I suppose that’s a good way to see things but I am not blissfully unaware of all that I encounter.   What are the lessons I am supposed to be learning?  I can’t find my bigger picture right now and I’m starting to get more than a little scared.  Life is such an interesting journey but I don’t think we were put here to just get up and go each day.  I believe we were put here to get up and go “somewhere” and do “something.” Where is my somewhere?  What is my something?  If only I could google this or find it on mapquest.  Steve Jobs could have helped with this but he’s gone now. He knew where his somewhere was.
     Life is such a fantastic journey and I am so grateful to be living mine.  I have wonderful family, amazing friends, people I barely know who cheer me on every day.  I have so much more than so many people and yet – I want even more.  I am greedy with desire.
     It’s almost Halloween, a holiday everyone I know loves.  People get dressed up as someone else and take a temporary moment out of their real lives to be silly and reckless and live out their fantasies as the naughty nurse that lives inside them.  I never get dressed up for Halloween but maybe this year I will.  I’ll be a real high school cheerleader and I’ll rah rah myself on like you read about.

Dating Mr. Pee Pee

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   Why hasn’t George Clooney had that Italian handbag Elisabetta Canalis deported?  I know he has the power to do it and she’s getting very mouthy.   She recently said in a magazine that people actually read, that their relationship was more of a father daughter situation.   Shut the mother fucking front door are you kidding me?  By father daughter relationship do you mean he paid for everything and you whined like a little bitch?  Didn’t he bring your dirty coke whore ass to America and make you a superstar?  Okay maybe she’s not a dirty coke whore and maybe Dancing With The Stars isn’t exactly superstar status but come on bitch – it’s George Clooney.  If you’re lucky enough to get that kind of handsome keep your pie hole snapped shut.  I saw them once at the Golden Globe awards and I wanted to give George some Ajax to scrub down with and de Canalis himself.    She smelled like cigarettes and had tattoos.  (I have 9 shhhhhh)  And by the way – she didn’t look like any spring chicken to me.  George Clooney in person puts George Clooney in photos to shame.  He’s that beautiful.  He can call me when he’s ninety and has saggy nads and I will hop in the sack in a heart beat… as soon as I undo my Depends.  My question is – did she really need to give a national publication this demoralizing quote?  I think there has to be some sort of code if you’re both in the business and everyone doesn’t think you’re a douche… in other words – “A” list equals hands off.  Let’s just part and say it didn’t work and keep it zipped.  He’s never said a bad word about her and from what I’ve heard he certainly could unleash the gates of hell.
     I like to write about people and sometimes I reveal things that might embarrass them so after I get permission I write it and then I change their names except in the case of the Hollywood actor I had sex with who had a tiny penis.  I didn’t get his permission but since he has wiped me from his “chicks I fucked over” memory card – I think I’m in the clear.
     I’m so glad I’m not famous because the stories people could tell about dating me would be enough to keep me on lockdown inside my house for the rest of my life.  I know there are photos I would like to have buried and I know there are stories to tell.  There’s the guy I puked on.  The guy I accidentally peed on.  The guy I fell asleep on while having sex because I was drunk.  (I think there are quite a few of those.)   There’s the guy I ditched while on a date.  The guy I pretended I was English and had to leave the country in the morning.  And the guy I almost killed on the back of a Vespa.  I’ve tried to cut off almost everyone I’ve ever had a relationship with but one has recently come back so I’m on extra good behavior in case he decides to talk.    He could do some damage. Someone recently wrote an article about online dating and used me as one of their examples.  They said they went on a date with me and that I “announced” that I wasn’t interested in a relationship and that the experience left him feeling sad.  I say – be glad you got out alive.  I didn’t know we were on an official date that I was part of a dating blog.  I thought we were two writers meeting for a drink.
     There’s a guy in New York City who calls himself Mr. PeePee who has vowed to masturbate inside every Starbucks in the City and photographs himself doing it.  I’m sure there is some woman out there who will find out she used to date Mr. PeePee and pray to god that when he talks to the press he doesn’t tell people about her.  Hopefully Stacey Kiebler didn’t date Mr. PeePee because quite frankly – George Clooney has had enough bull shit for now.

Be Better Than The Gap

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

     Saturday was the saddest day of my entire adult life because I finally had to admit once and for all that I will never get to fuck Ryan Gosling.  I’m just too old.  This is one of the most depressing moments in a woman’s life – realizing the days of banging hot boys with six packs are over.  We spent countless hours of our youth looking at men we can’t have and dreaming about our futures with them if only WE were famous but now the future is here and Ryan Gosling is not in the picture and the death of  the thought of him really just symbolizes the death of the thought of all hot things in my life’s second half.  I’m not sure who will be in my fantasies now but his six pack will most likely be a one pack and it will probably be filled with gas.
     I had to stay in all weekend with the blinds drawn because I’m pretty sure I saw the Jenny Craig truck circling my block.  I think they went through my garbage and found the receipt for the Gap pants I bought in a size 8 or maybe in Los Angeles you get reported when you hit a certain weight and they come round you up.  Either way it gave me an entire weekend to swim in Lake Me and catch up on some chores like dying my own hair while watching a dvr filled with stupidity.  I had to keep the television at volume 11 because my neighbors pool filter is making a high pitched noise that only dogs and I can hear and it hasn’t stopped for 4 days in a row.  I think the neighbors may be dead but I don’t want to leave the house to find out.
     When did they get purses on Survivor?  I was so overwhelmed with their new hand bags and googling how to get my hands on one  that I may have left the hair dye on too long because it’s pretty obvious now that I’m not a real redhead. God definitely did not create this color and neither did one of his angels – unless it was the gay angel who’s obsessed with Nicky Minaj.  I decided to save some money and do the dying myself and now I know why I pay 300 dollars to get my hair done because it’s going to cost me 321 dollars to get it undone.  Lets just say the color on the box is not as close as it appears to an actual color.    If there were a carpet the drapes would definitely not match.  Ever look at women and wonder what kind of wax situation they have going on downstairs?  I do.
     Normally people are surprised to find out that my red hair isn’t real but they’ll know for sure now because the only redheads this color are My Little Ponies and those Strawberry Shortcake dolls with scented hair but mine  just smells like cancer.  I remember the day my mom dyed her own hair back in the 70’s and burst into tears when she took the towel off screaming “Oh my god your fathers going to kill me.”  It was pretty much the same color mine is now but thankfully no one’s going to yell at me for it or make fun of what a moron I am.  Peaches, Tulip and Lola may be laughing but I don’t know what a dog laugh sounds like so who cares.  Dying your own hair can be a fun game because there’s always a big reveal after you get out of the shower and undo the towel turban on top of your head.  You never know what color it’s going to come out and you get to put on your big surprise face which in my case turned into a major RuhRoh but oh well… tomorrows another day and the drugstore is filled with boxes of colors.   I almost bought one of those ready made hair towel turbans at Bed, Bath and Lazy Ass but then I realized it really wasn’t that strenuous an act twisting my own towel on top of my head.  I wonder who the first person was to do this and how did they pass this look along.  It’s really kind of genius when you think about it.  It’s not the look that’s gonna land you a Ryan Gosling but good hair can go a long way.  I’m going to take Ryans advice today and not think about my hair or how old I am and I’m just going to focus on what I really want and how to get it. I’m going to be better than the gap.

Abercrombie & Bitch

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

     Can anyone explain Ke$ha to me?  I am confused by her existence and I’m pissed off I have to type a dollar sign where there should be an “S” for stupid. She’s called a singer, songwriter and rapper and I know she had some catchy little ditty your kids listened to about drinking Jack Daniels for breakfast and banging black guys but I can’t be sure.  I hear her “Get Sleazy” tour was a huge success so I’m pretty certain the world is about to end.  If she has a new album coming out soon I’ll have to mark the date in my calendar so I know when I WON’T be buying her deranged cd.  I would call it music but it isn’t.    If Kesha being successful isn’t the fifth sign of the apocolypse than Liza Minnelli on the Home Shopping Network is.   Liza with a Z for Zoloft was hocking sequin jackets and tank tops while ranting and rambling about a broken knee and how the clothes don’t wear you, you wear them, or something like that.  It was hard to hear over my laughter.   I think she needs an L for Librium.
     I can hear my bones scraping against each other and I think it’s because I don’t drink any water – and I mean any – unless you count what is used in a cup of coffee.  Even after I run I’m not thirsty.  I would be amazing on Survivor.  Except for the part where I’d starve to death.  I’m already planning on making DRINK MORE WATER my New Years resolution and I already know it won’t last for more than a month.  Isn’t it amazing how at the end of the year everyone says “last year sucked but this next year is going to be amazing.”  I’d like to meet the person that says “I hope next year is exactly the same as this one because it was awesome” and then I’d like to punch that person in the throat.  I make the same resolution every year – along with – lose weight and save money.  So far being a skinny rich bitch who slugs water back like martini’s has eluded me but maybe 2012 is my year.  I just don’t want to have to go to the bathroom every fifteen seconds and I’m not allowed to wear Depends without being frowned upon so the whole concept of staying hydrated annoys me.    I also saw a commercial on t.v. for a pelvic swing that has something to do with Menopausal incontinence and vaginal replacements or something vile that means I’m going to start tinkling in my underpants any day now and nothing says sexy like the smell of urine on a woman.  I can’t help but think if I start drinking massive amounts of water I’m going to speed up the tinkling in my panties situation and I’d really like to stave off that one for awhile.
     My belts don’t fit anymore so I guess my hips are widening for childbirth.  I’d like to inform my body clock that it has picked the wrong time for this to happen and that the pregnancy bus pulled out a super long time ago and the only one pulling up now is short and yellow.  I had to face the embarrassment of going to “Abercrombie and I’m a Really Old Woman” yesterday because I’ve decided I’m bringing sweat pants back.  It was hard to focus over the stench of cheap perfume and the pounding music.  I think the concept of these stores is to make you feel young which didn’t quite work on me.  I had my hands over my ears and I was squinting the whole time because they keep the lights so fucking low.  I think they do this so the kids don’t see old people like me buying all the same clothes they wear.  I always start self disclosing at the register about the kids back home I’m buying these clothes for as the wide eyed cashtards smile and not listen to me. The store is like a giant maze and it took me forty five minutes just to find a place to pay.   I kept sweeping back past the same flannel shirt and hot pants mannequin and next time I go I’m definitely bringing a block of cheese to drop bits as I go.  No one there’s gonna eat it.   Those kids who work there haven’t eaten in years and I’m not sure who’s on those naked posters but if the worker bees looked like that I’d move into a cubby hole at Abercrombie and live there.  Did you know they do not sell anything black at that store?  They say it’s because black is a formal color.   I’m sure African Americans around the world are rejoicing over this analogy.  “Yay for the first time ever black isn’t being associated with something bad!!!”  We’re formal!!!  And just as they’re celebrating a Ke$ha song comes on equating her boozing to being just like P Diddy and bang – it’s over.

