Let Them Eat Cake

I know it’s incredibly cliché to think this but I’m fairly certain my neighbors are either running a meth lab, are fugitives, or are seeking asylum in America from inside their own home.   They’ve been living next door to me for over a year and I’ve never even seen them – once.  I suppose they could just be Asian – because those people are awfully quiet.  I have almost seen them – once inside their car leaving and once just as they flew in the front door – and there was a shock of shiny black hair so my last deduction may be my best.  How is it even possible to not see the people who live next door to you?  I live across the street from famous people and you would think they’d be the ones hiding but Alan Ruck takes out the garbage on a regular basis and he’s  Ferris Bueller’s best friend for crap sakes.  I like thinking that something diabolic is going on next door to me – until it’s night time – and then I scare myself and hope they’re inside making syrup, or rice cakes, or both.    I’m kind of a scaredy cat.  I still can’t see Paranormal 2, 3 or 16.  The first one scared me so badly I had to reposition my bed away from the door the way it was in the movie.   I keep trying to decipher if Peaches and Tulip are seeing anything but if they’re seeing ghosts they’re not  barking.  Maybe their scared too.  Maybe if they admit to me that they see poltergeists hiding in my drapes those poltergeists will become real.  I think my biggest fear about things than can happen when I’m sleeping is that I’m woken up by my dogs barking at the curtains or an empty door frame.    I’m so glad I’m not the kind of person who can see a ghost.  I never want to be that person.  I will be perfectly happy to live my life never seeing a big floaty figure at the end of my bed… even if that floaty figure is nice.  I don’t care.  Stay away from the end of my bed.

It’s also a distinct possibility that if I do have ghosts they are simply feeding the dogs to keep them quiet.  Who decided that dogs should eat the exact same thing every day?  Peaches is pissed and wants a menu change on a regular basis and I can’t say I blame her.  If I had to eat duck, chicken, liver, and turkey all made from the same mystery meat – I’d be pissed too.  Trust me when I tell you they are eating food that costs more than mine but this bitch is not happy unless she sees something new in that bowl.  I spent at least thirty minutes this morning trying to think of what I’d eat if I was only allowed one food twice a day for the rest of my life and I think the answer is grilled cheese and fries with gravy and a side of Ralph’s birthday cake.

I have discovered I may in fact have a birthday cake addiction.  This week at work we were writing a wedding story and part of that story was talking about cake and I got so wrapped up in the concept of cake that my poor boss and friend Dan had to stop the writers room and send little Nicola the assistant out for birthday cake.  It was more than exciting for me – it was life changing.  I waited for the arrival of this cake like it was a free shoe delivery from Louboutin… shoes that I could eat.  I was very specific about the cake – sheet – white cake white frosting – from Ralphs.  When it arrived it had three giant icing balloons.  Holy fuckballs.  Our writers assistant Vanessa instantly announced she was afraid of the balloons.  It was all I could do not to take all three.  I had two pieces and while it was good – the cake to icing ratio wasn’t quite the same as I remembered it was from the last time I forced Dan to buy me a bad sheet cake.  I found out the next day that Nicola got the cake from Von’s.  I’m making her move next door to me because I never want to see her again.

Ye Olde Shit Show

Remember when you were little and you got caught smoking and your mom or dad would make you sit at the kitchen table and smoke an entire pack of cigarettes in front of them until you got so completely nauseated you never wanted to smoke again?  Well someone needs to do that to me with clothes and shoes.  Maybe if I were forced to put on every item of clothing I own I’d be embarrassed and stop buying things because only a matter of moments after I threw out half the things I own – I started stockpiling again.   I had to – I had so many empty hangers just – well – hanging there – staring at me – silently asking me for things – pretty things.  I decided to give the hangers away too so that I’m not compelled to put new things on them.  I wouldn’t want them to get a complex from hanging around naked next to a fully clothed hanger.   What if they talk at night?

I’ve been trying to look at the upcoming summer the way most people look at a new year since I will most likely have the summer off to sit around and worry about not having a paycheck again.  The joy of being a writer is almost outdone by the fear of something we like to call a “pickup.”  It is fairly equivalent to the boy girl version since the line they use to keep your television show going is usually fairly cheesy but it makes you feel warm and fuzzy inside and a little bit like the most popular girl in school.  Our show is so cute and smart and funny it has to get picked up.  I say that ten times before I go to bed each night.  Either way I am sure there will be some time off and free time in Los Angeles is like a vacation because it’s so beautiful everyday. Living in California is almost like being on a resort.  Everywhere you go people are ready to service your every need and the natives speak a language I don’t understand – I think it’s called dumb.   You can go to the beach and see beautiful women in bathing suits or strange street performers like the cockatiel lady who somehow made it on America’s Got Talent last night discussing how she wore a heavily patterned shirt to hide the fact that she’s covered in bird poo.   That made me proud.   I did see a commercial for something that looked like a fun summer outing – The Renaissance Festival.  The original is right here in California – shocking.   It’s called the Pleasure Faire which is only slightly disturbing and makes me think of another thing we are the capital of here in SoCal – porn.  RenFair lasts for over a month and a ticket is only 23 dollars or you can buy a season pass because quite frankly one day at the RenFair is not enough.  Everyone knows that.  May 12^th was officially gay day at the fair this year.  I can’t believe I missed that.  I can’t imagine anything more amazing than a gay Renaissance fair.  The show Cupcake Wars is on hand this year to make Renaissance themed cupcakes.  No fucking idea what that means.  It’s actually the Golden Jubilee this year which means that these people have been traipsing around doing this nonsense for 50 years.  If you don’t have the right outfit you can visit Clothiers Row and get something made.  According to the website they carry the softest breeches, the perfect fit bodice and hats that turn heads.  I still have a few hangers left so – see you at RenFair.

Icing on the Shitcake

Did you know that armadillos have been linked to leprosy in humans?  About 150 people in the United States contract leprosy every year.  What those people are doing out and about petting armadillos is beyond me.  They don’t seem at all huggable.  I would imagine this or a flesh eating virus would not be fun things to get.  Watching your skin get eaten by your own body would not be something I’d like to have to endure.  I’ve never seen an armadillo so I’m guessing I’m safe.  When they discover you can get leprosy from eating Easter Peeps however, I’m a dead woman.

I lost 13 pounds.  Yes, after a year of being a fat ass, my body has finally decided it likes one diet I’ve been trying – starvation.  Who knew that all you have to do to lose weight is not eat – anything – at all?  If only someone told me that consuming a piece of fruit and four dried peas a day would allow the pounds to melt off of me – I’d have been thinner a year ago.  I’m back in my 27 jeans and my size four clothes.  The size six pants are appropriately swimming on me – which makes me have just one reaction – “Why didn’t you people tell me how fat I was?”  My boobs are still holding on to the extra weight as if a man has told them to so the size two dresses are not in my extreme near future.

The cellulite situation does not seem to be fixing itself so I may actually have to return to the gym but that’s going to have to wait until I’m done with my very busy schedule of sitting around making excuses for not going to the gym.  I’m sorry but I hate working out.  All these people who talk about endorphin rushes and how much they love sweating are either mentally ill or lying or both or in love with someone at their gym and want to see them in the showers naked or doing a downward dog in front of their upturned smile.  I hate the smell of rubber and sweat.  Almost every locker room or workout space I’ve ever been in smells like the inside of a sweaty kids sock.  That’s not a smell I aspire to.   Why can’t running give me the same feeling as eating a cupcake?

I went to Sprinkles the other day to buy cupcakes for my friends because that’s how I eat them now – through other peoples mouths.  I’m like a momma bird without the chewing and spitting.  Buying cupcakes and watching other people eat them is good – for now – but the new S’mores flavor almost broke me down.  For the first time in a long time the Beverly Hills location did not have a line.  I was able to breeze in and buy my dozen cupcakes without much of a wait.  There was a huge line however for the vending machine that sits right next to the store and sells one cupcake at a time.  The people standing are this line are clearly retarded.  Why not just walk three feet to the left and purchase a single cupcake?  I guess everyone just loves a gimmick.  If Sprinkles wrapped my dogs turds in a little box and shot them through a conveyer belt and onto the streets of Beverly Hills – some asshole would buy it.  People love a fad, a trend, something they can tell their friends back in Texas they did when they went on their big trip to Hollywood.  I guess I get it.  Just leave your Armadillo’s home.  I don’t want to see you drop anything while you’re chomping on a red velvet street cake.

Dialing It Down

Here’s a little “who knew” I discovered at 2 a.m. last night when I couldn’t sleep – Home Shopping Club is selling dildo’s and cock rings.  Party.  It may not have been “THE” home shopping club but it was some dirty version of that network and it was the greatest thing I’ve ever seen in the middle of the night since my NYC days of watching Robin Byrd bang her box on public access television.  The segment was called “The Adam & Eve Hour” and these two perfectly normal looking women were sitting around selling items you don’t normally see these types of women selling.  It was like a very special episode of the “Ho Shopping Network.”  Everything looked the same except the products.  The neat trim outfits, the beautifully coiffed hair, and the perfectly manicured French nails pointing at things – it’s just that those things had names like “The Super Head Honcho” and Barbara and Judy were saying things like “Item K23 – her clitoris will never be ignored.”  Wow.  I was waiting for them to whip out the number one selling sex toy in the country – the fleshlight – which is a vagina on a stick – but they never got to that.   I’m not sure why we need a vagina that lights up but I’m sure someone will explain it to me someday.  I do know that you can buy your favorite porn stars vagina in the form of one of these fleshlights so that has to make a girl feel special and a way to compensate her for having to have had hot mold material poured into her vadge.  When I’m having a hard day in the writers room I like to remind myself of some of the other ways people are making livings.

I also started watching “Eastbound & Down” recently, which I am well aware I’m the last person to find out about.  I can’t believe I’ve been missing a show where a lead male character says to his white trash whore girlfriend “Honey I love you but you have clothes like a fucking dickhead.”  That’s pretty much the polar opposite of what we write every day.  I’m starting to think that maybe the sweet smartness of our show is leading me to watch really trashy shit at night, which may prove to be embarrassing at some point.  Peaches and Tulip don’t seem to mind.  They’ll snore through anything.  At least I’m not writing what I used to write which would have been super painful these past few weeks between the death of Dick Clark and the engagement of Angelina Jolie and Brad Pitt.  One was sad, the other was pathetic but the later story was covered by way more magazines than the first.  Sure you created an entire genre of television but is your death really as important as a Hollywood engagement.  We think not Dick.  I guess most people feel Dick died after his stroke and would rather remember him before that hideous kiss he planted on his wife that one New Years Eve in Times Square where he was clearly stroke stuck to her face.  That is a memory seared onto my brain.  I’m not sure how any magazines are making any money because it seems the only people they cover are Brangelina and The Kardoucheians and quite frankly I’m sick of reading about all of them.  I hear those Armoanians just signed a huge deal with the E! network.  In my opinion they take the exclamation point OUT of that network but what do I know – I just bought a cock ring on television.