I Remember Louis

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

     There is a valet driver at The Grove right now who thanks to me may never be the same.  I had checked my car at the outdoor mall of the shopping dead and didn’t realize my radio was still tuned to Howard Stern who I guess was in commercial when I dropped it off.  Well when the Prius came back to me it was blaring a song about pussy and the driver looked at me like I was a fucking lunatic.  Not everyone listens to Howard.  I feel badly for these people.  One of the things that amazes me about Howard is his seemingly total recall about childhood and quite frankly – every single solitary painful second of his horrible life… his words not mine.  Being an alcoholic has made me afraid to remember. So many things that happened when I was drunk needed to be apologized for and I woke up most mornings feeling awful about something I had done.  Now when I see someone from my past I automatically go to that “uh oh” place even if I wasn’t drinking at the time of our friendship.  It’s hard to describe but I am literally terrified of my own memory.  I have blocked out so many things from my past and I don’t remember what I remember.  Was I nice to this person?  Did I date that person? What kind of an interaction did we have?  It’s almost as if I didn’t exist before the age of 40.  I have no idea what kind of person I used to be, as a drunk, or even before.  There are a few choice memories from here and there but on bulk – it’s pretty empty.  Even my childhood escapes me but thanks to one friend – it just came rushing back and once again – I remember why I like to forget.  Three letters arrived in the mail this week – from my old pal Paul. Two of them were letters I wrote to him.  One was from a girl named Cathy that I don’t remember who I guess fell in love with him.  One of my letters was a cheese ball poem I wrote about our friendship.  I would quote a few lines from it here but quite frankly I’m not in the mood to throw up right now.  I was super fond of writing poems back in the day – that much I remember.  I wrote poems for people as gifts.  I’m truly horrified now at the thought.  Gee what a special present to receive the lines… “ Though my pen might not speak too frequently, in my mind I will write a thousand letters.”  And barf.  I was so trying to solve everyone’s problems and heal my friends with words.  It’s so funny that all these years later the healing words have all been replaced with cynicism and sarcasm.  I showed me!!  The letter I wrote to Paul is single spaced and looks as if a mental patient typed it.  It rambles on and on and on and holy shit it’s exactly like my blog.  This incredibly important document says things like “ My mom found my pot pipe and I thought I was dead shit so I said it was one of my friends.  Then to top it off she found an empty bottle of Boonesfarm.  That was the straw that broke Joan’s back.  I’m so uterus”  I told him what kind of boys I like and then typed “tell your friends you have a nice girl who’s gorgeous.  They’ll get over the initial shock after a few dates.”  So my self esteem was in full depletion mode even then.  Other gems from my early humor…”We don’t have enough to say to fill a roach clip” and how someone can “roll over twice while eating shit.”  Clearly I have not changed one single bit… even though I read this and think – who is that girl.   Hopefully I’ve gotten slightly funnier
     I wonder if other people have trouble remembering as much as I do.  This week I got a really nasty posting from someone I’ve never heard of.  I guess I inadvertently posted a blog on an old friends page who had died one year before.  It was the anniversary of his death and amidst all the beautiful thoughts was THE BOOK OF MORON.  Well I am a moron after all.  His name was Louis Schwed and he was beloved.   My mother had told me about his death and others as she loves to do each and every phone call.  At first I couldn’t quite remember if I had a friendship with Louis. Because of the nasty posting – I went back onto his page – and looked at all the photos and thought – Oh my god I can’t believe Louis is dead.  I remembered.  The squint in his eyes when he smiled… and how sweet he was.  As far as I knew, I hadn’t seen him since he was a kid.   Now he’s gone and all this time later I feel really sad, but grateful he was so loved.   So fuck you to the douche who wrote a nasty note on my posting – you could have easily said – “hey heidi, you may want to remove your post from Lou’s wall.”  His name is Corey David Levitan.  He’s a blogger for MSN.  Feel free to write him and hate him.  Shit, maybe I even knew him once.  I don’t remember.  And to Louis – We all remember you.  I wish you could see your Facebook page.  You are so very missed – and heaven’s lucky to have you now.

Doody Delivery

Published November 20, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

    Is an elective liver transplant a dumb idea?  My health plan runs out in March so I’m thinking of having a bunch of stuff down now.  I’ve never had any kind of major surgery and there are probably a few parts that need replacing so why not have a couple of clean up operations while I’m still covered.   I’m sure I can find some doctor out there that says my kidney needs to go.  There can’t be only one Conrad Murray in Hollywood.  I wonder if having a new liver or kidney gives you a new lease on life.  I know it would be great for the diet situation.  There’s only so  much hospital pudding one person can take before they start dropping pounds.  The only major snag in this concept is the hospital gown.  My ass cannot be seen in any kind of fabric window and I don’t want my butt touching hospital sheets that can’t possibly be rid of whatever hideous DNA was left behind.  There isn’t a washing machine hot enough to delouse what I’ve seen walking out of a neighborhood emergency room.
     There are two other things in life I’ve never done – rape a ten year old boy in a shower and shit in a bag.  There is a special place in prison for those who do the first, though locking Sandusky up at the Bunny Ranch with a bunch of grown naked women is probably a worse punishment.  As for the second, I have come very close to pooping in a bag.  I’m not proud of it but if it happened I wouldn’t die of shame.  I never thought about shitting in a bag before but now the concept of a paper bag poop has been raised on more than one occasion.
     There is a restaurant in Hollywood called Pizzeria Mozza and every time I eat there I get what I like to call Mozzarhea.  The second I climb in my car I have to go – bad.  I don’t know what it is and I don’t know why I keep repeating this – I guess the pizza is just that good.  One time I was so freaked out that I was going to shit the car that I called my friend Brian and asked him what to do and he said “do you have a bag in the car.”   “No why?”  I asked.  “Cause you can pull over and just go in that.”  Wow.  He came to this conclusion in like a second flat and never in a million years would I have thought of this.  I wonder what that looks like from the outside of the car?  “Oh, no need for assistance I’m just shitting in a bag.”  “Am I leaving the parking spot?  Well yes, after I shit in this bag.”  I had to go so badly that day I didn’t think I could hold it in.  I was white and sweating and screaming on the inside but I finally made it home to poop in porcelain… the way god intended.
     A friend of mine says he knows a couple that both have major doody issues and have both had to go in their cars.  I really want to meet them.  These are my kind of nutbags.  The best story I’ve ever heard though is from my friend who was recently driving his son to a playdate at a friends house.  The minute they got in the car his kid said “daddy I need to go number two.”  The dad said “we’ll be there any second honey can you hold it in?”  Well holding anything in is not something children know how to do nor do they care to learn when they’re young.  Holding anything in is an adult practice.  They pulled up to the friends house finally but the phone rang and the person who was holding the playdate announced “I’m running late, I’ll be home in ten minutes.”  Ruh Roh.  So there they were stuck outside in a car with a kid who had to go – BAD.  “Daddy it burns it burns.”  Oh shit.  Literally.  So he scooped up his kid, found a bag in the back seat and took him behind the bushes where he held that bag under his kids butt and had his kid shit in a bag.  The only thing that upsets me about this entire situation is that there is no photographic proof.
     So if you ever have to go while driving and find yourself shitting in something other than a toilet – be comforted in knowing – you are not alone.  As for my friend – it was a Jenny Craig Diet Food Delivery bag.  So ironically  – for the first time ever – what was now in his bag probably tasted better than those cardboard hamburgers they hand out.

I See Fat People

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 When did everyone get a neck pillow?  Isn’t sporting that hideous foam stuffed inner tube the same as wearing a giant sign that says – “I’m a moron with a fanny pack for my neck?”  Every Tom, Dick and Douche had one on my flight back east and this I would like to point out – is just one of the problems of the Coach Class.  First of all – there is no class in coach.  There are only weird semi smelly people with too much stuff.  I used to be one of those people who laughed at the coach class while eating my hot cookie in a pod on a 777 airplane but being unemployed sent me back to steerage and I was not happy about it.
     Now I used to really love a good plane ride.  It gave me time to
ponder life’s really important questions like “Why is Rachel Bilson a style icon?” but I wanted this flight to be over – stat. My aisle mate was wearing mom jeans and his name was Bob.   The bathrooms were apparently cleaned with a new product called URINE and I had to cover my nose while peeing and sitting in the pee of the woman who went before me who forgot that sitting isn’t mandatory while urinating.   These were not the friendly skies of first class.
     My seatmates were also cause for concern.  I wasn’t sure if the man in my row was with his daughter or his kidnap victim.  She looked dirty and malnourished and he was chomping on a box of Good ‘N Plenty – the standard snack food of all pedophiles.  She flipped open her Macbook and revealed stickers of Amy Winehouse and the word “survival” plastered on the outskirts of her screen.  She started watching Marley and Me and sped through all the kissing scenes and I thought clearly this was a sign she’d be “interfered” with and I thought about alerting the stewardess to have airport security waiting but was overcome with the urge to steal the candy from the now sleeping “daddy.”  I love a good stale box of Good ‘N Plenty.  Eventually I realized the poor thing wasn’t all there when she started laughing at Ben Stiller in Night at the Museum. Everyone knows this is not a comedy.  We fought over the armrest.  She won.
     I was heading back east for a family gathering in Friendship Maine and I learned some very important things about the town and Maine in general right off the bat.  The “Croc” is the National shoe and the Whoopie Pie is the National treat and I believe these two things do go hand in hand.  The Croc is clearly the sturdiest shoe made by man because the hideous but colorful plastic clogs I saw were holding up people who have obviously been working hard to make the Whoopie Pie Maine’s number one snack.   I have never seen so many fat people in one place in my life. “The Biggest Loser” needs to pull into this town in a hurry and just set up a casting booth outside the Hannaford Supermarket. Holy poundage bat man it was mind boggling.   I also learned that anyone with a Subaru and a kayak was a lesbian and that a family fight at the local ice cream store Friendship Scoop was no laughing matter because they changed the once sweet sign in front of the store to now read “Whoopie Pies 8 for a dollar/ Liars go to hell.”
     My sister Wendy and brother in law Steve’s place in Friendship is – for me – a slice of heaven.  It encompasses two of my favorite things – the woods and water.  Situated in a dense tree filled area on the ocean it is by day peacefully stunning – and by night fantastically creepy.  I remember the days of my youth sitting around a campfire at Camp Indian Head as counselors told the tale of Cropsey – the man so ugly the townspeople burned his house to the ground killing his wife and children and maiming him forcing him to spend the rest of his life – and death – tirelessly roaming the woods killing children.  I’m not sure who deemed this a good story to tell little kids but every jewish kid I know – knows this tale.
     This weekend’s big acitivity in Friendship was “The Bake” and while a few people who shall remain nameless did take the pot – this is not what I’m talking about.  I’m referring to a clambake – and quite frankly – the New York Times needs to cover this puppy because I’ve never seen anything like it.  There was lobster, clams, haddock, hot dogs, potatoes, onions, and corn all covered in seaweed and foil and baked on an open fire on the beach.  Some Jews don’t eat shellfish.  We Jews made up for them.   There was some major S’more-ing and a drive by pie-ing or two and by the end of the night I was pretty sure I was gonna burst through my big girl pants.
     The best part of the weekend however were the intellectual conversations we had.  I learned my brother in law is desperate to find out what it smelled like at ground zero on 9/11.  Odd.  He said everyone talks about the smell and he just wants to smell it for a second.  We beat this to death for about ten minutes with every joke ranging from the obvious “eau de terrorist” to the cruel “burning flesh and steel.”  (I know – too soon.)  But this is how my family deals with every subject – with humor – taking anyone and everything down.  We also learned that said brother in law thinks Ashton Kutcher is the same person as Kato Kaelin when he asked if Ashton were part of the OJ trial and I’m pretty sure this was the Bake talking because my brother in law is one of the smartest people I know.  We had a very deep conversation about nursing homes where I learned that my sister does not want to be placed in one because she does not want to be pushed around in a wheel chair by someone who hates her and will possibly beat her and my niece Amy hates eating around fat people because she is terrified someone will have a PHA (public heart attack).
     My clothes still wreak of Bake and I survived four days without the internet though we did discuss U Porn intensely and I showed my family the incredible You Tube video of the paraplegic girl who raps a song called “My Vagina Ain’t Handicapped” on my Iphone.   Ahh the wholesome family weekend.  I flew home coach where the only hot cookie I was gonna get was the stray oreo trapped under my fat cologne stenched seat mates rear end.   I now have a lovely blue neck pillow and while it did not make my flight feel like first class, it was a fantastic addition to the suck ass seats.