Closet Case

Yesterday at approximately 4:53 pm I came to a horrifying realization about my life – I am a hoarder.  It started out as a simple enough spring cleaning – switch out my winter clothes closet for my summer clothes closet.  Now I realize just admitting that I have winter and summer closets immediately labels this an annoying white girl problem especially for someone who lives somewhere where there are no discernable seasons.  That said – I do segregate my clothing and place them into warmer and cooler areas as best I can but I do admit – there tends to be crossover.  I also have a coat closet, a fancy dress closet and a shoe closet.  Maybe I should just stop here.  The problem is, I don’t like to throw things out because the second I do – it seems I want those things again and despite the fact that I haven’t remembered I have high waisted floral pants in leather for the past six years the second I toss them – I remember I had them – and go looking for them – and crumble in a heap that I no longer have high waisted floral leather pants.  Where the fuck are those high waisted floral leather pants.  I found a fur vest from 1989, a dress from when I lived in NYC sixteen years ago, and at least three tops I think I owned before I had pubic hair.  Yes,  yesterday I really was smacked in the face with how much I love clothing and how much clothing I have and how disgusting the amount of clothing I have is and by the end of the day and four closets I really thought – I’ll never buy another clothing item again.  Let’s not even get into the fact about the different sizes I have in everything.  I could easily have opened a store in my house yesterday.  People always tell me to sell my shit on ebay but who the fuck has that kind of time and quite frankly the thought of selling a four dollar blouse I got at TopShop is just embarrassing.  It’s not like the houses of Gucci, Dior and Chanel are having a clothing war in my closets.  I usually buy quantity not quality when it comes to clothing because I can’t decide what style I want to wear on any given day and it’s too costly to buy expensive trendy items.  Shoes and handbags however – are a whole other Oprah.  I could save a small country on what’s happening in my shoe closet.   By the end of the day I had six giant garbage bags filled with clothing and that’s not including the items I plan on giving my friend Nancy – she likes tops. The other stuff was just too hideous to give to anyone.  In fact – I didn’t even drop it off at a thrift store – I just placed it in front of my house. I figured with all the transients that walk by my house in need of bottles and such – there’s a good chance one of them will enjoy a Betsey Johnson dress from 1993.  Nothing would please me more than to see that first thing in the morning.

I got rid of belts that haven’t reached around my waist or hips in years.  I tried them on the only area they fit but they were a bit clunky as chokers.   I even threw out a few pairs of shoes but only after realizing they were so destroyed they’d be too embarrassing to wear.  I did say a prayer and light a candle for those however because it just seems like such a travesty to throw out a shoe.  I also completely dumped my entire ironic t-shirt collection.  These were the hardest things to toss despite the fact that I haven’t worn one in about three years.  I was really clinging to the Hello Bad Kitty, Eat Shit and Die, Jesus Is My Homeboy images on the graphic t’s but I knew it was time to say goodbye. No longer will I be able to offend someone by just taking off my jacket and revealing what’s underneath.  Unless of course I don’t start tossing some of my bra’s from the seventies.  They’re hideous.

 

Girls Gone Whine

One was getting fucked in the ass by a topless misogynistic geek .   Another was a free thinking hippie who drank too much and got pregnant.  One was dating a nerdy douche who’s touch she couldn’t stand and finally there was the girl who got stuck with the asshole who basically ignored her on their date.  Thank you HBO’S “Girls” for giving me this delightful peak into the minds of today’s young women.  If this is the voice of a new generation – that generation needs to do something other than date – because it’s annoying, dull and setting the rest of us back a trillion years.   I remember when I had to stop watching “Sex & The City” because it turned into a show about a bunch of women only talking about men and each episode started to resemble “Wild Kingdom” with these women stalking their prey each week and now it seems we’ve passed that concept down to the next generation.   “Girls” has no hope.  I don’t like watching hopeless people.  It’s not inspiring to me.  I also don’t want to watch a show where men are the only topic except for one small trip to one girls internship.  Everyone is so up in arms that the show is only about rich white girls but I’m up in arms that’s it’s a show about women and their hideous relationships with men.  At least in it’s heyday on Sex & The City – the girls ruled.  They chose who they dated and they fucked over anyone who tried to fuck them over.  They also had jobs.  I am painfully aware that the number one subject amongst most women old and young is “men.”  How to get one, keep one, find one, land one, feed one, date one, dress one etc.  I’m not that woman.  I think if you count up all the blogs I’ve written about men you’ll find two.  There are so many other subjects in the world to tackle for women… especially young women… that I find it difficult to watch a full half hour of a show about their exploits with men.  I hope the girls on “Girls” grow because I am truly proud that I live in a world where a very young girl can write, direct and star in her own television show for a major cable network.   This is great example for other young girls with voices and dreams.

Maybe my biggest mistake in my life is that it’s been ruled by work but my work is very creative and it’s a massive part of who I am.  It’s not that I haven’t had experiences in dating – I’ve had ones that would curl your hair and possibly melt your brains but they’re not worth putting on television.  They’re worth putting in a drawer and shutting.  Even on my favorite disgusting reality show “Bad Girls” when the ladies act like assholes – they’re not fighting over a man – they’re fighting over important things like shoes and drinks and closet space.  I only started having girl friends in my life when I turned forty because it seems that’s when most of these girls finally settled down with one guy and became so sick of him that they stopped talking about him.  I wish girls would find something more to talk about than boys.  I would have more girls in my life if they did.  I’m not saying men aren’t important I’m just saying it’s 2012 girls – get a life.

I’m Your Dream Girl

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

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?

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

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.

Sexual Hairassment

How come fat girls always have really good hair?  It never fails to amaze me when I see a great head of thick follicles on a big sweaty person in a peasant top and sensible shoes.  Is that the bonus you get for having to walk around with bye bye arms and thighs that touch?  That doesn’t seem fair.  People like me who eat six oranges a day and say no thank you I’m too full to eat an actual meal that may keep me awake or stop me from passing out are the ones that should have Farrah Fawcetts luxurious hair parked on top of their heads.   I met one of these large ladies with lovely locks yesterday.  She was conducting a seminar on sexual harassment which in itself was awkward.  In between telling us what was inappropriate to say to employees she would drop little lines in like – “but I wouldn’t mind if someone called me hot stuff cause god knows it’s been years.”  Uhm, okay,  you may want to use your inside your head voice for those thoughts and by the way that might have a little something to do with your size.  Then she mentioned she had a boyfriend – just to fucking piss me off.  This is about the ninety fifth sexual harassment seminar I’ve had to sit through in my life and the second one I’d done on the same television lot.  I kept thinking my large lady friend really needed to move a couple of buildings down and to the left – like the bullet that killed Kennedy – and take out a more appropriate person.   Nobody ever gives a seminar on any other kind of harassment – the kind you run into more often in television.  The kind you don’t know what to do with because you just get used to it.  Sexual harassment in television seems like an oxymoron -especially in a writers room..  The kind of shit that gets talked about in there can’t be legal and certainly isn’t appropriate but that’s the kind of talk that leads to great dialogue sometimes.  I don’t know what those writers on Friends were talking about but I’m sure it was appropriate to get to some great monkey line for Ross.  People who work in television spend so many hours trapped together in small rooms that you become a family and we tend to hug a lot so it’s weird to be told not to touch each other.  I guess they mean I shouldn’t try to have sex with the really hot cast member while he’s trying to take a nap in his trailer but what if he’s really hot and I thought he was just pretending to take a nap to look sexy to me when I broke in and climbed in?  It’s so hard to tell these days.

I remember a male reporter at one of my old jobs who had a strange habit of drinking and snorting cocaine and trying to molest the young men in the office.  That was a little inappropriate.  He was really handsome though so I kept wishing he was straight and would hit on someone who could handle his shit -  like me.  We had to fire him.   Television is an interesting place to work and if you’re not a big girl who knows how to pull up your big pants and tell everyone to shut the fuck up – you may have a hard time.  My friend Brian always says “it’s television, there’s going to be blood on the floor.”  I agree – and would like to add – “just make sure it’s not yours and that your hair looks really good.”

Go Ahead, Say It.

“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.

This Old Broad

Hey ladies, did you know that your pelvic floor is going to drop and you’ll need to exercise it?  Did you know your pelvis had a floor?  I didn’t.  I hope mines a dance floor.  I got an amazing and terrifying catalog in the mail from my friend Leslie Tucker called “As We Change” and I’ve been rocked into a depression ever since.   I found out I’m going to need things that I was not expecting to need – like a pillow to shove down my bra while I sleep to keep me from getting creases in my chest.  P.S. – this one’s too late.  There are at least three pairs of gloves I’m going to have to buy – all for various stages of achiness in my wrists, fingers, and palms of my hands.  I will need to restore my hair to its youthful fullness and if I can’t there’s a spray that I can use to paint my head.   There are creams for my soon to be blotchy skin and tapes to remove my brow wrinkles and balms to smooth out the lines around my lips.  There are pills to stop my nails from breaking, bleaches to stop my face from darkening, and oils to relube whats unlubeable.  Fuck.   I’m a gonna be a hot mess.

I think the most disturbing items however are the clothing, shoes and handbags – which are all really brightly colored and covered in things like butterflies and waves.  I have never owned one thing with a butterfly.  I think guns and bullets would be more appropriate.   When does this overwhelming need to wear hideous clothing begin?  Does it suddenly become acceptable to carry a quilt bag from The Cracker Barrel restaurant?  They have some strappy sandals in the catalog that I wouldn’t be caught dead in – even if I were dead.  There’s something called a boob tube to wear under low cut dresses and tops because apparently no one wants to see old woman cleavage.  Frankly – I don’t think men ever stop wanting to see cleavage and while I don’t flaunt mine now I was thinking that I’d finally bust these bitches out at about sixty five.  There are comfy straps to put under my bra straps to cut down on “unsightly dents” which is another way of saying your giant old woman boobs are dropping at such a rapid rate that the stress on your shoulders is leaving a mark in your skin that is hideous.  Color me terrific.  There are foam nipple covers – no idea why, instant buttons to expand your pants – could be using those right now, and shoe stretchers to help shove your swollen lumps into your louboutins.  There’s even a special necklace you can slip your no longer fits your fat fingers wedding band onto.  There are heel huggers, and toe compressors, and bunion smoothers and 66 pages of magical old people shit and I haven’t even read the section on bathing suits because I’m quite certain I could buy every single one of them right now.  When it comes with a slimming panel, high neck, silicone shapers, a skirt, a built in diaper and matching sarong,  I say – why wait.