Coffins Aisle Five

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 Do you have changes in mood and behavior, thoughts of suicide, a fever, stiff muscles, confusion, uncontrollable muscle movements, high blood sugar which can lead to coma or death, cataracts, increased cholesterol, weight gain, seizures, dizziness while standing, drowsiness, impaired judgement, trouble swallowing and decreases in white blood cells which can be fatal?  Well, you are either Jewish or taking Cymbalta.   I’m depressed just reading about what this anti depression drug can do to me.  The only thing it doesn’t say it could cause is anal leakage but at this point that sounds like party time compared to Cymbalta’s list.  Remember those anal leakage potato chips?  They were asstastic.  Who is the person eating Olestra right now?  You are a moron.
     Going to Costco can send me into a deeper depression than missing the shoe sale at Saks.  Yes, that abysmal.  They really should just rename the place the “Too Bad You Live Alone” store.  I want a 48 ounce can of crushed tomatoes.  I need a 175 ounce jug of Olive Oil.  In fact – I need two – and thankfully they come that way – joined together by that convenient plastic handcuff.   I promise myself I will make homemade pasta sauce for the entire neighborhood of people I don’t speak to with these ingredients and drop them into my cart with a thud that sends shockwaves throughout the massive supermarket warehouse.  I will never use these items.  I still have a 24 ounce jar of marinated artichoke hearts that I bought in 1875.  It has more dust on it than the tops of my paintings that my cleaning lady thinks I don’t know she doesn’t dust.  I know.  The frames have their own dust frames.
     I think taking someone to Costco is perhaps the simplest way of finding out if they are insane.  This should be a mandatory first date stop for potential couples.  Walk your new man or lady friend around the giant aisles filled with every product known to man and see if he or she picks up the Pro Curve Solar Panel Cleaning Kit and thumps it into a cart.  If they do – they may have a lifetime pass on the short yellow bus.  I would not be able to pass this nut bag test.  I need a drool cup when I see the sixteen pack of home made hash browns and the 75 pack of veggie burgers.  I haven’t ever bought the alien like truck load of king crab legs but I’m very close.  I just need to make space in the fridge.  This is what you buy right before they check you in to the mental ward. That’s who those people in white coats are back by the butcher section.  They are not meat people.
     I am truly horrified to admit the one type of item I have bought at Costco. Clothing.  I not only own a pair of Calvin Klein Capri pants but also a pair of Gloria Vanderbilt jeans.  I had to buy them.  They were fifteen dollars.  I once went to my local eyeglass store in my Calvin Capri’s and the woman working there also had them on.  She yelled at me and pointed “Costco!” and I dropped my head in shame.
     I want to love Costco more and shop there like families do buying up bulk items by the bulk,  but everything goes bad before I ever get to use it.   I want to be an Executive Club Member more than I want to be accepted at The Soho House so, I am now considering getting a husband and having kids so I can shop there more often. Costco is clearly the only upside to having a husband and a family.  I will pile everyone into our SUV in their best Crocs and Tevas and hit that place hard.  It will be our Mecca.   I will buy all the 42 pack sour patch kids my kids can eat.
People always tell me that they love going to Costco just to wander the aisles and eat the samples those wacko worker bees in shower caps are serving up.  Really?  Are you that hungry and cheap that you need a sixteenth of a burrito cooked on a slimy hot plate and served in a paper cupcake wrapper?  I am not a sample eater.  I don’t want anyone in baggy powdered gloves touching me, my cupcake wrapper,  or my one eighteenth of a cheese nugget wrapped around an almond.  I love when these Costco servers turn chef and start using two products to show you how you too can combine these great Costco products.  The last one I saw was frozen berries and waffles.  Jeffy the Retard was cutting his waffles into forty two piece portions and putting an unfrozen drippy raspberry on top of each into it’s little cupcake wrapper.  People were lining up like Jeffy was giving away free cars.  I would love to go to the pitch meeting where the Costco employees sit around and shout out their best food combo ideas.   “Hi I’m Julie from the meat department and I would like to try wrapping our Oscar Meyer hot dogs in our Kirkland bacon.”  Roars of applause!!!!  Julie is a genius!!
Someday I’m going to open a Costco for single people.   It will carry exactly the same portion sizes as a regular supermarket but it will be called “Costco Solo” and I will be the genius.

Men Behaving Badly

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 Elin Nordegren is dating again and it’s getting serious.  How is this even possible?  If there’s anyone I expected to be fucked for life in the love department – it’s Tiger’s ex – Elin.  How can a woman who’s husband banged the kind of chicks you need a Silkwood scrub for – pull herself together and get out there again?  I am ashamed of myself.   I’d be so one and done if I were the ex Mrs. Woods but she hit the man meat trail again and she nailed herself a rich one who’s even got a billionaire daddy.  Nice work for a girl who doesn’t even speak English.  Nanny’s everywhere are rejoicing and rethinking their career paths.
     If I were Elin the vagina shop would have gone into lockdown with a sign that said – exit only.  No visitors.  No passes.  No kidding.  I am the kind of girl who doesn’t forget easily but doesn’t confront readily.  If Tiger were my ex he would have gotten away with it all because I’d be hiding under my bed contemplating a name change while listening to Rosetta Stone French tapes and planning my exile to Ile de la Cite.  They have an awesome gelato shop there.
     Just this morning my physical therapist felt me up and I didn’t do a damn thing about it.   There I was innocently lying down on my paper sheet covered therapy bed when “Ham Hands Tom” copped a feel.  I’m sure if I had said something he would say he was just stretching out my broken shoulder when my boob got in the way but I’m telling you – it was a full on steal of second base and I had to pay ten dollars for it.   Thankfully the Writers Guild Health Plan stopped it from being a high dollar molestation.  I gave him that look like “we both know what you did” but he didn’t get the look.  He just said “what?”  By the way this is a mans answer to every problem you have with them when you give them the look – “what?”  I think they teach it in womb school – boys academy only.  Girls learn – “fuck off.”
     Men are constantly doing shit I don’t know how to respond to.  Yesterday the Toyota repairman said I needed a new battery.  I of course did not believe him because my father taught me never to trust a car salesman.  He also taught me to write my car price down on a piece of paper and slide it across the dealers desk when I was ready to buy but that hasn’t worked since Ritchie Cunningham got his license.   I’ll never know if I really needed a new battery because he told me that if I didn’t get one right then and there I would break down at the grocery store.  “If it doesn’t happen today – it will happen next week.”  I wasn’t so much afraid of breaking down as I was pissed that the only place this man thought I would be going was the grocery store.  I didn’t have a child seat in the back so why was the supermarket my only option for a destination?  What if I was a scientist and had to discover nuclear fusion later that day?  What if I was surfing instructor who only taught handicapped children to catch a wave and traveled to and from Malibu everyday?  Who did this shit fucker think he was? He was the guy who successfully sold this non confronter a 400 dollar battery.  I wish I had my friend Victoria’s dad with me.  He would have handled this a lot better. Whenever he goes with Vic to get a new lease and the topic of money comes up he always says – “walk away Victoria , it’s going to get ugly.”  I am not this bold.
     While my car was in the shop they “did me the favor of resetting my Prius computer.”  This was not a good thing.  This meant that all of the beeps on my car were back.  If you have a Prius then you know what I’m talking about.  It may be the most quiet car on the street but every thing has a beep.  The drivers side seat belt.  Reverse.  The passenger seat etc.   My friend Brian went online and found a website where some mental patient with too much free time figured out how to shut down the beeping computer in the Prius.  It was like a game of twister but far more challenging.   “In order to turn off the rear view camera beep – put your right foot on the gas and your left hand on the brake pedal and stick your head out the window while shoving the car in and out of neutral with your radio tuned to smooth jazz and that will shut off one beep.”   We spent hours in both of our cars doing this.  And in one fell swoop the beeps were back on.  Ugh
     I would like to be as outspoken as I am outwritten but I’m quite the chicken shit.  If I were more confrontational the black chicks in high school would not have been able to put Nair in my hair.  If I were more outspoken I would say out loud the things I think in my head and write on these pages. I would have informed the man I saw at the car wash that his wife beater t shirt was more of an “infit” than an “outfit.”  I would have told the woman at the supermarket that the shower gel she was buying was equivalent to using Tilex and I definitely would have told George Clooney that it’s his fault I got a pot bellied pig named Elvis back in the early nineties and had to give it to a farm because it did not like living in New York City and charged everyone who came to my apartment.  I didn’t see George yesterday but I could have.  I do live in Hollywood.