I wonder if there is one of these catalogs for men?  It’s probably the exact same catalog but it’s called “As She Changes” and it’s just there to inform men of all the things they shouldn’t bring up so they don’t send us into a hormonal endless crying jag.  Men don’t need a catalog of all the shit that’s going to fall apart on them because they don’t care.  As long as the penis stays attached – they’re good to go.  I on the other hand – just ordered a bra wash bag and some Goodnighties Recovery Sleepwear infused with negative ions to help me sleep.  Hey, if it’s good enough for astronauts – it’s good enough for this old broad.

Wherever Hugo – There You Are

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

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

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

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

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.

Douchebag Doppleganger

If I see someone who looks vaguely familiar these days – my first reaction is to apologize.  When your past is littered with kamikaze shots, bruised asses and fender benders – this is the easiest response and usually the most necessary.  I don’t have a complete grasp on everything I’ve done when I was younger so when people start asking me things like “hey remember the time we blah blah blahed?”  I usually say – “I was drunk.”  One of the great things about being sober is that you no longer have to make excuses for your dumbass behavior and you tend to remember everything you do at night because it no longer involves the police, and a man in your house wearing an oven mitt on his penis.  However – there are moments in sobriety when you run in to someone who seems to have way more information about you then he should – someone who believes you have met and you have zero recollection of .  This happened to a girlfriend of mine the other night who has a similar past as mine – perhaps slightly less alcohol fueled – but just as – well lets just call it like it is – checkered.   A young man came up to her and this is how the conversation went down.  Him: “Hey how are you.”  Her: “Uhm, do I know you?”  Him: “Well I drove you home from the Viceroy last night.”  Her: “Uhm, I don’t think so.  I gotta go.”  Now I know what you’re thinking.  Why not just set the guy straight?  But here’s the rub  – when you have a past where this kind of shit happened you think – well it could have happened again right?  Maybe I slipped… in my sleep?  And so she fled the area with no more questions asked.   This is the problem with a checkered past… you just never know.  The biggest issue with this entire scenario for my friend however was not the fact that she was apparently sleep walking and drinking but that she was doing this in cheeseball clubs she wouldn’t be caught dead in.  Was she leading the secret life of a person she herself mocks?   What else would she find out she was doing that she doesn’t remember?  Was she shopping at Ed Hardy?  Did she have a French pedicure?  Were there suddenly a pair of white pumps in her closet?  Who’s maltipoo is that?  Why is the last place on my GPS The Olive Garden?

After careful analysis and some fairly brilliant deducing we concluded there could only be one answer – she has a  douchebag doppleganger.   There is some chick out there who looks just like her who is a complete and utter douche nugget.  She’s going to cheesy clubs, talking to cheesy men, and letting them drive her home in their BMW’s while she taps her fake nails on his dashboard to a Maroon Five cd.   It’s a terrifying thought and it’s also now a great excuse.  I have decided this is my answer to everything from now on.  I will no longer apologize for things I’ve done in my past – I will blame them on that weird chick who looks just like me.  I will invent a douchebag doppleganger.  She will have a tramp stamp, a navel ring and massive hair extentions.  Her name will be Amber and she will live her life unapologetically.   I hear tonight she’s going to the Saddle Ranch.  Giddey up.

#Oscar 2012 – Americans Need Not Apply

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

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

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 19^th early 20^th 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

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

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.

Label Whore

After spending 25 minutes soaking a set of new glasses in hot water I have come to the disturbing conclusion that I am indeed ready for the government to step in and control one area of our lives – labeling.  I want everyone who uses a gun to stick something ridiculously impossible to remove from my shit – to be removed from the country and or jailed and or have their foreheads labeled in the process.  We may want to find out what it is they use on the backs of those little white squares because it could be the glue that saves the world or keeps a broken airplane wing in place on an old Peoples Express jet but then we need to vamooso these abhorrent adherers immediately.  America is over labeled.   Who do I have to fuck to get this entire country on a bar code system?  If you shop at Bed Bath & Beyond you better immediately invest in one of those razor widget thingys that removes labels that are conveniently located at the checkout stand next to the tub of Sour Patch Kids that I myself have enjoyed on far too many occasions.  If you like to pick up a few items at Crate & Barrel now and then you better plan to add a few hours of delabeling into your Sunday because those fuckers love to tag the shit out of their shit.  Sometimes I catch a mug that’s been slapped with a sticker twice.  That’s just mean and I don’t have that kind of time on my hands.  I need to enjoy my hot beverage now.  I have thrown perfectly good items out because I can’t get the gummy substance off of the bottom.  This is clearly an issue that needs some kind of Senate Committee hearing or Supreme Court Intervention.

I also cut the labels out of almost everything I own from towels to tshirts.  I hate the feeling of a tag on my skin when I’m trying to dry off after a shower or on the back of my neck when I’m wearing a shirt.  This of course changes dramatically when that tag says something other than Gap, Banana Republic or Forever 21 and yes I shop there because it says I can right in the title – Forever 21.    I call clothing items from these stores – disposable.    Want to wear the new Navajo look?  Spend ten dollars not 1000.  You won’t feel so badly about seeing the same serape the Pace Salsa guy wears hanging in your closet a week after you buy it if you only paid ten bucks for it.   If you’re going to hop on the fur vest trend then get one for twenty bucks.  Sure it looks like you went out and killed your own coyote before sewing it up into a boxy Daniel Boone vest but hey – walk fast and no one will ever know.  One thing I never remove – a designer label.  Those things can scratch the shit out of me but I don’t care – I worked hard for that rash.   That’s why they invented cortisone cream.  Not only do I proudly display a designer label but I will tell you the second you say nice shirt – who made it.  It’s the Jewish law.  Example: “Hey Heidi I love that dress.”  “Thank You. Versace.”  If it’s something that was acquired at a discount then the conversation goes something like this. “Hey Heidi I love that dress.”  “Thank You. Versace.  70 Percent off.”  People always say to me – why do you tell everyone that you got it on sale?  Well it’s not that I want to – it’s that I have to.  It’s part of being Jewish.  I think it may be written into the Torah.  However – let it be known – there are two very distinctive kinds of Jews when it comes to revealing the full truth about the origins of those items – those who tell you what store to find them in – and those who don’t.   That information is not handed out to just anyone.  In fact – if you want to throw a jewish girl into a tizzy – send someone with questionable style over to ask her where she got her shirt.  ”Oh this old thing?  I can’t remember.  And the labels been cut out.”

White Men Can’t Pump

The majority of people voting for Oscar winners are old white men.  Go ahead, take a minute, I’ll wait while you put on your big surprise faces.  My friend Ben Fritz worked on an article for the L.A. Times that unmasked who the majority of Academy voters are and based on that data I think it’s pretty clear what won’t be winning best picture this year.   According to my own white male scale here’s how I believe it breaks down.  “The Artist” is too artsy although a movie where women don’t speak is appealing to most white men.  “Midnight in Paris” is too Jewy.  “The Tree of Life” is too confusing, “The Help is too black” and “Hugo” is – no idea.  “War Horse” could squeak in because all old white men like war and  “Extremely Loud & Incredibly Close” has a shot because white men love reliving 9/11 and their hatred for all things and people non white.  My money however is on either “The Descendants” or “Moneyball” and not necessarily because of the films subject matters but more because of the films stars and the fact that every man in America either wants to be just like George Clooney who sleeps with  hundreds of beautiful women or Brad Pitt who sleeps with the most beautiful woman in the world.  Oscar this year equals vagina.  In fact – they should gold dip one of those and hand it out on February 26^th.   The biggest confusion to me is how “Slumdog Millionaire” ever won best picture now that I know just how white and male the Academy is.   Maybe the slums and filth and poverty were so familiar that no one noticed it wasn’t America.

White men also spent a lot of time on Capitol Hill this past week to talk about my ovaries.   An almost all male panel was brought together to decide if the President is in the wrong for forcing religious groups to provide contraception as part of their health care plans.   At least , I think that’s what it’s about but quite frankly I get mad and dizzy the minute you start talking about my reproductive system in a public setting.  I don’t know what’s worse – the fact that it was all men empaneled on the lady parts front – or the fact that my lady parts are part of any governmental discussion – emphasis on mental.   How about everyone back up out of my vagina.    In fact – here are the top five things I think men need to be able to do before they get to vote on things involving my vadge.

1. Wax it.  Get up on a table – put your legs in the air – and have someone put hot wax on your scrotum then rip it off.
2. Bleed.  Spend four days a month shoving cotton carpet rolls inside of you to stop hemorrhaging after you spend two weeks eating everything in sight.
3. Bloat.  Wake up 15 pounds fatter than when you went to bed because you have a hormone imbalance.
4.  Give Birth.  Shove a watermelon with knobs out of what feels like your ass.
5. Be Judged.  Have people pay less attention to what you say simply because of who you are.

It’s not easy being female especially when the one thing we have that has any power is constantly under attack or being threatened with new male leadership.   I know it’s an old cliché but if men had vaginas the world would be a very different place.  I’m glad men have their own problem in their pants but maybe god should have just given both sexes boobs.  If a Republican had to leave the vagina panel because he was lactating and had to pump – at least that would level the playing field.  Think about that while you’re watching George Clooney pick up his Most Handsome Man In The World Award.

Bloody Good Time

Week one at my new job began with me trying to pretend I’m normal and ended with me sitting in my bloody period pants on top of a faux fur coat so that I wouldn’t leave a mark on the chair.  So basically – it’s business as usual in the life of this moron. There are a lot of strange things that get discussed in a writers room like the conversation we had about porn star flesh lights or a pocket pussy as one person called it but I didn’t tell anyone about my secret ability to bleed like a stuck pig.  This seemed just too inappropriate – for week one.   Maybe next week I’ll reveal that I’m a vagina hemophiliac but you gotta keep some mystery when meeting new people – especially young people who may leave the room vomiting.   Working in a writers room is completely different from working as a news producer.  In news you have one hour to put your story together, shoot it, write it, cut it and get it on the air.  In a writers room you have one hour to ponder if your character wears a blue or red shirt.  I may need to get high for work to slow my shit down.  Comedy is serious business and I totally forgot that work can be fun.  Being back on a studio lot I left like a thief in the night is weird.   I don’t think flashing your security badge should lead to hives and a pit in your stomach that resembles nausea so I’m trying to work through that.  There have to be at least twenty five studios in Hollywood so it’s fairly unusual that I’m a repeat offender but as usual this is proving to be the smallest town in the world and I keep being forced to stare at my past.  I just hope it doesn’t stare back because quite frankly it would bore a hole through my brain.  I still have quite a few friends at one of my old jobs on the lot but they’ve been instructed not to talk to me.  Someday I’ll tell that story but not until I’m able to tell it with the levels of emotions it deserves and right now there is only one – hate.  I need to learn to let go.  I need to find a new APP that can be downloaded into my own system.  Maybe someone sells the iNice or the iPatience or the iForgetHowMuchiFuckingHateYou.  For now, I think I’m on my own.

I went to a dinner party last night thrown by one of the most elegant women I know.  She puts together a room full of strangers and actually gets them to chat with each other without judgment.  This is a talent.   She’s also beautiful and hilarious.  I hate her.   One woman told a story about how Andy Dick crashed her bridal shower.  I instantly wanted to be her best friend.  She knows how to show up for a shit storm and roll with it.  A mutual friend of ours was there and he brought a guitar and did magic tricks and I know what you’re thinking – how did you – Captain Snarkypants – sit through a dinner of magic and music and talk to people you don’t know when you hate talking to anyone?  I kept staring at him with total amazement at how he just wafted through the room in a constant state of happiness.  Is this the most purely happy person I know and how is he doing what he’s doing?   I know what his daily grind is.  His life makes my life look like I’m a professional cupcake taster and when he’s not taking care of his kids and his incredibly stressful job he’s raising money for those less fortunate and no I wasn’t so drunk that I think I had dinner with Jesus Christ.  Sometimes someone sends you a sign.  Last night someone sent me this friend.  I was once again reminded of how lucky I am to have what I have – to work where I work – and to be surrounded by people who seem to want to hear what I have to say.  If only I didn’t figure all of this out while soaked in blood it would have been a perfect night.

Little People, Smelly World

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

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.

Stupid Cupid

There is finally a cure for the horrible terrible that ails all women today – Valentines Day Depression – and that cure is called “The Bachelor.”  I have written about the hideousness of this show before but in my usual manner – completely trashing it without ever having watched one single frame of it.   I don’t have a problem with that buy hey – why not be fair.  Last night a friend  Michelle said “you should check it out.”  And so I did.  I may never be the same – and I may never think twice about not having a date again.  I’m not sure why women are watching this show because there is not one woman on that show I would ever be friends with.  Any chick throwing her vagina at a guy for a rose is not someone coming to my house to borrow a glass of anything and is most definitely not someone I’d share clothes or shoes with.  I think they shop at whores-r-us anyway.   Last night Ben – who looks remarkably like a ferret – took a few girls on a “private one on one date.”  This is apparently the greatest thing that can happen to a girl on The Bachelor as the girls reacted with a frightening amount of glee.  On one date they went lobster fishing which is appropriate for the bottom feeders they are.  On another, Ben and Lindzi – a chick who clearly can’t spell her name – jumped out of a helicopter together and she said “To overcome our fear of height together is something I’ll never forget.”  I wonder if you’ll forget the STD you get or the unwanted pregnancy right after he bangs some other chick.  I didn’t make it very far through the show because the only girl I was rooting for – Courtney – is clearly unstable and will most definitely cut a bitch before the season ends.  I watch some serious shite on t.v. but even this is too much for me.  Oddly enough The Bachelor was on at the same time as The Westminster Dog Show and I thought – I wonder which show has more bitches in heat?  I think you know.   I will never forget watching the dog show back in 2009 when a German Short Haired Pointer going for Best In Show stopped in the middle of the ring and dropped a steaming pile of poop.  I felt so terrible for the poor thing but I don’t think I’ve ever laughed so hard.  That bitch showed us exactly what she thought of the entire competition.

Is it just me or did Willie Nelson completely fucking butcher that Coldplay song for the Chipotle commercial that aired during the Grammy’s?  If there was a key he was supposed to hit – he missed it and I wasn’t buying the message either.  Oh look our piggies roam free with our cows before we slaughter them and make crap patties out of them for you to shove down your pie hole with a side of coke that will disintegrate your stomach lining.  Party.  Sorry but it’s going to take a lot more than Willie Nelson to get me to eat there and they’re going to have to change the restaurant name because I feel dumb saying it the way it is now.   Let’s be honest… Willie Nelson is so high he has no idea what he was singing about and my guess is he already used the paycheck to buy another bong.    Willie took a Shitpotle all over that song which is exactly what my friend Jeremy calls what happens to people after they eat one of the restaurants burrito bowls.

I would really like to see Ben The Bachelor take his chicks to Chipotle for a Valentines Day Group Date.  Whomever doesn’t shit their pants wins.  Now that’s a show I’d watch.  Happy Valentines Day everyone.

Houston We Have A Problem

“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

“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

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.

Death, Taxes and How To Put On Shoes

What is Philadelphia Cooking Cream and who thought it was a good idea to can up something that looks like what you find at the bottom of your tissue during cold and flu season.  I saw a commercial for the lumpy goopy disgusto cheesey saucy blech like mess and I actually had to look twice because I thought I was watching an SNL fake spot.  There is no way someone at Kraft was shown this idea and said – yes – let’s make a can of snot for America!!!   I know these are the same people who brought us Cancer Kool Aid,  Plastic Meat and Cheese Sliced Lunchables and those brilliant one hundred calorie packs of anything they can get their hands on but this new product just looks like beige slime. I guess it must be popular and selling like hot cakes judging from the hundreds of Betty Homemakers on the internet telling me how they used Flemadelphia Cooking Cream.   It’s remarkable how many people are videotaping themselves making instructional videos for how to do stupid or mundane shit and putting it on the world wide web for all to see.  There is nothing you can’t find out how to do on the internet.  My friend Sharon learned how to install a garbage disposal by watching an instructional video although I’ve never been to her house to see it in action and it could be spewing carrot pulp into her tub for all I know.   I watched two videos the other day on how to apply mascara and one on how to blow dry your hair.  There were millions of them.  I’m thinking about making one for how to put on your shoes, eat oatmeal, and use a pen.  I think I’d get a lot of hits.  From what I can tell people are really watching these Philly cream sauce cookers.  They had a lot of hits – more than my blog.  There was one woman who said “What do you get when you have plain old chicken breast and Philadelphia Cooking Cream?  My very own creation of oven baked chicken with Philadelphia Cooking Cream surprise!”  Huh?  What’s the surprise?  That you’re really a man in a wig in your kitchen that you clearly copied from Carmella Soprano?  It was a very scary video and there is no way to know she is using real chicken and not cooking up Johnny Bag-a-Donuts from down the block.  Another woman was making something fried with the gunk and pancake mix and said “How did I come up with this recipe?”  Actually I was wondering why since she weighed A LOT.  Paula Dean was definitely her Jesus.  Another woman said she was “happy to be back in her kitchen cooking for the real women of Philadelphia.”  I guess all you other phony fuckers can just tune out.

Everyone wants to be doing something other than what they’re doing – myself included.  Just troll around the web and you’ll see ordinary Americans trying to live out their dreams leaving a legacy of odd digital moments that will survive long after they die.   My fifty something year old tax man is in a band.   He’s been writing songs since I went to see him 15 years ago.  He’s about to start playing in clubs in Los Angeles and I will be there when he hits the stage.   I truly believe that every human being has some creative itch they’re trying to scratch.  Unfortunately for some it may involve something we don’t really need to see but maybe the world would be a better place if everyone got to do what they wanted to do – at least once in a while.   Dream big.  But if that dream is how to make spaghetti with cooking cream and clams – please keep that video to yourself.  I don’t like throwing up while I’m trying to find a “how to put on underpants one leg at a time” video.

August Baby It’s You!

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

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…

Star Vagina

A new study has been conducted to find out what kind of tweets people like and don’t like.  If I – in any way shape or form – paid for this study, I’m going to take a few people out and then I’m moving to France.  A team of men from Carnegie Mellon, MIT and Georgia Tech formed a website and spent one year gathering this incredibly important research to help them decipher the code of what constitutes an annoying tweet.  Here’s what they say is the absolute worst thing to tweet:

BREAKING: Last week I had a #sandwich that was SO HORRIBLE, it made me want to #scream. Seriously, why can’t they make better #sandwiches?

Duh. I could have told them that was annoying in five seconds and by the way I’m pissed they pulled what I thought was one of my best tweets.   I don’t need a team or a website to tell me how annoying some tweets can be – because I follow Kim Kardashian.   According to this earth shattering study – don’t be excessively personal, don’t be aggressively mundane and don’t be whiny.  In other words,  Kim needs to stop tweeting to her 13 million fans immediately because the last thing that came out of her twat account was “Heading to dinner, snapped a pic 2 check my makeup & in the pic there’s a white dot on my cheek but not in person! LOL”  I fell asleep reading that.  In fact – I believe Kim Kardashians tweets are having the same effect on me Mary Harts voice had on Kramer in that Seinfeld episode – they are giving me seizures.  Here are a few more:

“Ok I have to admit I do not look cute crying! I dyed my hair lighter yesterday! My willpower sure was tested just now when we were eating but I made it thru without dessert!”

And klunk.   Why can’t this research team figure out how to end the Kardashian regin of twitter terror?  Spend a year and build a website dedicated to that.  Maybe the Susan G. Komen foundation can take the money they robbed from poor people who need breast cancer screenings and give it to a team of scientists who want to cut out the cancer that is Kim Kardashians twitter account.  God knows my hatred is beginning to know no bounds and I find myself dedicating my tweets to the acid I have running through my veins because of  Kim.  Why can’t she tweet important things like I do – for instance – “Made it through another day without shitting in a bag” or “I wonder if Massengil ever feels like suing over the negative usage of the word douche.”  These are statements to follow.  This is what twitter is all about and my 194 fans know this well.

Last night I wanted to tweet about the people having dinner at the table next to me at LA’s famed Soho house.  I was there celebrating the fact that my friend Dan’s sitcom was just picked up which in this town is cause for massive celebration because its harder to do than become President and just slightly less expensive.  If getting your show picked up isn’t Hollywood enough – this was.  While we were dining -  George Clooney, Stacey Keibler, Randy Gerber, Cindy Crawford, and A-Rod all rolled in and sat down at the table next to us.  I almost had a celebrity coronary.  Our friend Rebecca from Seattle was with us and having a sighting like this on a trip to L.A. is akin to seeing Bigfoot.  It’s very very rare.  This was the most beautiful table full of people I’ve ever seen and I’ve seen a lot here in Hollywood.  Of course all I kept thinking about was how much famous vagina the men at that table had been with and how difficult it must be for the women they were with now.  For regular people like me you never have to worry about who your new boyfriend had sex with before you because it wasn’t written in page 6 but for these women there are massive amounts of photographs of their new man with his old girlfriends and some of those girlfriends are Cameron Diaz, Kate Hudson and Madonna.  That’s way too much pressure for me.  That’s why I don’t date A-Rod.  Too much Star Vagina.  I’m gonna tweet that later.

Not So Pretty Woman

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

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.

Does This Pinterest You?