I Am Cranky

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   I shot a woman at the drug store this morning.  If my eyes were loaded… she’d be dead right now.  It wasn’t her fault.  After all,  how could she be to blame that I have my period again?  Fifty One is less than one month away so move over Nancy Grace because clearly my body is warming up to hold some triplets. I had to go buy tampons again because I throw all of mine out after each month thinking that I’m fooling the period gods and praying that I will be done with them forever but It’s never going to end.  I’m going to be in the Guiness Book of World Records for oldest living female still menstruating.  It will be the angriest photo in the book especially if they put me next to that longest toe nail record holder because that person really freaks me out.   Who decides to make that their life long goal?
     I’ve decided to start working out again like a maniac because I know that when girls (term is being used loosely calm the fuck down) are very athletic they stop getting their periods.   I will reshape myself into Kathy Rigby!!  Is she still alive?  I think I saw her doing a commercial for some kind of skin disease that makes you unable to leave the house unless you are wearing a Navahideous Indian poncho.  Could have been someone else but…
     Becky and I hit bootcamp this morning at 9:30.  I hadn’t been since I broke my arm in June.  Becky had been in China for a month so she was just as terrified to return.  We were greeted by the usual group of women in the Valley, awkwardly thin for their ages wearing not enough clothing and clearly doubling up on the spray tan sessions.  Orange is not a color of tan.  FYI.  There was Mrs. Man – the person whose gender we cannot identify and Anorexia Girl – the chick who should be eating a steak intravenously and has more fuzz on her back than a peach.  One woman smiled at me.  I growled back.  “I do not know you. Do not think we are workout buddies.”   Our favorite instructor Martin was teaching and in between the waves of nausea and the Katy Perry soundtrack – I think we did pretty good.  Nobody got hurt and the endorphins almost put me in a good mood which after my Target Missoni debacle is not an easy thing to do.  I thought – this is going to be a banner day.  And then we had lunch.
     What should have been a nice innocent stop in the sweet village of Larchmont turned into a blood boiling brunch that I need to take deep breaths after – and possibly a valium with a xanax chaser.  Even just writing about it makes me feel silly.  I’m talking about “Café Gratitude.”  This delightful little vegan spot in Larchmont serves dishes with the following names.  I AM THANKFUL, I AM PURE, I AM FULLFILLED, I AM DAZZLING, I AM CONNECTED, I AM BLAH BLAH SHUT THE FUCK UP.     Okay that last one isn’t on the menu but it was on MY menu.  Can’t I just get some fucking food?   I think the waitress was wearing a skirt of pressed granola and she definitely was a transfer from the san fran location because we do not grow or import people like this in Los Angeles.  Don’t get me wrong – the food is great but I don’t want to sound like an asshole when I order something to eat and there’s no way to sound like anything but when the words “I’d like the I am Magical to start and then the I am Extraordinary as a main course” come out of your I am an idiot mouth.
     I have decided to remain indoors for the rest of the day until the black cloud of me has passed over my head.  I am only going to text people and I am only going to use emoticons to do so.  Hopefully that little pile of shit with the eyes won’t be the only emoticon that comes up but I AM NOT HOPEFUL.

Fore Play

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  Guess where all the hot men in Los Angeles aren’t?  For those of you ladies hitting the links looking for a man – sorry – you will only find a small Asian lady and her equally small dog wearing a better outfit than yours.  It’s not that I’m obsessed with Asians – you just seem to be everywhere I go lately.  You need to cut it out.
     I went to hit a few balls at the driving range in Los Feliz yesterday with my friend Becky.  She has her own clubs.  This makes her very impressive to me.  I don’t have my own anything when it comes to sports unless you count a fly swatter which is an activity I excel at.  Golf always seemed like something I could handle, after all how hard is it to walk around in the sunshine with a bag of sticks?  As usual, I was wrong.
     First of all we had to carry our own clubs.  I flung the bag over my shoulder and got an eye roll and a snort from Becky.  How could I not know how to carry a bag?   I have purses the same size.  Apparently you don’t carry a golf bag like a Chanel tote.  Well excuse me.  I do not like sports that involve that much schlepping.  I asked for a cart.  Becky pointed to the driving range that was a mere 100 feet away.  I repeated my request for a cart or at least a hot caddy?  Not happening.  I also really wanted a cocktail.  Golf seems like a game that goes hand in hand with drinking, lots of drinking, and then possibly peeing in the cup, around the eight hole.   Since I can’t drink, this was another strike against golf.
     We hit the driving range first to see if I had any kind of swing.  Becky offered to teach me.  Then she forgot how to hold her own club.  This was not a good sign.  Then she forgot which hand her glove was supposed to go on.  This did not boost my confidence. Then she said,  “Maybe we need the Flesh Hacker?”  This is our nickname for her husband Seth.  That’s a loose translation of his last name.  He is a golfer.  We needed help.  Becky’s swing was terrific but let’s just say she won’t become a golf teacher anytime soon.  It was like having a monkey give me instruction because every time I swung and missed the ball I turned to find her pointing and laughing at me.  She might as well have thrown her poop.  I did make contact with the ball but only after I switched to a driver the size of my head.  “Isn’t this cheating?” I asked.   The guy next to me was hitting his balls with the equivalent of a Buick LaSabre,  which in my unprofessional opinion just didn’t seem professional.  He was getting a thwack on the ball that sounded truly satisfying but I don’t see how he could wheel his Range Rover sticks out onto a course and be taken seriously.  I gave up on the driving range after about a dozen balls.

     Then I hit the putting green… by myself.  It was sunny and beautiful and the green was gorgeous and I thought – I can do this!!  I missed the hole a total of fifteen times and gave up again.  I had no idea I was this athletically challenged.   The small dog even laughed at me.  I just couldn’t line up the ball with the hole while standing.  If I could lie down on the green and shoot it like a game of pool I could do much better.  I may try that next time, if the dog isn’t there.

Everyone Goops

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  Last night while a man was being executed for a murder many people believe he did not commit – I was being told of an equally horrific atrocity – a publicist who did not get her second gift bag at an Emmy party.  For some reason this particular Emmy party has a very desirable gift bag that includes must haves like Dr. Scholl’s Fast Flats that cost 9.99 at Target.   This woman was so outraged that she only got one ticket for one gift bag that she was overheard saying “I’m a publicist and I will tell every paper in this city what your are doing.”  I would love to hear that phone call.  “Hi, I’m a fucking hideous greedy bitch and I only got one free gift bag and you people need to write about that!”  Okay Nutella. Imagine what she could do if she used her power for good instead of evil.  She represents Celine Dion so I guess there is karma after all.
     Also discussed at length last night – why I should hate Gwyneth Paltrow.  Up until this point in my life I was very happy with my relationship with Gwynnie.  I thought she was a terrific actress and I never spent a second being jealous of her.  In fact – I enjoyed her very much.  I was told this would change if I looked at her website GOOP – which apparently I am the last person alive to read.
     GOOP is a website that tells you what you need to know to live Gwyneth Paltrows life.  It is high falootin’.  Even her font choice – this Garamond – is fancy.  But I was not deterred – after all – I have my own wick trimmer and as a child I had invisible twin midget brothers named Effie and Endrin who were very powerful businessmen who worked in the big city and had big meetings – so I was born with the high falootin’ gene.  The page includes topics like MAKE, GO, GET, DO, BE, SEE.   Under MAKE she says, “As a home cook, one of the best things I’ve ever done was to build a wood burning oven in the back yard.”  Okay, I don’t have a yard.  When discussing her favorite body products she wrote “I always stock up on these items when I’m in France or ask friends to bring some back when they’re passing through.”  I passed through Rite Aid yesterday and got some new toilet paper called the Mega Roll.  It seems like it will last one full year and I’m pretty happy about that.  Gwynnie tells you how to create her ideal cheese board by pairing Manchego and Quince Jelly and while I don’t know what those two items are it does sound delicious.  She also shows you how to get an outfit she wore at a photo shoot – the real outfit – not the Forever 21 version that looks like Tulip made it with her back legs.  She gives you her favorite trends like shorts that cost 250 dollars, a pillow for 150 and a briefcase for 375 dollars that I really want even though I don’t have a job.
     After perusing the website for a full hour I am here to report – I actually like her even more now.  Don’t get me wrong – including a picture of the free four thousand dollar suitcase Louis Vuitton “sent her” pissed me off because I want it – I’ll even take it with her initials on it.  I’ll tell people it stands for Gee Pretty Me.  But I can’t wrong someone for wanting to find the best things in life and sharing them.  At least she doesn’t do it in that Pope-rah Winfrey way where you want to kill yourself because you’re so wracked with jealousy over not being able to have her favorite things – like a private chef.  Gwyneth just sort of puts it out there.  Gwyneth may be perfect.
     This morning my friend Brian sent me a copy of a speech Steve Jobs gave where in it he said  – “If today were the last day of my life, would I want to do what I am about to do today? And whenever the answer has been “No” for too many days in a row, I know I need to change something.”  Well today I looked in the mirror and asked that question and got the answer – YES.  So if anyone out there is looking for a French Mastiff named Tulip – head on over to Ebay because I need to sell her to afford the Stella McCartney Jersey Dress Gwyneth likes.  It looks really comfy.

And Scene

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 “Who do you think was the first person to invent the idea of popcorn at the movies?” an old man asked me today at the Arclight in Hollywood.  My eyes hit the back of my head.  Thwunk.  Oh great – there’s a quiz.  All I wanted to do was go see a movie – by myself.  I had my hat pulled down low and I was crouched in the seat but this man stopped right at my crotch as he was making his way past me down the row to ask this incredibly probing I must have the answer right now question.  I tried to avoid all eye contact.  He looked at me deeper.  I finally said – “I have no idea.”  He sighed and moved on.  Nothing goes better with a giant I’m alone at the movies loser drink than a large bucket of I’m a mean asshole guilt.   I prayed for the trailers to begin.
     I wonder if you have to audition to be a movie usher at the Arclight because they seem to think it’s a very prestigious gig.   They are all very impressed with themselves and with the clever lines they clearly write and then practice over and over again in some root cellar somewhere like Rupert Pupkin.  I believe they believe this job will one day lead to big things.  They will be discovered by a Hollywood director or producer who just happened to go to “their” theater that day who will say “gee kid, you got something, I can tell, we should work together.”  I hate to punch your ticket to the Captain Obvious show right now  but I’ve been waiting for that to happen for the last fifteen years and I actually work in television.  I always want to interview these ushers and find out what their aspirations are… thier oeuvre – and of course find out how they craft their pre movie speeches.   Maybe they are hoping to graduate to Hollywood Boulevard and play Spiderman in front of Mann’s Chinese.    It could happen.
   Today’s clever ticket taker told us to “turn off anything that makes a noise ha ha” which unfortunately did not include the old woman next to me who I can only guess was being paid to repeat all of the dialogue as it happened.  “I’m going to call you later.”  “Oh he’s going to call her later.”  “This is the worst day of my life.”  “Oh it’s the worst day of his life.”  Why baby Jesus why?  I don’t know what’s worse at the movies – old people or eaters.  I love a couple who packs a six course meal individually wrapped in loud paper products or the people who turn their food box into a trough and start top cheffing it all over the place by mixing their raisinettes with their popcorn.  Crunch. Crunch. Oy.  As for my loud little seat mate – I did feel badly that she was by herself.   I could be her one day. And then it hit me.  Oh shit.  It’s my annual be nice to old people reminder.   We all get one.  We just aren’t always paying attention.  I’ve seen other people get theirs and have no fucking clue its happening and quite frankly I happen to think the old people reminder police are  getting lazy because lately it’s almost always at a parking meter.  They are standing behind an elderly woman who is staring at this thing like it just landed from another planet and is speaking in tongues and they just have no idea what to do.  “Do I use money?  Where’s the slot?  How do I know it’s working?  Where is my spot number?  Oh I didn’t look.  Where do I put that in?  Do I need to put that in now?  Murray!!!!”  The younger person is behind them harrumphing and sighing and oh my god don’t you know I have to get to Pinkberry!!!!!  I do think you should have to be retested for your drivers license when you can’t see over the steering wheel or you can’t figure out a parking meter but fuck – I’m about 2 weeks shy of 51 and I could easily be confounded by a piece of street equipment any day now.  You should see me at the ATM with this whole no deposit slip necessary thing.  And now I can take a picture of a check and email it to the bank to deposit it?  Okay really?  Will Judy Jetson be approving this for me?
     That’s how it works.   Tomorrow I will inexplicably start using the words “new fangled” and the day after I will be slumped over like the hunchback of Notre Dame and will never see my own shade of lipstick on my lips in the mirror again unless I hold the mirror between my legs  which is where most of the rest of me will be hanging anyway.   The End.