All I wanted to do was put four perfectly good chocolate chip cookies down the garbage disposal.  I had mistakenly bought the bag the night before and was afraid if I kept them around one second longer I would inhale them faster than you can say fatty fatty two by four.  I had made it through an entire morning and afternoon without eating them but now it was night time again and that’s when the sugar vampire comes out and starts tearing into the cabinets looking to feed.  So – I took the four chocolate chip cookies and shoved them into the garbage disposal, turned the water on and flipped the switch.   All of a sudden the sound of metal being chewed by metal ripped through the house.  I turned off the water, then the disposal, took out the cookies, and removed one of those tiny dessert spoons I don’t know why I own from the unit.  Then I shoved the cookies back in, turned on the water, turned on the disposal and again – metal shredding ear bleeding sounds came from the sink.  I turned off the water and the disposal again, took the cookies out again, and retrieved yet another dessert spoon.  Once again, the cookies went back in, the water went on, the disposal switched was flipped and yes – once again something was being eaten in my disposal that sounded remarkably like silverware and yes I shut it all down again – pulled the cookies out again – and pulled out a third and final spoon.   It was like some kind of magicians disposal.  This thing was literally creating dessert spoons down in that deep dark hole and spitting them out one at a time.  I did not put the cookies back in  right away because I looked at that disposal and I thought to myself – god wants me to eat these cookies.   God put those spoons in there to stop the destruction of four perfectly good and might I add very sturdy chocolate chip cookies and while I have eaten out of the garbage can – I’ve never eaten out of the garbage disposal and eventually the thought became too much for me and I had to send the sugar to it’s final resting place.  The tiny dessert spoons that I use to pretend I will eat small slow bites of a sugary items – are ruined.  Woa is me.

There is a new thing on the web called Pinterest.  It’s basically an online bulletin board – a place for you to pin pictures of things you love and share them with other people.  I believe this is what is known as a Vision Board in some circles and you can’t just be on Pinterest – you have to request an invitation and be accepted– which means they can go fuck themselves. The site says you can plan a wedding, redecorate your home, find your style or save your inspirations.  I don’t need the internet to write down things I like because I have a brain.  I don’t need to electronically clip pictures of things and put them on a web site because I actually have a pad and a pencil.  Some of the must have items on the main page are “how to make a photo family tree” – not with my family and “how to make crayon hearts” – don’t need that either.  That’s not my vision board.  My vision board is pictures of Money, Louboutin shoes and Idris Elba or this guy I saw working in Herve Leger on Melrose.  I perused the site a few more minutes and noticed a lot of yummy food items and then I saw a recipe for a “baked egg boat” which was eggs baked in a delicious crispy crusty baguette and something called “Pink Lemonade Pound cake” and quite frankly those things are definitely on my vision board and now I’m thinking about applying to Pinterest and praying I’ll get accepted.  I didn’t know it was a billboard for fatties. I’m not sure what I have to do to be accepted but I’m working on a Pinterest acceptance vision board and resume right now while I wait to hear if I’m in.  So far it has pictures of cookies in a garbage disposal and me eating out of it with a fork because that’s the kind of shit that peaks my Pinterest.

Congratulations! We’ve Found Your Match

Who is eating Gorton’s Frozen Tilapia?  I don’t care how much the guy in the picture looks like he just hauled in some fresh fish – you will die if you eat this.  In fact, the last person I saw wearing a yellow hat and matching rain slicker was carving up a body on CSI and didn’t want to leave any DNA.   Have you ever met the Gorton’s fisherman?  No, because he’s a homeless man pulling things from a dumpster and putting them in cardboard for your dinner table.   Eat the box – it has to taste better.

I went to dinner in Beverly Hills last night because I wanted to dine with white people only and there needed to be a high Jew factor.  This should actually be on the Beverly Hills sign when you drive up Wilshire and enter the area.  “Welcome to white Jew lane.”  It’s kind of remarkable.  Beverly Hills looks so pretty lit up at night you’d never know it was filled with ego, hatred and fear.  Last night on my way to dinner I passed a house with about twenty people in the yard and a woman standing around a makeshift barbecue filled with smoke and I thought “those people are definitely having cat for dinner.”  You could just tell.   This is something you don’t see in Beverly Hills.  If you pass a barbecue going down in a yard in that part of town – somebody has broken in – and is cooking the family – to eat.

I was not on a dinner date last night.  I was having dinner with a girlfriend.  I haven’t been asked on a date since 1842 and I’m not surprised about that.  You have to have giant balls to ask me out and not because I’m so special but because I’m so judgemental.  I would ask someone out if I didn’t think they’d just point and laugh at me.  Some friends of mine were having a conversation about women asking men out and saying that in this day and age it’s high time a woman took charge but I say you’re high if you take charge because no one needs that kind of rejection.  If I like you I will flirt with you and by flirt I mean I will say “you’re hot lets do it” and if you don’t get the hint from that – that we’re not going out because you’re going to have to sack up and ask me because I’m still too dam terrified to make the first move.

I got an email this morning from “My Life Quick Match Singles” telling me that my four new matches were in!!  Yippeee!!!  I didn’t know I had matches, much less four of them.  The pictures of the guys they included were super hot.  And they were about 35 years old which is definitely in my wheelhouse.  I logged on to the website.  It asked me to fill out a questionnaire.  I did.  It asked me multiple choice questions like 1) Religion to me is…  a) an important part of my life b) something I do on holidays c) not my thing.  I needed d) the ruination of mankind -  or e) completely stupid.   Then there was this one 2) kids are a) great b) something I might plan someday  c)not in my future.  Again, I needed d) impossible at my age because my eggs are too old.  But I finished the questionnaire and out popped my matches and lets just say they were not the same as the four young guys on the front.   They were super old and the bio line under all of their names should have said “Stick a fork in me, I’m done.”

I may decide to ask someone out soon.  I’m getting the fifty one year old itch.  At least I think that’s what I’m feeling lately.  It’s either that, my new underpants or a reaction to the Gorton’s salmon I ate for breakfast.  I’ll keep you posted.

Wherever You Go, There’s Your Fat

Someone is definitely sneaking into my house every night and fucking with my scale –tweaking the little digital numbers so that they go up on a regular basis one pound at a time.  It’s like an Alfred Hitchcock movie in my bathroom – “Dial F for Fatty” or “Cellu-light.”  It’s either that or I’m actually getting fatter.   I don’t know what I’m eating but apparently it’s massive amounts of something that induces weight gain.  It doesn’t feel like I’m shoving an inordinate amount of shit down my gullet but I must be.  I’m going to pretend someone died and cover all the mirrors in my house.  I should probably start writing down what I eat but I’m afraid I don’t have enough pads in the house.  Last night I made the huge mistake of looking at myself naked in the mirror and I noticed that I now have back rings.  I could make a skin shirt out of the excess.  It’s like Silence of The Lambs in my house.  If  you don’t know what these are – congratulations.  They are rolls of fat on your back.  They are indentions you should have at your waist but they sit above that area and fold over.  Go look at your mom – she has them.   I don’t want them.   I was so upset by this discovery I almost didn’t get dessert at dinner and I almost didn’t stop at the grocery store on the way home to buy a bag of peanut butter chocolate chip cookies that I almost didn’t eat in bed while I sent out vile tweets about what a screw up Demi Moore is.  Who the fuck am I?

I have been on a diet since the day I was born.   People think I’m kidding when I say I’ve gained twenty five pounds but I’m not.  I don’t know when I stopped being able to say no to food but it’s happened.  They say “nothing tastes as good as skinny feels” but that’s a lie because nothing tasted as good as the cupcake I had for lunch yesterday.  I’m fat.  The scale doesn’t lie and now neither do my pants, dresses, and belts.  If my feet gain weight Louboutin will personally come take my shoes away because uber chubbies aren’t allowed to wear his shoes.  You can’t see the cameras in Saks Fifth Avenue when you’re there but they’re on – watching you.  If you ask for a certain size and you’re above a certain size – you’ll see – you won’t be getting any Louboutin shoes that day.

Starbucks  is adding beer and wine to their menu in certain California stores.  Great – now you need a laptop and a beer mug.  Nobody will ever leave.  If you think the scripts coming out of Starbucks sucked before – wait until you read the drunk episodes faux writers are churning out over a chardonnaybucks.  These people who hang out in Starschmucks are the same people who keep asking me to get Link’d in.  I’m not doing it.  I’m not Google +ing either.  Leave me alone.  I already have the best new communication gadget out there.  It’s an iPhone app that basically turns your phone into a walkie talkie with a fifteen second delay.  My friend Brian found it and now we both have it and we spent the entire morning yesterday sending dumb voice texts to each other.  Someone at work who overheard our scintillating chat said – why not just call each other?  Well that would involve allowing the other person to respond live to you or as I like to call it – cut me off when I’m trying to finish a fucking thought.  Actually this is what Brian says to me all the time so I’m pretty sure he invented this app so he could finally get a word in.  Brian’s four most used words with me are “can I finish now” and it’s not because we’re in bed together.  This app will do nothing but allow us to send snarky messages about people we don’t know and hate to each other all day long.  Thank you Apple.

This morning I read a quote on Facebook that said – “wherever you go, no matter the weather, always bring your own sunshine.”  Right now the only thing I’m bringing with me everywhere is my own back fat – so fuck you.  Have a great day.

Lego My Chocolates

I want a big heart shaped box filled with deliciously crappy chocolates and the bigger the box the better.   I don’t care if they come from Rite Aid or Ralph’s supermarket or some weird dude on the street with a cart.  I just want to remember the joy of the days when Valentine’s Day was a holiday I loved and looked forward to and I knew someone loved me – even if that someone was the fat kid in Row 6.  When I was a little girl back in the 1800’s going to school on Valentine’s Day was one of the greatest days of the year.  This was the day you would find out which boy liked you and if you were lucky there would be more than one.  In the classroom there would be a box in the back where you would drop your card for your valentine secretly and then the teacher would hand them out.  I loved these little cards and even at the age of 6 or 8 I loved getting more than one.  Greedy little bitch.  Boys would give you chocolate boxes their mothers bought or candy bracelets and all would be right with the world because a fellow 7 year old proclaimed his love for you with a red box of cancer causing deliciousness.   I don’t remember if everyone got a box back in the day but I always did and it always made me feel special and important and pretty.  I realize this is where all my problems with men began.  I have finally discovered that I was set up for failure on February 14^th all those years ago and it’s been a giant disappointment ever since.   The last time I was handed a Russell Stover shiny red heart was back in the first or second grade and I’ve felt inferior and ugly every year that I haven’t received one since.   This is all we’re really asking for.  I have hated Valentines Day for decades and fall into a deep depression every year because I know there won’t be a cute little cupid card in my mailbox and no one is leaving me a caramel centered anything on my doorstep.   Hallmark has been making me feel like a big fat alone loser and I want to sue them for years of torment.

A new line of Lego’s has been deemed offensive by a group of people that clearly has too much free time on their hands.  I watched the commercial for Lego Friends and I do find it offensive but for completely different reasons than the eating disorder specialists that are up in arms about it.   It starts off by saying “Welcome to beautiful Heart Lake City” which sounds like a gorgeous gated community and I think that is setting up little girls to think they’re going to live somewhere special in life which is silly because by the time they grow up there will be no world left and they’ll probably be on a stripper pole.  “I’m Stephanie and I’m going to the new café with my friend Olivia.  I just finished decorating my house – time to chill with the girls.”   This is offensive because quite frankly Stephanie decorates like shit and there is no way anyone will ever pay her to do their Lego House like she did her own.  “At the beauty shop Emma is styled and ready to go.”  Nothing wrong with this – you should look your best when going to chill with girlfriends because women are judgemental bitches who will take you down over a low fat blueberry muffin if you aren’t sporting the latest trends and have one hair out of place.  “This is gonna be so much fun.”  Actually it’s not.  You’re female friends will start whining about boys the second you all sit down and one by one you will drop them because they have nothing more important on their minds.

Carolyn Costin – an eating disorder specialist and founder of the Monte Nido Treatment Center in Malibu is offended.  First of all Carolyn the fact that you founded an eating disorder center in Malibu is the height of irony because the second someone leaves your haven they will be smacked in the face with fake beauty and thrust back into an eating disorder faster than you can say d cup boobs and spray tan.  Carolyn feels that the characters all sport “slim figures and stylish clothes and this will contribute to gender stereotyping that promotes body dissatisfaction.”  I personally could not tell what race any of these characters were or whether they were skinny.  They looked healthy.   There was one that was darker than the others so I just assumed she was the black chick because you’re only allowed to have one in a group of six toys.  Everybody knows that.   Carolyn feels that the toys send a message that  “being pretty is more important than who you are or what you can do.”  Well duh Carolyn – it is.  Pretty gets you everything in life.

I guess the people outraged over Lego Friends would be happy if there was a fat doll in hand me down clothing chomping on a chicken Mcnugget.  This toy doll might fit in more with the picture of America but I can tell you one thing for sure – she’s not getting any chocolates on Valentines Day.

I Wear Period Pants

“Kim is not pregnant.  She checked herself in to drug and alcohol rehab.”   Terrific.  So ended another heartwarming season of The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills.  Kim Richards must be very proud.  She started life trying to Escape To Witch Mountain and ended up in the Valley of Dolls.   I bet she never expected her life to turn out the way it has.  It’s weird watching someone fall into a drug and alcoholic haze on television unless you’re watching Celebrity Rehab which the fact that I’ve just typed the name of a show called Celebrity Rehab is proof that we as a society are failing a little bit but when I see that Janice Dickenson and Heidi Fleiss are on a television screen I can’t seem to tear myself away.  In fact – I go get snacks.  I have cut back on my reality t.v. but I just can’t stop watching the Housewives – all of them – especially when Adrienne Maloof is now making shoes.  This is something I will continue to need to see.  I am also on a need to know basis with her plastic surgery maneuvers.  This is someone who should not have married a plastic surgeon because she is clearly getting all of the procedures all of the time.  I am so obsessed that I have even been to Lisa Vanderpumps Sur restaurant and it was one of the worst meals I’ve ever had in Los Angeles which isn’t really saying a lot because this town doesn’t know how to have a good meal.  If you could see the line in front of Pinks Hot Dogs every night – you’d know what I mean.

I do want to achieve some sort of fame in my life – not Housewife fame –  but those who create definitely do it for others to acknowledge.  I guess if I fully examine the desire it’s really all about getting free clothes and shoes.  I want designers mailing me boxes of shit I don’t need – daily.  If I look at some of the things I’ve written about I’m not that far off from an episode of The Real Housewives.  I do tend to admit things most people would find embarrassing which is becoming quite odd because there are people at work now who know that I soaked through my pants with my period or that I’ve eaten food out of the garbage can or that I’ve become Carrie Bradshaw but the show’s called No Sex And The City.  My friends are starting to say things to me like “should we catch up with dinner or should I just read your blog?”   I get annoyed when we do get together and I have to have actual conversations about things I’ve already written about.  I find myself saying things like “Didn’t you read that I had my first hot flash?” or “How could you not know that Tulip ate her own poop.  It’s right there in The Book Of Moron.”  “I wrote about it.”  “I wrote about it.”  “Fuck I wrote about it.”   I don’t know about you people but I am sick the fuck of me.

I am now on the great search for a natural way to stay asleep.  Ever since I gave up the sleeping pills that were making me fat I have not been able to sleep for more than three hours at a time and I’m slowly going insane.  It may have something to do with the fact that  I can’t regulate the heat in my house so when I go to bed it’s 52 degrees and my teeth are chattering and at 1 a.m. I wake up in a pool of sweat with my balls sticking to each other.  Maybe all the damage I did to my body for all of those years with drugs and alcohol is just finally detoxing its way out of my body now?  Anythings possible I guess.  I wonder if I snore?  I should tape record myself and find out and then maybe I’d discover that’s what is keeping me up at night.  I think it would make for some truly exciting reality television.  We could film me sleeping.  Then me getting up at the wrong time because I still can’t set my alarm the right way.  Then me going back to bed.  Then me watching television on my iPad.  Then me changing pajamas because mine are soaking wet.  Then me sleeping again.  Then me waking up and going downstairs to eat a block of cheese or make a snack tray to take back to bed.  Then me falling asleep again with gum in my mouth.  Then me waking up and taking the gum out of my mouth and watching more t.v.  and eating more snacks.  Then Peaches farting on my head.  Then me falling asleep  ten minutes before the alarm goes off for the real time.  At the end of the episode the freeze frame of my face could come up and the words “Heidi is not pregnant.  She is peri menopausal.  She sleep eats and the camera adds ten pounds. There is no rehab for that”  I’d watch that.

Let The Fur Fly

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

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

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 62^nd Annual Golden Mic Awards.  Yes, for the 62^nd 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

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 51^st 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.

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

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 Booby Prize

It’s awards season in Hollywood and the streets are filled with sequins and beads, which is very similar to the inside of “Rage” on a Sunday afternoon.  The smell of spray tan, narcissism and disappointment fills the air at every turn and stylists everywhere convince women that their dress looks great and no I can’t see your nipples, underpants, your husbands DNA sample or the pea you ate last week when you were feeling a bit peckish.  I think the words Golden Globes translates into “hairstyle that looks ridiculous” because many women chose to put their very expensive almost all fake tresses into positions that would make Cirque Du Soleil performers jealous.   It’s like hair contortion.  The red carpet is a sea of anorexia and we watch this for about 6 hours waiting for an award to be handed to someone who did something remarkable most Americans likely did not see.  Go poll all of Orange County and ask them if they know who Idris Elba or Peter Dinklage is and get ready to see the face of dumbfounded.   If you want the popularity contest – that’s the Oscars.

My favorite thing from watching all of the entertainment shows last night was seeing how many times a reporter asked Angelina and Brad what the kids were at home doing.  They’re kids.  Just because they’re Angelina and Brads kids does not make them shit their pants or build a tonka truck less than someone else’s kids.  “Well let’s see – Zahara is working on a new quantum physics theory, Pax is splitting atoms, Shiloh is designing a men’s fashion line and well we haven’t seen Knox and Vivienne for awhile so they could be out shooting another documentary.”  Okay thanks Ange.  Then there is the endless line of questioning that follows George Clooney every time he shows up with a new vagina.  “Hey when are you two gonna make it official?”   Does everyone really care if George Clooney gets married?  Why, so he can add to the ever growing divorce rate in this country?  George Clooney is having the life every straight man in America dreams about.  Leave him alone.  There was one chick reporting on the NBC pre show that they must have dragged out of the tape library about five minutes before air time.  Between her and Carson Daly I felt like I was watching the Sesame Street coverage of the Golden Globes.  I kept waiting for them to tell me what the secret word was.  The Wiggles would have done a better job.

Everyone is bitching about Ricky Gervais and saying that he was too tame.  Make up your minds people.  Last year you were outraged that he openly mocked a mockable fake religion and called out too many precious stars and this year he didn’t rip people enough.  Maybe he should have just eaten a live baby.  I thought he was extremely enjoyable and quite frankly the second you people watch the Oscars you’ll be screaming for a little Ricky.

Ironically while Hollywood was all worried about getting a cheesy marble statue with a globe on top of it representing nothing – my friend Victoria was getting both of her globes removed – representing the beginning of her new life – without cancer.   Today like hundreds of other women in Hollywood – she will wake up with new boobs – only hers were not elective.  Today I’m going to search the streets for some sparkly medical scrubs and then present her doctors with an award.  I will line up all the chairs in recovery and have them make speeches to the crowd.  They will thank god and their mothers and the institutions where they studied for the education they are most likely still paying for.    We will all clap at the end and say – you were amazing.  What a great performance.   Thank You.  The world will not see it.  It will not get a Nielson rating.  But we’ll know.

The Pajama Man Cometh

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.

 

Are You Kid-ing Me?

I have just uncovered something more disturbing about our country than the list of names running for President – McDonalds has a twitter account.  “How’s your morning going so far?  I started mine w/ a SF Vanilla Iced Coffee” said one tweet.  What’s up with the cutesy code McDiabetes?    “It’s words w/  Fries Wednesday!  With a storm coming in see what we want fries with.”  Really?   First of all the – I’ll have fries with that shake joke – is older than me.  Who’s tweeting for Mickey D’s – Shecky Greene?  Second of all – who’s following this twitter feed?  So far they only have a couple of hundred thousand people on board but I’d like to ask these people – what is it you’re looking for from a McDonalds tweet?  Humor?  I think a  death toll from their product would be more appropriate.  Aren’t we fat enough?  I know I am.  Every time I see a mom feeding her kid a chicken mcnugget I think – why not just fry up the family cat?  It probably has less calories.

There is one family I’ve seen recently that is definitely marching to the beat of McDonalds and every other fast food chain in America.  Six year old Toddlers and Tiara’s star Alana and her mother June are everywhere and these two internet sensations are just so darn funny.  I mean what’s more laugh inducing than a fat mentally handicapped kid, her morbidly obese possibly retarded mom, and a gay dad.     Once again TLC has provided us with a madcap look at life in the kiddie pageant  world – or as I like to call it Deliverance 2.  Never mind the guzzling of Mountain Dew to get the kid pageant ready – what I am trying to wrap my head around is – why do they have so much toilet paper in their house?  I know there has to be a lot of shit going down in that house – literally – but it’s weird.   They don’t even carry that much toilet paper in a Costco.