Defreinded Forever

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 My 15 year old Chihuahua Lola needs a full body lift.  She has massive amounts of hanging skin and she tells me she feels unattractive.  I’m not sure who she’s trying to please because no one’s been to her crate in years.  She’s been on a very serious diet ever since her overstuffed burrito like body got too big for her toothpick like legs.  She would stand at the bottom of the basement steps and just bark – too fat to get up the flight.  I would do this too if it would work – and if anyone would hear me.  I should probably get one of those “I’ve fallen and can’t get up” buzzers for both of us.  I would use it just to get out of bed though and I just fear that we’ll become the girl and girl dog who cry wolf a lot.  I have one of those old outdoor wheelchair thingy’s next to my house.  I believe it’s called a funicular which is an odd name because if you have to use it you are not having any fun in your life whatsoever.  It’s rusty and covered in weeds and stares at me like some sort of Senior Citizen Transformer but everyday I look at it and think “not today funicular, not today.”
     I have discovered a bizarre allergy to whatever it is they put in those sugar free candies.  Well not exactly an allergy… more like a reaction.   I ate an entire bag of sugar free starbursts and I had to hold a fart in while getting a facial and it really ruined the calming effects the facial was supposed to have.  It’s not easy holding in a fart, especially a sugar free fart.  They are very powerful.  I mean – it took all of my being to keep this particular piece of gas trapped.   There was a lot of legs crossed, butt clenched, seat moving… and my facialist thought I had some kind of palsey.  I held it in – for an hour and a half and I believe I have brain damage from this now… and I may die from the inside.
      I noticed today while on Facebook for about four hours of my life I’ll never get back that four people on my friends list – were dead.  This is extremely depressing .   What happens to their pages now?  They can’t deactivate them and I’m sure they didn’t give their passwords to anyone to deactivate it for them – no one would do that – these pages are precious to people.   What happens to their sites?  What if the last picture they posted of themselves wasn’t a good one and they look fat or had on a bad outfit?  What if their last status update said something stupid like – “god I wish this day would end.” I just think there needs to be some kind of Facebook Death Squad that comes in and does clean up for people who have passed away.  They can create some sort of an “In Memorium” page to live on forever that’s a combination of all the people and places and pictures you took.  I know I would want that.  They could update your status report to say nice things like – “heaven is awesome.  Saw my first dog Chips today.  He still remembers me.”  Or for people going to that other place “still hot today. Sweating.”   One of the people who died – Darryl – had this as his last status update “having my last surgery today – nervous.”  I hope he’s laughing now at the irony.  He seems to have been the type that would.   If someone out there is in charge of doing my page – please make sure people know the term “moron” was “ironic” and please take down all the fat pictures of me that my mean jealous ex friends posted.   Just use the new shots of Lola – she will be slim after her doggie plastic surgery.

You Talkin’ To Me

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 Note to all European-ish men: I have instituted a “Don’t Ask Don’t Smell” policy in the Los Angeles area.  This means don’t ask me anything because it means you are far to close to me and I don’t want to smell the Drakar Noir or whatever it is you just took a bath in this morning.  Your cologne needs volume control and you need to turn it down to eleven.  There is nothing I love more than a man who smells great and nothing I love less than an overpowering cologne when I’m trapped in the elevator at CB2 on Sunset.  I just want an odd shaped yellow bowl and now I have a headache and thank you for burning out the few nostril hairs I didn’t take care of at the last waxing.  Yes I shove hot wax up my nose just in case something grows.  People say I’m crazy to do this and that your nose hair is there to protect you but I don’t need that kind of protection. Have you ever seen a woman with nose hair?  I have and she is hideous.
     A new study came out today that said that one in every 25 people is a psychopath.  That means as of right this second there are at least 8 people reading this that have the potential to kill me.  Craptastic.  I played find the psycho all morning on my Facebook page and I haven’t picked you out yet but I am very very close.   One click of the “like” button on that  “How I Met Your Mother” page and you will be snuffed out immediately.   I thought for sure the homeless man I see everyday was one of the 8 people who had gone on some murderous rampage.  He was missing for days.  I actually got really worried because I had seen John everyday for quite a few years and all of a sudden he was no longer at his spot.  I started asking the guys who were now standing in his spot if they had seen him.  I would have had more success just driving around yelling his name out of my car window because these people did not know John.  These people did not know even know their own names, or where they were, or that a person was speaking to them.   I said “This is Johns corner do you know what happened to him?”  One guy said – “Maybe he found a better place to stand.”  Really?  Better than the exit ramp at Gower right near the Scientology Celebrity Center?  I think not.  I mean Tom Cruise, John Travolta or Kirstie Alley can swing by this spot any day.  This was a cushy position.  Something funny was going on and I tried to get to the bottom of it but to no avail.  I thought about enlisting the help of the Scientology Center but I didn’t want to get E metered or alien probed or whatever it is they do to people that make them all wear the same outfit and not tell the truth.  Finally today John was back in his spot with a cast on his arm.  I thought – shit, he got in a fight over his great location.  “Oh my god John what happened?”  “I fell down” he said.  Duh.  John likes to drink.
     There is a man who sweeps outside the hardware store in my neighborhood and he talks to himself – constantly.  I am fascinated by him and everything he has to say.  Last night he even came into the supermarket while I was there and started saying something about his grandfather and a typewriter and white trash.  I think he was trying to write a sitcom for CBS.   God I wanted to know what was going on in his head so badly.  The checkout kid told me he used to work for Channel 5.  Well that explained everything.
      Sometimes it’s hard to tell who’s famous and who’s mentally ill.  I dated a celebrity once.    He isn’t on television right now but he was every week – for years.  He broke my heart and then had the nerve to permeate my airwaves for well over a decade.  He got married had babies and went on other television shows to talk about his great life which was the exact same life he told me he’d never succumb to.   I saw him once at the Golden Globes and said hi.  He looked and me and said “I’m sorry what’s your name?”  I almost kicked him in his very tiny penis.  He was clearly mental.  He didn’t choose me.  He smelled really good.

Happy Jew Year

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  Leann Rimes must have temporarily lost her mind to let her cheater husband go to work everyday on a television show where he’s surrounded by incredibly hot women in bunny outfits with boobs bursting out of their boobs and who’s job it is to seduce him.  Did she forget how she met him?  She can’t be that retarded can she?  I know stars have ginormous egos but come on!   “It’s cool honey, we’re just acting. Do you know how awkward it is to shoot a love scene with all of those crew members watching?  It’s the most unromantic thing ever.  Well yes I put my penis in her to make it look more authentic on camera but it doesn’t mean anything.”  And scene.
     I once dated a cheater.  He was a model.  He was magnificent looking.  He was a mental midget.   It’s amazing the level of idiocy you can reach when you have low self esteem and a hot man starts circling your orbit.   I started thinking he was dabbling in other vaginas a few months into our relationship but I could never prove it and I was far too terrified that any confrontation without proof would make him mad and leave me.   In the beginning I was always afraid he’d leave me– in the end I was afraid he never would.  I was also afraid of the gun he had and once pointed at my head because I was “arguing with him.”  Okay I don’t make great choices in men.  This we know.  One day he went to a friends wedding without me because I had to work.  A few weeks later this friend asked me to edit the videotape of her wedding and there it was right before my eyes the thing I knew was happening all along – my boyfriend making out with some whore in the background of some testimonial some family member was giving.  Gotcha!!  Tears.  Vomiting.  Sadness.  Etc.  I lost my shit.  I went home and changed the locks immediately.  I packed up all of his shit and piled it in front of our apartment door.  I left a note – “go live with the chick in the video.”  I heard him outside the door for what felt like hours.  He was probably trying to teach himself to read.  He moved in with that girl and I was miserable.  I actually took him back.  Then I found my brain and my soul and threw him out for good.  Jealousy is way more than a green eyed monster – it’s a giant heart eating beast.   What a horrible way to spend your day – worrying that the person you love is loving someone else.
     It is Rosh Hashanah right now – or pretty close – I can’t remember because Jews move it around too much.  The words translate into – the head of the year.  It is also known as the day of judgement – something I am very good at.   I can’t help but judge people – they make it so easy.  In Kaballah they teach you that bad thoughts for other people will just bounce off of them and come right back to you.  That’s a lot of bouncing going on for me.  I’m pinging shit around like mad.  Sometimes I have to close my eyes when I walk around or I’ll just fall down from the ricochet of bad thoughts flying off of my brain.  If something good happens to someone that you don’t like or feel doesn’t deserve the good thing you are supposed to say to yourself “there is room in the world for good to happen to everyone” but try and do that while your stabbing someone with your tongue.  I need Martha Stewart  to come create a new filing system in my head so I have room for a few good thoughts about people I want to see fail.  Maybe I can get a coach to run behind me and yell “focus on the good!!” as I make my way through the world.  It’s hard being lost at fifty and wondering if you’re making the right choices.  It’s also quite difficult being a jealous judgemental border line mental patient.
     In honor of the New Year I’m going to make a few resolutions today other than the ones I have on tap for January 1st.  Those are – to create a skunk that sprays real perfume by replacing the stinky sack with a Chanel Number 5 sack and to stop buying furniture I have to put together myself.  I spent five hours on a shelf unit last night and still have one piece left over.  I don’t know where it goes and I don’t know if it’s important.   Irony.  Smack.