     The country is also fascinated with eight year old Sophia Grace and five year old cousin Rosie.   These adorable little british girls who trot around in pink princess costumes have been everywhere singing:

And he ill, he real, he might got a deal

He pop bottles and he got the right kind of bill

He cold, he dope, he might sell coke

He always in the air, but he never fly coach

He a motherfucking trip, trip, sailor of the ship, ship

When he make it drip, drip kiss him on the lip, lip

That’s the kind of dude I was lookin’ for

And yes you’ll get slapped if you’re lookin’ hoe

 

Some shows have even sent them out to red carpets to interview celebrities.  It’s just so darn adorable.  An eight year old singing Nicky Minaj and cursing is the height of adorzeable.

I could be wrong but I think we might be laughing at inappropriate things and I’ve been thinking that for a very long time – especially every time I see that How I Met Your Mother is a ratings hit.  I read a story this morning about a mom campaigning for a bald cancer Barbie for her little girl.   She’s been urging Mattel to make one of their dolls without hair to help kids come to terms with the hair loss that comes with cancer.    This is something I can get behind.    McDonalds should put these dolls in a happy meal so kids can see the real connection to eating fries.   I’d tweet about that.

Dead Girl Tweeting

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

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

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.

Pill Popping Fatty

My sleeping pills made me fat.  After months of scientific research (completely ignoring it) I decided to do what I always do when I am in need of important life changing information – I google it.  I have had trouble sleeping for many many years.  The last time I slept eight hours in a row was in a fox hole in Nam and that’s because I was just so darn tired from the fight.  I have tried every drug known to mankind – Ambien, Lunesta, Melatonin, Tylenol PM,  etc.  There were a few things that made me see things while awake – like triple of everything with double rainbows, and a few that made me see things while asleep – like murderous bloody rampages with me as a knife wielding killer lunatic.  I would have taken sleep eating or sleep driving but sleep killing seemed a bit too high a price to pay.   My doctor decided that it wasn’t a sleeping problem but an anxiety problem and said that I was afraid to sleep in my house and woke up frequently to make sure there were no intruders.  First of all – by doctor I mean the guy I pay ten bucks to see because he’s in my health plan.  Second of all – I have two 120 pound dogs – only an idiot would break into my house because the barking thrashing and charging of the doors and windows when they hear a leaf blow by is earth shattering.  However, I like my doctor so I decided to try something he said would work.  It’s called Sinequan.  I have been taking it for about a year and for the most part it works pretty well but for some reason I decided to stop taking it about two nights ago.   Something just told me I should stop.  Maybe it was my cellulite speaking or quite possibly my size 8 pants talking from the closet because this morning I decided to google it and the second I typed in the words “Sinequan and…”  the words WEIGHT GAIN popped up.  Holy mother of god Jesus Christ you are fucking kidding me bullshit fuck balls this is nuts I am finally going to be as thin as a pin.  So by next week I will be back to my 108 pound self.  Stay tuned America.

I heard yesterday on a very trustworthy news program – The Howard Stern Show – that MIT had developed a Charisma meter that detects the signs of charisma and actually measures it.  The meter is the size of an iPhone and has a sensor and a microphone and tracks your speech and body movements and can tell you how charismatic you are.  Uhm.  That’s what they’re working on at MIT?  What,  the study of  what causes traffic jams was too time consuming?  Anyone can tell how charismatic you are – it’s the one thing that’s not secret – it’s right fucking there when you walk into the room.  I don’t need to shove some device up my ass to prove that I’m doing well at a pitch meeting – I just have to read the bored, tired, yawning, farting , eye rolling faces across the table.  This incredible research from some of the greatest minds in the country says that using lots of gestures and expressions makes you more charismatic – or someone who suffers from tourette’s or cerebral palsy.  I’ll have to remember that next time I try to negotiate some more money at a job – I’ll flail my arms around and smile widely – before they pack up my box with my picture of my dogs in Halloween costumes and escort me out of the building.

These are the kinds of things that keep me up at night – not intruders.  There is no pill for what ails me.

Wax On, Fuck Off

When do I get to stop waxing?  I’m not asking, my vagina is.  I got a ransom note last night telling me it was holding any future growth hostage because thanks to the Geneva Convention it knew it was being treated worse than most prisoners.  Frankly I think it’s watching too much Hogan’s Heroes.   But it did make me think – at what age do my private parts get some relief?  At what point will I look down and say – ah fuck it?  I feel close now.  I know there are a lot of women out there who don’t put themselves through the torture of having hot wax poured on them by a total stranger who then manipulates their clitoris while patting their thigh to distract them from the pain of the riiiiiiiiiiiip!!!!   Than again I’m sure there are scads of women who love this – and possibly even get off on it.  I wonder if a waxer has ever had a client who had an orgasm in the middle of a wax?  That would possibly be the most awkward situation ever.  You’d definitely have to change waxing salons – often.  Sometimes I like to look at people and decide what kind of wax situation they have.  There really are only three choices – bald, landing strip / Hitler mustache, and full bush.  The later is reserved for almost all of the women inside Whole Foods and everyone who works at Café Gratitude in Larchmont and of course San Francisco.  I don’t understand this.   Hair is for my head.  You can take it all.  If lasering it off weren’t so expensive I’d be the first in line.  But the concept of lying down on the table with my knees in my nose at the age of 80 is not cool with me – at all.    “Hey 85 year old Heidi – get up on your knees now so I can wax your ass.”  Something tells me I won’t be into that.  I also don’t know if a bald lady bit is a good look on a granny.  Between my tattoos and my vadge – it’s all becoming a disturbing futuristic image.  The dyed red hair alone is going to have that old lady I just dipped my head in strawberry kool aid look anyway.  What a disaster.  Whatever happened to the days when a Merkin was cool.   Maybe if I continue to gain weight I won’t be able to see my junk any more and then I won’t care what happens to it.  This is the most positive thought I’ve had about the whole concept and may proceed with this.

I have two words for anyone who is so bored they’ll watch anything on television.  Dance Moms.  Where did they find this Abby woman and who figured out that she was a good teacher which apparently she is since people allow their children to be mentally and physically abused by studying with her.  Was she possibly a dancer when she was younger and fell off the anorexia wagon?  There was a marathon on yesterday and I realized that I haven’t devoted enough time to watching this program. There is incredible drama unfolding inside her little Boston dance studio and none of it seems at all scripted – insert massive head clunking eye roll here.  It’s like a dance Glee for retarded kids.   Yesterday in one of the episodes the kids went to Regionals!!!!  Abby created a dance for them called “Where Have All The Children Gone.”  Her explanation was – “You know all of those kids on milk cartons.  That’s who this dance is for.”  The kids were clueless.  What the fuck is a kid on a milk carton?  Do they even do that anymore?  The sound bites from the tiny malnutritioned soon to have body dysmorphia kids were brilliant.  “I’m not really sure what the missing children thing is about but I like the creepy music.”  The kids flailed around the stage stabbing and choking themselves and then ran away from invisible strangers.  Seriously, it was almost as if my Vagina had choreographed this.  It was my waxing set to music.

Politicking Me Off

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.

Are You There God, It’s Me Jew Hair

I have found a dependency more powerful than my love of liquor and my daily desire for a Marlboro light.  I am addicted to my curling iron.   It is a habit so powerful I don’t know if I can break it or if I’m going to make it.   I know they say – one day at a time but the withdrawal is killing me not to mention giving me a Jew fro.   I want to join C.I.A. – Curling Iron Anonymous – but it doesn’t exist yet.  Maybe I should start holding meetings in my garage.  I can’t be the only curling iron addict out there.  In the hierarchy of inanimate objects I would marry – my curling iron beats my nespresso every time – and that’s deep.  I am so adept with my curling iron that I have actually taught other people how to use theirs.  A hairstylist I know named Arrick gave me a lesson one day that changed my life – and I have been the master of my mane ever since.  I have been told that my iron is murdering my hair.  I have been promised that if I give up my curling iron I will have long silky hair within one year.  This is a long time to wait for something to come to fruition – especially for someone like me.  If I were a superhero I would be Captain Immediate Gratification.  I don’t wait.  I have three curling irons and they are all hanging in a row staring at me – calling to me – begging for me to use them and fix the untamed disaster on the top of my head.  I want to put them away but I’m afraid they’ll stage a coup in the middle of the night and escape the bathroom cabinet and do my hair while I’m sleeping click clacking the curls out of my hair.  It makes sense that a curling iron is killing my hair.  It’s the same concept as lying my head down on an ironing board and using my Kenmore Steam Pro to smooth out the frizz.  I think that’s actually how women used to do their hair back in the day anyway.   It seems that I need help giving up this addiction so I have decided to attack my curling iron addiction the twelve step way.

1. Admit we are powerless over our addiction —that our lives had become unmanageable.

Okay, I admit I’m powerless over my curling iron – but it did make my hair manageable.  So – that’s half a step.

2. Come to believe that a Power greater than ourselves could restore us to sanity.

I guess the greater Power is my new hair stylist Chaz Dean -unfortunately I’m quite certain he’s insane, so that step isn’t gonna work.

3. Make a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God as we understood Him.

Hmmm, God is the one who gave me this hair so that steps not gonna work either.  This is hard.  No wonder no one follows this list.

4. Make a searching and fearless moral inventory of ourselves.

Oy.  That’s not gonna happen.  I don’t have that kind of time.

5. Admit to God, to ourselves, and to another human being the exact nature of our wrongs.

Dear God, Me, and I guess whoever is reading this right now, I’m sorry I’m addicted to my curling iron.  I use every day , sometimes twice a day.  I want to stop but I don’t know if I’m strong enough.  Please help me.

6. We are entirely ready to have God remove all these defects of character.

Go for it God!  Take all the addictions you want.  Food, Shoes, Younger Men and my curling iron!

7. Humbly ask Him to remove our shortcomings.

Listen, it’s just a curling iron.  How humble do I need to be here?

8. Make a list of all persons we have harmed, and become willing to make amends to them all.

How about if I make a llist of all the people that will be harmed by the sight of my hair without the curling iron?

9. Make direct amends to such people wherever possible, except when to do so would injure them or others.

Who has this kind of time?

10. Continue to take personal inventory and when we are wrong promptly admitted it.

This is not going to happen.

11. Seek through prayer and meditation to improve our conscious contact with God, as we understood Him, praying only for knowledge of His will for us and the power to carry that out.

Okay seriously – isn’t God too busy to deal with my hair situation?

12. Having had a spiritual awakening as the result of these Steps, we try to carry this message to alcoholics, and to practice these principles in all our affairs.

To all of you curling iron and flat iron addicts out there.  I pray for you too.  Put down the hot sticks that are frying your hair.  Embrace who you are and who your hair wants to be.  Then go buy a hat.  Maybe that could be my next addiction.

Pop Goes The Rodent

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

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.

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.

Vagina S.O.S.

To do list: Go on a date.