Missoni Impossible

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  A little boy at Target pulled his junk out in the middle of the store yesterday and his mother called his father to have him deal with it.  “You have to talk to him about this.  He did it again.”  She then handed the kid the phone and kept walking to buy whatever it was she needed so badly she couldn’t tell her kid to pull his pants up and stop showing his penis in public.  I don’t know why she bothered – he’s going to be doing this the rest of his life.  I think it’s in the manual that comes with that part.
    It was a brilliant but flawed concept.  “Let’s hit all the Targets in the neighborhoods where nobody knows who Missoni is.”  Translation – Whittier, Downy, Norwalk, Pico Rivera and Santa Fe Springs here we come.   I have no idea where Santa Fe Springs is but I can tell you the name does not match the location.  It’s called one of the gateway cities to Southeast Los Angeles but it’s a gateway that should remain closed.  There are no Springs in this Santa Fe and you won’t be picking up any local mud from a rejuvination spa unless they’re doing facials at Vons Supermarket – the number one employer in Santa Fe Springs.  What this town does have – is a massive Target.   Enter Suzanne.
     “Ahhhhhhhhhhhhh!!!!” she shrieked and was off towards the house wares department, her massive shopping cart screaming through the brightly lit store.  “They have plates!”  Suzanne started dumping plastic Missoni dinner ware into her cart like she was on Supermarket Sweep and only had ten seconds left on her clock.  I don’t think Suzanne even uses plates.  “Score!” she shouted as I tried to hide behind the bedding.  Then she whipped around and pointed at me.  “Look! Bedding!”  She grabbed a comforter she already owns and a matching duvet cover – both too bright in purples and hot pinks.  If a Missoni elf vomited on her bed – this is what it would look like.  Suzanne was flush and starting to sweat.  It turns out Santa Fe Springs is a gateway after all…  a drug that fueled Suzanne on to three more Targets – me in tow.
  The second store we hit had a sad looking rack of Missoni with a bunch of random mismatched things on it.  There were children’s rain boots size two, a camisole, a childrens small coat,  a ski cap,  a very tiny adult sweater and what seemed to be the ultimate score… dozens of journals.  She bought everything.  Suzanne was clearly getting ready to write War & Peace 2.  This kind of activity went on all morning.  I felt like we were on a Reality show – some sort of combination of Amazing Race and Project Runway and Suzanne was hearing Tim Gunn shout “make it work Suzy” as she raced through the store. “Neck pillows!”  I heard coming from the luggage aisle at our third stop.    By the end of the day my trunk was filled with enough plastic bags to start a homeless person.  Finally Suzanne revealed to me her plan.  “I’m selling it all on Ebay.”  Suzanne is a fucking genius.
     I am going to live off of the contents of my house.   I am going to go deep into the collection of My-ssoni and start selling off my shit.  I can pay down the mortgage one Chanel bag at a time.  The gas man is getting Louboutin and the electric bill will be covered by Prada.  Everytime I have to pay someone something I am marching my ass into my material crap stuffed closet and then straight to a consignment store.  I can out shoe Carrie Bradshaw and those shoes can be yours.  I will storm one of my six closets and say Lanvin – today you die but you die for a good cause – the cell phone bill.  I may need a Zanax to part with my stuff but who needs stuff when you don’t have anywhere to go.
     I used to date a guy who was exactly like that kid at Target.  He used to get me to look at his poop every day.  I don’t know how he did it but he would figure out some way to get me in the bathroom time and time again and point in the bowl and go “look.”  He would fall down on the floor laughing because I always fell for it.  “Oh my god I cut myself” he’d shriek and in I’d run.  I found out yesterday that he had triple bypass surgery.  It broke my heart.  Thankfully, he is now happier and healthier than he’s ever been and it’s highly likely that he has no idea who Missoni is.

Will Write For Food

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  I set a bunch of traps last night in my yard.  I don’t have any animals caught yet but I’m hoping I get some soon because the local skunk guy is hot.  I mean – hot enough to ignore the fact that at the end of the day he smells like cancer. Every time I get a whiff of skunk in the neighborhood I put on makeup and wrestle with the curling iron because I know – Marco is coming.  Some girls would have a problem dating a man that traps possum and raccoons and sets them free in the wild.  I say – when the going gets tough – this man will put food on my table… food that may or may not taste like chicken.   Marco is doing what he loves so who am I to mock him other than someone who mocks everyone.
     I hate to say this but Andy Rooney is a dickhead.  Last night the icon said goodbye to a lifetime of annoying the shit out of me reporting shit that annoyed him by saying this about his fans who took the time out of their lives to write him a letter – “It’s a certain kind of person who writes you and they’re not my kind of people.”  Way to go out old man.  If I got a Facebook friend request tomorrow from Casey Anthony I’d click that shit fast.  If a kid killer wants to spend her time hiding from the press, flat ironing her greasy hair,  and reading The Book of Moron I’m going to say thumbs up Casey!   Andy should have kept this particular thought in his 92 year old head and be grateful for every fan he had though who knows what happens at that age – maybe all orifices just open up and start spewing shit.  I’m sure I’ll need some sort of plug system.
     Thinking about changing your career when you’re older is an interesting idea and by interesting I mean pretty fucking stupid.   At least I’m not a failed reality star trying to assimilate back into society.  I can’t wait to see Mike the Situation flash me his abs when he’s behind the teller glass at Bank of America.   You know that money counting machine is gonna fuck him up – bad.  Starting over for me means finding someone who really believes in me and what it is that I write – aka – an agent.  In Hollywood that means – I’m fucked.  This is a town looking for magic in a bottle but it wants the magic some other guys bottle has and doesn’t really want to put it’s neck out looking for some new magic.  I once had a high powered Hollywood agency.  They sent me a Christmas present – a box of pencils and notebooks that said things like “create, dream, believe.”  They should have used it to write me a ransom note because they were holding my career hostage.
      The hardest thing to do when you’re a creative person is work without feedback.  To get up everyday and write in a vacuum and be your only critic is extremely challenging.  It can be downright painful to believe in yourself when yours is the only voice you hear and that voice is slightly mental and possibly belongs to one of your “other” personalities.   I am grateful for everything I have and no longer desperate for everything I don’t.  I am opening my roads to things I used to say no to.  I am still not willing to date a man with a mustache because I believe only police officers and 70’s porn stars should have those.  The goatee is acceptable and quite frankly – a plus – because it makes you look like you might spank me and I haven’t tried that yet.   I bet Skunk mans a spanker.

Teen For A Day

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  I failed one of those magazine quizzes this morning.   You know the kind you find in Cosmopolitan magazine that tells you “How to know if your man is cheating on you” or “How hot are you between the sheets.”   I love taking these because if you’re a woman who wants to really dig deep into your soul and find out what kind of person you are or if your relationship is in trouble – Cosmo is a dead on factual encyclopedia of answers.  I believe Cosmopolitan magazine has its finger on the pulse of the modern day woman as long as that woman isn’t over thirteen.   Consider the new story in the mag just this week called “Shit My Guy Says” a.k.a. hilarious things your boyfriend tells you.  One woman offered this gem from her “guy” – “Your breast feels like a pound of deli meat.”  I laughed so hard I almost threw up.  Or maybe I just threw up.  First of all – the term “guy” went out back when Mad Men were real and not a television show.  Second of all if your “guy” tells you your breast feels like deli meat you should kick him in the balls and tell him it feels like kicking him in the balls.
     The quiz I took today was to find out what would spark a conversation with me.  I can already tell you what that is (talk about me) but I decided to take it anyway.  I guess I must have lied a few times while clicking what seemed like a few innocuous boxes because here’s what it said about me when I was finished.
                                YOU ARE A TECH GURU
I’m sorry?
It went on to say…
Uhm, did my dog Tulip jump in at some point and click a few boxes?
     I am the kind of person who says “no” immediately to a new idea.  Eventually I will come around to it but I am not a person who walks around going – Yes I will try to use the new rock that’s really a deodorant!  Just last night I realized for the first time in my entire life that cream cheese is actually “creamed cheese” and now I can never eat it again.  I mean, what kind of cheese is it that’s creamed?  It sounds disgusting to me now.  This is not the thought of a rebellious person.  When it said emotional spirit do they mean someone who weeps at weird commercials and can’t make it through an episode of Extreme Home Makeover without a large box of tissues?  I heard a bunch of kids tossing around the phrase “obvi” last night.  This is what’s wrong with kids today (my mother wrote that line) they are too lazy to even use the full word “obviously.”  Someone who is fun to be around would not feel this way, would they?
     Tomorrow is my reverse Quinceanera.  For those of you not familiar with the Quinceanera – it is the celebration of a girls fifteenth birthday in parts of Latin America – which I believe includes California.  In honor of this esteemed birthday I am going to make a few changes in my old woman self and try to embrace a few youthful things to become less of my lying quiz like self and more like my quiz results.  I will start by getting a Hello Kitty piñata and filling it with condoms since thanks to Cosmo I know 15 year olds are really into sex.  I will text message boys all day long things like “totes” , “K”, “omg” and “lol”.  I will spend 24 solid hours on Facebook and change my status report to say something youthful like – “Am I having a great birthday? Obvi”

My Claus Are Out

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
Am I supposed to start drinking Yakult now?  They had tastings of it lined up in little Dixie cups at the supermarket last night but they looked like semen samples to me.  Maybe Gelson’s is starting a side business for single ladies looking to get pregnant but I didn’t see any signs other than “try me” like some weird Alice In Wonderland display smack in the middle of the dairy aisle and I was not about to drink that.  I don’t know what age you have to be to start slugging back the milky midget bottles but I don’t want to have to ask for anything that makes me sound like Sgt. Schultz.  I think they brought back the guy who named Ayds Diet Candies for this product and they really need to start over and while they’re at it – add some food coloring.  I think Jamie Lee’s Doodie yogurt is probably selling a lot better.
     It’s raining in Los Angeles today, which is extremely unusual.  This is the kind of town that likes to burst into flames a couple of times a year from dryness so it’s nice that we’re getting a good soak. Of course I’m a spiritual narcissist so I’ve turned the rain into something that has a much deeper meaning – to me.  I believe this water is my birthday water and is washing away what has been one shit ass year. (It’s also taking care of a little issue I am having with Peaches who no longer likes peeing in her dog run and has turned my patio into a fecal war zone.)  I believe because it is my birthday – the most important man in the world is out there listening to me today and so I have finally decided for the first time in my life – to write him a letter.
     Dear Santa,
Let me start out by saying – I think you’re awesome.  I’m writing to you after all these years because quite frankly I don’t where the Jewish letters go.  No one’s ever given me a name or an address.   I know it’s weird to get one of these from my people but to tell you the truth I’m more Jew”ish” than Jewish.  I was raised by Jewish Supremacists so they never allowed me to contact you.  They are Santa haters.  They’ve never burned a Rudolph on a cross or anything like that but you know what I mean.  I’m sorry I always used an X to shorthand the word Christmas.  It’s rude.  I know I’m a little early but they move that Channukah around so much that I don’t know when it is and I don’t want to get lost in all the Christmas mail because I’ve seen what goes down at that time of year and it’s not pretty.  I don’t know what Jesus was thinking when he allegedly started the whole thing but I don’t think it was bicycles and Nintendo.   I don’t really have a “list” of things I would like you to handle but more of an overall zzzuzzzhing.  If you want to hand this one off to the elves or Mrs. Claus I totally get it.   Here we go.
     I would like a new vagina because I believe mine is broken.  For the past undisclosed amount of years it has stopped working and when it was working it chose really bad men or when good ones came along it did not respond well.  Maybe you have the authority to check on this but I think I got some test retractable vagina they were working on back in the fifties because I’m quite sure it pulled away from a few keepers like the one I broke up with because he had really ugly feet or the one who didn’t know that his favorite movie was a book written by a little known author named William Shakespeare.   I know it doesn’t come with batteries so it’s not dead but even the things that do come with batteries are not bringing it back to life.  Should I take it outside and bury it?  I know a new vagina is not something the kids usually ask you for but sometimes I get worried I’ll fall down and no one will know and I think if I had a new lady part I’d start looking for love.  I also really need someone to help walk the dogs.   Thank You Fat Man.
Much Love,
The Moron
P.S. – I think you should hand out mirrors this year so that everyone can start blaming the right people.

You May Now Kiss The Child

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
 I saw a really hot 13 year old at Taco Bell yesterday.  It’s right across the street from his school playground.    Tomorrow I’m going to sneak a note into his breakfast burrito and see if he wants to meet and make out after gym or math class or science lab.  Is that wrong?  Everyone seems to be doing it and the jail time doesn’t seem that bad if you get caught.  I’m sure I’d make some great female friends behind bars and maybe dating a hot kid will keep my mind off of aging and make me feel younger.  It worked for Mary Kay Letourneau.  She is one fucked up individual.  I did a few too many shoots with her and her now husband Villi Fualaau a couple of years back.  I actually went to their wedding. That was a pig fuck.  Her kids from her first marriage were there and they were older than the groom.  Dr. Drew should have been at the altar simultaneously counseling them as they were saying their vows.  She seemed stoned or high on something all the time.  She spoke really slowly and said crazy things like – “Isn’t he so hot.”  Uhm no – he’s a child.  One day I was chatting with Villi in the kitchen.   I’m sure we were discussing something really sexy like “What do you want to be when you grow up Villi?”  and Mary Kay shot me a death stare that truly terrified me. I mean this bitch went to prison – twice – because she wanted this 13 year old Samoan boy so badly.  She’d definitely cut me.  She asked one of the production assistants – “Who’s the redhead.”  Yikes.  I stopped communicating with him after that.  I read that police were called to their house after they got married because the neighbors heard gun shots.  Turns out they were just throwing a party and shooting off guns – for fun.  Who are these people and why are they allowed to have children?
     People fall in love with the wrong people all the time and then pro create. Sometimes they are celebrated by constant media coverage like that creepy actor from “The Green Mile” and his equally creepy supposedly child bride who looks older than me.  I feel bad for the kids who end up with these totally fucked up parents who will for a fact be divorced seconds after the semen that creates them is ejaculated.    Getting married before you know who you are should be outlawed and having a child with an idiot should be against the law.  Sometimes when I see sweet little kids attached to the hand of what truly appears to be a complete nut fuck – I want to steal it.  Mary Kay and Villi had kids.  Imagine explaining their past to these innocents one day.  “Well we met at school when your daddy didn’t even have pubic hair.  I went to prison for raping him and that’s where I gave birth to you.”  What a great legacy.
      I was pregnant once.  I had an abortion on Yom Kippur.  This is taking atonement of ones sins to a whole new level.   I wasn’t a kid but I was dating someone who should not have children because he was retarded.  Not clinically.  I went by myself to the women’s center because the douche bag would not go with me.  It was the high holidays so I had to go to my parents house for dinner hours after having whatever you believe it is vacuumed out of me.  That was an awesome meal.   “What did you do today?  Pass the challah please.”  I’m glad I have a choice but that’s one choice I don’t want to ever have to make again and thankfully I never have.  He would be 26 years old right now which means – I could date him.

Reply Asshole

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   I am a world class asshole.  If there is a bridge that needs burning I’m your mouth filled with dynamite.  Norma Rae was a pussy compared to me – because not all the injustices I scream about – are justified.  Have you ever noticed that the second you scream at someone you will be proven an idiot?  I’m not talking about a fight where you are both screaming at each other – though it’s great if you can be the one non screamer because you’ll totally win.  I mean the kind of screaming where you walk into the dry cleaner and they say you’re stuff isn’t ready and you lash out at them like a dingo who didn’t get to eat any babies.  It is inevitable that the dry cleaner will show you the ticket that says you are there on the wrong day.  Kaballah tought me a few good things when I studied there like envisioning a giant “Pause” button you hit before you lash out on someone.  I broke mine within the first twenty four hours.
     One of my greatest screamer moments was courtesy of my drunk Norma Rae when I left a decibel level 13 message on a boyfriends  answering machine.  It was something to the effect of “I hate you, you’re an asshole, I hate you, go fuck yourself, die, you’re an asshole, blah blah clunk sleep.”  I of course did not remember doing this but it was hard to forget when he played it back onto my answering machine the next day.  I didn’t even recognize my voice.  But I did recognize his at the end of the message that said “Next time, tell me how you really feel.”  Well Kenny – I feel like an asshole.
     The scariest invention to come with the computer and email is the “Reply All” button.  How many times have you digitally raped that poor little key by accident.  I live in fear of group emails.  I am terrified of the Reply All button.  If you press it you are guaranteed to send something hideous to someone.  I was working with two guys on a project once and one of them emailed me something about working with the other and our schedule for the day and the others name was included in the “CC” column.  I of course being the kind of person who spews before she speaks or types before she thinks didn’t notice this and wrote “Mark is an asshole and lazy and I’m sick of working with him.” REPLY ALL.  Oh dear.    Mark and I aren’t as close as we used to be.
     Talking shit about people will also force the great life mirror right up in front of your face and the reflection is not pretty.  I cannot help myself on this one.  If the words I say behind someone’s back could stab them in the front – I would have a body count that makes the Iraq war look like a fucking tea party.  If you have wronged me – I will kill you with my mouth.  This becomes particularly embarrassing when you become friends with that person again and spend your entire time with them worrying that they know you called them terrible things and wished that they would die of cancer.  Like I said – no tea party with me.
      Tomorrow I am going back to a job that ended so hideously I think my name and photo were at the gate for the past eight years in case I did a drive by with a gun.  I did not wish cancer on this person and thank god because she was the first person to call me after my loudest Norma Rae moment ever – offering help.   I guess I didn’t blow this bridge up quite as successfully as the others.  I have zero regrets about all the standing I’ve done in all of the imaginary lunch rooms screaming fuck you.  I hate bullies, despise selfishness, try to have integrity and always defend the underdog  –  but this town is very small and it’s becoming inevitable that I will end up in a meeting somewhere with someone I have called a fucktard or a douchenozzle or some other sort of assholic name.   Tomorrow will be the very definition of uncomfortable.  I will be having that “Pause” button tattooed somewhere – like my forehead.


Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
  I know how that drunk mommy who lost her kid feels.  I can’t remember a thing either and I don’t even have the excuse that I’m high as a kite.  If my dogs weren’t so big I’d probably lose them.  In fact – I think it’s official.  I have Old Timers.  By the time I get to the end of this sentence I won’t even remember what it is I started writing about.   I leave the upstairs of my house with an idea and by the time I get to the bottom of the steps I have no idea what that idea was and why I now am where I am.  I’m like that mobster who roamed the streets of New York in his bathrobe but at least I’m wearing mine in the house.   I write myself notes and forget to read them.  It is infuriating and quite frankly – exhausting.  Yesterday it took four trips just to get home from the office.  First stop – the grocery store.  When I got home with groceries I realized I forgot dog food.  I went to the dog food store and when I got home I realized I got the wrong dog food.   I went back to the dog food store and brought home the right food only to realize I forgot half and half from the grocery store so it was back there and then finally home.  It was mind numbing and I will never get that time back.  I could have created a new smart phone, or computer app, or sewn a new bath robe.   I am so paralyzed with fear by what I can’t remember that I’m afraid to think about it because I’ll forget to be paralyzed with fear.  How is it possible that I know by heart my computer codes, my bank codes, my facebook login, all of my credit card numbers and the phone numbers of staff members from jobs I no longer work at but I can’t remember to buy cream while I’m standing in the dairy aisle.  Clearly I need a dust buster to do a once over in my brain.
     The other new problem I have that I’m sure is connected to “the pause” or at least the “prequel to the pause” is the fact that I’m basically a bed wetter.   My bed is a swimming pool.  I sweat so much at night that I’m drenched in the morning and I don’t think I’m sleep running. I may forget a lot of things but I’m pretty sure I’d remember if I got up – hit the treadmill – then went back to bed.  I’d also be way thinner.

Dressed To Spill

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
     I got a pap smear yesterday from a  toddler in a tiara.  I didn’t have a choice –that’s what my gynocolgist was dressed up as for Halloween.  There’s something very disturbing to me about adults in costume especially when that adult is someone I’m supposed to trust.  All of my favorite television shows had Halloween episodes too.  It’s confusing to me that a holiday about dressing up as a ghost and handing out candy is more revered than the highest of Jewish Holidays like Yom Kippur or Rosh Hashannah but I guess if Matzoh were made of chocolate more people would pay attention to Passover.   The Jews need to rethink their holidays in general and make them more appealing to the masses.  Maybe some celebrity who’s willing to admit they’re Jewish could host an annual Yom Kippur bash and everyone could dress as a sin.  I would dress as Justin Timberlake’s agent because anyone that keeps getting him movie roles should be arrested. His newest movie “Time I’ll Never Get Back” is proof that my dog Zoey and Brian’s dog Honey are collaborating on scripts from heaven.  He may have had just four minutes to save the world but it took him two hours to ruin my entire weekend.  Robin Quivers on the Howard Stern show said she thought this movie was fun so I have been forced to start a letter writing campaign to Howard to prove he needs to have her taken away in a straight jacket because she has in fact clearly lost her mind.   The only fun thing about this movie was the end when the lights came up and I got to drive home.
     I think my Prius is jinxed.  I’ve never had an accident in all of my years as a driver until I got this car and now I’ve had five.  I also realized that when I’m done paying for it – it will cost me 45,000 dollars… and no it is not a Prius dipped in gold dust… I just made a major chick deal when I got the car.     I’m not sure if I’m to blame for all of the accidents because I was usually too busy texting to see who’s fault it was but today my fender bender was definitely not my fault despite the fact that the woman in the car in front of me tried to use her toddler in a car seat as an excuse that she was not to blame  “My daughter is terrified.”  Oh really?  Maybe you should have thought of her before you slammed your brakes on in the middle of the street.  And by the way my favorite louboutin wedges are ruined from my diet breakfast shake that flew all over the car so tell your kid she won’t even remember this when she’s my age but I’ll never be able to replace my shoes.   Now I’m wearing chocolate stained pants and shoes all day at work and I’m starving because that was my big meal of the day..  The whole thing makes me wish I was dressed as a cop because I definitely would have arrested her ass and possibly cuffed her kid.

Wipe Me

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

When I see something I want in life, I go out and grab it – unless that something is John Hamm, Ryan Gosling or a career as a scripted writer.  These do not seem to be go out and grab items.   However, when I stumble upon something that looks like I need to own it – I will hunt it down with a zeal usually reserved for finding a husband.  I had to have one of those black and white jew killing scarves everyone is wearing but mine had to be authentic so when I was in Egypt I bought one at a flea market and asked the salesman if he wanted to keep the head ring it came with since I didn’t think I’d be using it anytime soon.  If I didn’t have two body guards with me at the time – there would have been a jihad.  He was pretty insulted.  I did try it on with the ring first.  I wanted him to see that I was at least thinking about it as a style statement.

My most beloved two products are unfortunately unavailable in the United States.   They are only available in London.  I live about as far from London as I possibly could and while I don’t think I’ll be moving there anytime soon I am contemplating a move to New York City where I could easily fly to London for a weekend and scoop up buckets of my must haves.  Boots Cucumber Make Up Remover Wipes are the crack cocaine of beauty products.  I packed an entire suitcase full of them the last time I was there and had to pay 50 bucks extra for the bag.  I’m almost out and I’m starting to sweat about it.  When I die – I want to be wrapped in single sheets of these so that I always feel refreshed in the afterlife.  They cost 2 dollars a pouch and seeing them stacked up in my cabinet gives me more pleasure than a high speed pocket rabbit.  I love them so much… I want to marry them.

The other item is Floris Lime, Lemon, Mandarin Body Wash.  This product can only be found at the Hotel Dorchester in London.  Now if you want to know how amazing this ultra foaming shower gel is then sell your house and use the money to pay for one night there and lather it up!  I brought a few home from a trip and then realized I couldn’t live without it so I found a sticky fingered maid online who steals it for me and ships it to me – cheap.  If I go back to London I’m going to knock over a cart while they’re changing my sheets – for sure.  I hope she doesn’t get caught and not because I”m afraid what will happen to her – I’m that addicted to the gel.  I may give up showering if I ever run out.  The tubes are starting to deplete… and I’m starting to worry.

I recently discovered that dogs have no idea what daylight savings time is and they continue to wake me up at the hour they always did… which is now … an hour too early.   The only thing that saves them from being euthanized is the fact that just steps away from their annoying let me out to take a shit whine is the knowledge that a cucumber wake up wipe and a refreshing lime lemon mandarin shower is just seconds away.  It’s the little things people.

What A Douche

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
    “This is a really lovely horse.  I once rode her mother.”
                                                Ted Walsh Horse Racing Commentator
     This is what’s wrong with me.  I got that joke in the mail this morning… from my mom.  It was actually a list of 12 double entendres that aired on the radio. Another gem from a weightlifting commentator – “I saw her snatch this morning and it was amazing.”  It’s not easy growing up crazy or in my case British.  My parents are English and the Brits have an amazingly twisted dry sense of humor.  I was raised on Monty Python and the one time I got to meet and hang out with Michael Palin was akin to spending the night with Jesus.  They were comedy gods to me.  However, when you’re sense of humor is born out of the Knights who say Ni and the Argument Clinic what you find funny is usually quite different than others and may explain why I’m convinced that “How I Met Your Mother” is actually a series of instructional videos on how not to make a sitcom.
     In an effort to find some funny, I had dinner last night with some old friends. Since my body’s new motto is clearly “leave no cellulite behind”, before I went to the restaurant I studied some photos of Nicole Ritchie.  She is my new thinspiration.  She used to be a chunker and is now supermodel thin – aka – anorexic.  She is gorgeous.  I got dressed up – aka – put on heels – only to face plant on my front steps after sliding in Tulips dinner.  Apparently she’s bulimic. The restaurant was in the heart of Hollywood so within ten minutes the central casting bus for douche bags pulled up and in strolled a group of guys in ski caps.  Hi hot weather.  I guess there’s some storefront in Los Angeles where they hand that outfit out.  Idiots Are Us?  The leader of their pack Wilma Valderama was there.  She’s weird.   She’s dating Demi Lovato now who’s like – 12 – and some kind of an addict.  That’s the kind of chick a chick like Wilma needs… so low on ego she’ll find him attractive.   Someone needs to shove Vicks Vapo Rub up Wilma’s nose.  I hear this removes the scent of any vadge in the room.  Well it does for dogs so… enough said.  The best part of the night was that the restaurant was brand new and my friend Bonnie had gotten our entire meal comped and the best tasting food you can ever have is free so this made sitting next to The Broody Bunch palpable.  We did have a really weird gay waiter who only talked at decibel level 11 and he scared me.
     I was hoping to see Bret Ratner out last night because for the first time ever I actually feel sorry for him.  I don’t think Bret’s a homophobe, I think he’s a product of the seventies when we used words we didn’t know were bad to mean nerdy like gay, fag, and queer.  Now these words are part of our lexicon and it’s difficult to exorcise them.  I say “that’s so gay” so often I think my friends who run GLSEN used that as their anti bullying slogan just to shut me the fuck up.  I’m not saying it’s right.  It is most definitely not.  I’m just saying we’re dumb and thick headed and can’t monitor ourselves.  I’m sure Massengil would love to sue me for my inaccurate use of the word douche.  After all, they don’t think that words a negative – they think being a douche is like walking in a “Spring Meadow” filled with “Gentle Rain.”  Actually I heard they were trying to come up with some new names for their douches because sales were down.  I think if they called it “Oral Sex” they’d see a real spike.
     Today is 11-11-11.  Turn the date on its side and it’s three equal signs.  In light of this symbol of equality I am promising not to say “that’s so gay” and “stop being a fag.”   But I’m only promising a 24 hour period.  Then it’s back to me being a douche.

Achtung Baby

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI
   “I’ve always wanted to go to Dachau, but not in winter” Suzanne said to me last night on the phone.  I wanted to tell her that the Jews probably didn’t want to be there in winter either in fact I’m not sure summers at Dachau were any better but Suzanne is trying to think of somewhere interesting to go for her big 5-0 and I didn’t want to rain on her Dachau parade.   It would definitely make for a fun group event.  Suzanne could hand out gift bags at the gate that include some nice striped pajamas and pretty pink shovels for mass grave digging.  Everyone could sleep on one fun straw bed and then shower together.  We could pick one person to play Commandant and perform weird operations on each other then make gifts for our friends back home like lampshades.  Suzanne of course is just trying to mark a special occasion with a memorable trip and I certainly can’t blame her for that.  Celebrating this age is extremely important and for women it certainly symbolizes the death of quite a few things so maybe she’s not that crazy with her choice of a death camp destination celebration after all.  I spent my 5-0 in London and Rome.  Suzanne is obviously a much bigger thinker than I am though she is stumped on what to wear to a concentration camp soiree.
     The big 4-0 is also one you need to put some thought into.  I had just quit drinking a few months before my fortieth birthday which was a massive mistake. The first six months of sobriety are basically the angry days so I spent my birthday being pissed off that I was paying for people to get drunk when I couldn’t, while I had to stand there and listen to them tell me the same story over and over again only changing the volume level to loud, louder, loudest. Thankfully someone had given me a piñata so I bashed the shit out of it and was able to refocus some sober aggression.  It’s not that I don’t like being around people who drink I just don’t like being around drunks and doing so on the birthday you believe is the end of your youth is not fun or funny.
     Some of my younger birthday parties were fantastic.  I celebrated quite a few with my friend Dr. Fred whose birthday is the day after mine.  There were a couple of years we threw wild parties on his roof.  My parents came to one and posed for a pic with me in a “Fuck Me” t shirt.  They must have been super proud.  I was shitfaced for a lot of birthdays but I always made a huge deal out of them.  I still celebrate mine for at least a week – sometimes a month – and if I could I’d do it all year long.
     My fiftieth was pretty awesome though there are a few things I’d like to edit out of that celebration.  I totally shit the till in TopShop because I spent 16 hours and about 3 thousand dollars on clothes that didn’t fit after I ate my way through Rome.  It was however – memorable.  We really do file away all of these moments in life in our brains and it’s hard to get them just right.   They say in Kaballah that your life is like a movie and when you want to change things you recast or rewrite but you can’t recast or rewrite the past.  If I could I would definitely recast the model I dated who turned my ego into a pile of dog shit back in the early nineties and I’d rewrite the night I hit another car – drunk – and ran. Oops.  I’d also write in a boyfriend on birthdays only so that at least once a year I get an awesome gift.
     We tend to only celebrate the tens – thirty, forty, fifty etc but I think I’m going to start blowing it out for some of the smaller ones too after all every day that I get up – period – is a day to throw a party.  The next one is fifty two and I’m thinking about a theme party – Auschwitz in Indian Summer.  Achtung Baby.

Nice And Izzy Does It

Published November 19, 2011 by WELCOME TO HEIDI

    Breaking the news to one of your best friends that her dog is dead is up there with one of the worst things I’ve ever had to do.  Taking a van load full of her friends and family to the airport to be there as you break the news – is nothing short of comical and dare I say more than a little twisted.  It wasn’t my idea – but I went along with it.  It turned out to be the right thing to do – despite the picture I’m about to paint.  This past Sunday while people were watching football and stuffing their faces with bad cheetos… I was driving to LAX with my friend Victoria’s dad, her two sisters, and her friend Teresa like a giant Death Welcome Wagon rolling down the streets preparing to deliver a crushing blow – the only thing missing –   balloons that said “Welcome Home, Your Dog is Dead.”

We all met at Vic’s house at 4pm.  She had been away on a work job… on a cruise ship.  Little did she know that would not be the worst part of her month.  Like a clown car packed with depressed adults, we all piled into a van Vic’s dad had borrowed from a friend and immediately the car alarm went off.  For fifteen or twenty full deafening minutes – we could not get the alarm to turn off.  We tried calling the owner, reading the manual, and turning the ignition on and off about 1800 times.  This fucking thing would not shut up.  I had never met one of Vic’s sisters before so her introduction to me was me rolling my eyes very loudly and cursing everyone in the car.  Then we were off.

Victoria’s father is proof that there is one joke book all dads get that is filled with all of the bad jokes in the world.  They have them memorized.  They can do an hour – non stop.  Like a Jewish Bar Mitzfah room in Montecito New York, Jeff filled us with an array of borscht belt jokes that were hysterical… to him.  I told him to stop.  He didn’t. In fact, he couldn’t.   He was coping with the hideous task at hand – telling his beautiful daughter that the little dog he once brought home for her – was gone – and he was preparing for it the only way he knew how – with humor.   I needed to be more supportive.  When we pulled in to Carl’s Junior to fuel up – I decided to put my fat mouth back in my purse – and just let everyone do what they needed to do.

The plan was for Vic’s dad to go to baggage claims and pick her up while we waited by the van in the parking lot.  He thought we could throw her in the car like a hostage and drive her back to her house and then tell her.  This was a bad plan.  Wouldn’t she wonder why everyone she knew was there?  Put on your big suprise faces now… I immediately revised the plan.  Jeff didn’t think he could actually form the words to tell Victoria and so I said I would.  I’d meet them halfway into the parking lot and I’d tell her the little man I too loved so very much was gone – an accident – at the hands of a neighbors dog.  I didn’t make it past the first sentence before bursting into tears.  Suddenly this very bizarre journey had come to a horrific end.

We called him “The Chinaman” but his real name was Izzy.  A teeny tiny teacup Yorkshire Terrier with a big ass attitude.   Izzy did not suffer fools and he could shoot you a look that immediately said – you’re a douche bag.  He was one of my absolute favorite dogs ever.  He literally looked like an 800 year old Chinese man.  If I didn’t know any better I’d think he knew how to wok up a dumpling like nobodies business.   Izzy is now playing with Zoey and Honey and hopefully Victoria’s mom is baby sitting all of them.  I hope they get a big van on the day we all arrive – because they’d make an awesome welcome to your death committee.