I send myself notes all day with little things that make me think or make me curious or just something that strikes me as funny.  I have to write them down because I forget them ten seconds after I think them.  I love going through the notes at the end of the day and sometimes I don’t even remember thinking the thought I had but eventually it comes back to me.  Except for the above note.  I sent myself that one three times yesterday and don’t remember writing it.  This leads me to one conclusion – my vagina now has a laptop or an iPhone and is sending me emails of what it would like to do – over and over again.   I do feel badly for it but I’m not really sure how to help.   I mean – we’ve really been living separate lives for quite some time now.  Do I put an ad in the Los Feliz Flyer?  Should I hang posters around the neighborhood like they do for lost dogs?  Go ahead I’ll wait while you insert a hideous cat pussy joke here.  Maybe I should get it a listing on match dot com but then the question becomes how do I fill out it’s questionnaire?  I have no idea what kind of music it likes or it’s favorite kind of take out food.  I don’t know if it likes tall or short – dark or blonde.  I’ve never bothered to ask or was too drunk to pay attention in the past.  The truth of the matter is,  I’m not very in touch with my vagina right now and I have to say – it’s not it – it’s me.  We seem to be having some kind of a communication breakdown and to be honest– I’m just not that into it.  I feel like every time I pay too much attention to it – it just gets super needy and has to be involved in every decision I make.  Do we have to do everything together?  Sometimes I just want to be alone.  I’m thinking maybe we should watch You Porn together – god knows every one tells me that’s what I’m supposed to be using my iPad for – but again, I don’t even know what kind of porn it’s into.  Schoolgirl, cheerleader, girl on girl, boy on boy, boy on girl on dog with cat?  I do know what kind of toys it likes.  It’s super vocal about that.   Maybe if I stopped calling it “it.”  Maybe I should name my vagina.  I hate any of the other names people have for a vagina so I’m not going to be using those.  I have no problem calling actual human beings those other words for vagina – just not my vagina.

I am about to write three words that are in direct conflict with so much I write about but I can’t help it – I Feel Hopeful.  I don’t know why that is – it just is.    I’m even thinking about answering one of those emails from that son of a King in Zimbabwe who keeps telling me he has funds in a bank he needs my help with.  Maybe it’s the fresh smell of a new year that has me feeling this way – a year that doesn’t have the stench of my disappointment on it yet or isn’t tainted with my predictable negativity.   I’m not sure what it is… but it’s like that song from West Side Story is playing over and over in my head – “could it be yes it could something’s coming something good.”  Please feel free to go ahead and call the police right now and report that I’m losing my mind.

For now I’m going to continue on my hopeful path.  I’m going to strike up a new conversation with Marlene (temporary Vagina name) and rekindle our relationship.  In fact – I’m going to ask my lady parts out on a date – and I know she’ll say yes – she’s apparently desperate.  The smoke signals she sent  out while I was sleeping last night spelled out SOS and almost burned the house down.

I Didn’t Ask For The Anal Probe

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

“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

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.

Part Time Skinny. Full Time Crazy.

Looks like my dreams of being a hand model are over.  My fingers are fat.  My ring finger has a muffin top.  In fact, I have come to the dramatic conclusion that I am a part time skinny.  I realized this yesterday at Saks Fifth Avenue.  I always look for billowy clothes that will waft around the body.  It’s my favorite look – when I’m fat – and not because I’m thinking about what will hide the extra poundage – it’s because I envision how it will look when I’m thinner.  I think to myself – “that is going to be amazing on me when I finally lose this weight.”   I love the look of sweepy clothing on an emaciated body – the hanging wispy threads just draping over a woman’s bones.  But here’s the rub – whenever I get down to my goal weight – aka anorexic look – I put on the tightest clothes I can find to show off my stuff.  This is what makes me a part time skinny.  If I were a full time skinny I would wear billowy clothing whenever I want because I know my thinness will be around for awhile.  Us part time skinny girls want people to see what we’ve accomplished immediately because we don’t know how long it will last.

I suffer from present day nostalgia.  I love what happened five minutes ago.  I can look back on something that occurred an hour ago and get overly emotional about it.  My weepiness may be peri menopausel but I think it’s because I can’t remember what happened five years ago and I’m so happy to remember anything that I just break down in tears.  I went to a fabulous party last night and people started telling me stories of things I did with them that I don’t remember.  I love saying to someone “it’s so nice to meet you” only to hear – “we’ve met before” in return.  The sneer that comes with it is always nice.  I have a friend who can’t remember anyone he’s met and I’m always whispering in his ear who’s approaching him as they make their way over like Anne Hathaway did in The Devil Wears Prada.  People at parties always say “you look great” but I say that to someone who doesn’t look great so I think they think I don’t really look so great but they’re just saying it so I feel better.  I mean what are they going to say – “you’ve gained some weight”?

The Christmas season and holiday parties are a fantastic time to get fat.  I tend not to eat at gatherings but make up for it when I get home.  Last night I had to stop on the way home for something sweet because I didn’t partake in any of the deserts at the party I went to.  I didn’t want to be seen shoveling shit down my gullet in front of hot gays.  They will take you down.  A hot gay will eyeball you up and down and then raise an eyebrow as you’re holding a cookie and you know if they had a thought bubble over their head it would just say “tsk tsk fatty.”

I went to my favorite death deli on the way home.  Everyone has a death deli.  It’s a place you go to that you know you may die in a hail of bullets before you make it out with your twinkies and cheap wine.  For many people it’s the local 7-11.  Pretty much all 7-11’s are potential death traps.  Every time I walk into one when it’s not full blaring daylight outside I think – I may die in here.  This is not how I want to go by the way – while getting gum and a Hostess snowball at 5 a.m. on my way to work.  My friend Brian had a death deli in his old neighborhood that I could never bring myself to go in because I knew I would be killed the second I crossed the threshold.  I had one in my old neighborhood that I used to go in to buy wine when I was a drunk but I would shop in my pajamas so I wasn’t afraid of dying because I looked like I was the one doing the killing.  I love a good death deli.  They sell everything from condoms to jalapeno and chili flavored cheese doodles.  There is nothing healthy or low caloric inside a death deli.  Last night I bought a box of donut holes and a six pack of non alcoholic beer.  This is the grocery list of a part time skinny.

I’m Skunk with Power

All of this Christmas hugging is upsetting me and not because I don’t like touching people but because it’s a pipeline to my back fat.  Every time someone hugs me I think – don’t go for the waist there’s a muffin top and don’t go up because that’s where the bra fat is.  I want to put instructions or hand prints on my back to say where you should place your hands while hugging me like those feet they put on the dance floor when you’re at the Arthur Murray dance school.  Today I had a great excuse to stop people from awkwardly feeling my fleshy bits because I happen to smell a titch like a skunk.  If you ever want to see people back away from you in a rapid manner say “skunk” or “leprosy.”

The celebrity scent Karma police are obviously very angry about my last post because they sent a killer skunk to my house and that skunk had a throw down with Peaches that must have rivaled a WWE match.  I didn’t see it.  I most definitely smelled the aftermath.  Smelling the scent of skunk in the night air in California is as routine as seeing a new Lindsay Lohan mug shot.  You just get used to it.  However, once le pew actually leaves Pepe and comes inside – all bets are off.  Whatever those cute black and white fur balls carry around in their ass sacks is deadly once it leaves their body.  If cancer had a smell – that is what is being propelled from their anus sacks of which they have two.  Lucky little devils.  I was sitting at my computer minding my own business when all of a sudden I smelled something so foul I thought all the gas lines in the house blew at once.  Then Peaches strolled over to me and I thought I was going to pass out.  This was not our first skunk rodeo but it was the worst.  Peaches got sprayed so badly right in the face that the stank burned her little nostril and she was bleeding!!  Now dealing with a 120 pound dog who has just been doused with cancer stench and is spreading that stench all over your house is not fun especially at 5 in the morning when you have to go to work.  So I did what any normal person would do.  I put her in a crate, lit every candle I own, and left.  I’m shocked the paint didn’t peel off the walls by the time I came home but luckily when I returned – the neighbors had called the skunk man.  Now some of you may remember the skunk man from an earlier post.  He is hot.  My neighbor knows I think he’s hot.  Now every time the skunk man comes – that neighbor introduces us.  We have been introduced at least fifteen times.  My neighbor is hilarious.  He’s also famous so I don’t yell at him for embarrassing me.  After all – every time a new friend comes over I point and stare at him like a bad Hollywood tour bus so he owes me the skunk ribbing.   The hot skunk man gave me some magic goop that is supposed to suck all the skunk scent out of your house and Peaches went for a bath and praise Jesus it just so happens that my couch cushions were out being cleaned so that drama was not tossed on top of the skunk shit cake.

My house still stinks and it’s giving me a headache or a tumor or cancer or all of the above, I’m not sure yet.  The whole ordeal has really just made me jealous of skunks because God knows I would love to have a double anus sack that shot deadly hideous smelling stuff onto people.  Who needs a gun when you can just skunk someone.  Every time you have a little trouble at work with an office bully – just drop trou – bend over – point and shoot.  I doubt that person will ever be mean to you again.   It’s not the kind of thing I’d use on someone trying to hug me – but I’m thinking about it.

Smells Like Christm”ASS”

Have you ever farted in your car by accident because you thought it was just a little one but it turned into a really big one and it was loud and made you laugh but then it became trapped in your car and it was more powerful than you ever expected and you were on the highway and couldn’t really control yourself or open your windows and so you just had to live with the smell wafting around your Prius like a dead animal trapped behind a wall?  Yeah, me neither.

Today at Barney’s I was very surprised and thoroughly disgusted to see an area called “Gaga’s Workshop.”  I never expected to see my Barney’s fall victim to a random act of stardom.  Gaga’s workshop?  What’s she making?  Wigs, weird shoes and other peoples hit songs?  Listen Lady and all of you other celebrities making stuff I don’t need like perfume and handbags and shoes and dental dams – stay in your lanes.   I don’t want to smell like Beyonce and I’m not shopping at Kohl’s for my clothes, I don’t care how hot Sofia Vergara looks in her line – I’m not Sofia Vergara.  I need expensive tailoring to cover my assets – emphasis on the first three letters.   Christmas is exploding with celebrity wares.

I guess the thing to have when you become famous is a perfume line but I haven’t smelled one yet that doesn’t make me feel queasy and cheap.  The thought of spraying a star line on my body is one of the three things I never want to do along with eat another human being after they die and taste dog poop.  Kate Walsh has her own perfume called “Boyfriend” which is ironic because people always whisper how she can’t seem to keep one because she’s insane.  Britney Spears has six perfumes but she’s on so many meds to keep her from shaving her own head that I assume they smell like Formaldehyde and Prozac.  Justin Bieber has one but the thought of him getting all sexy with a girl  and her perfume makes me feel like a child molestor.    Paris Hilton has the most – eight.  One is called “Paris Hilton Passport” which I guess will get you into any dark dank sweaty smokey room in Hollywood where you can get liquored up and  make a sex video.  Another’s called “Siren” which is the sound you usually hear when Paris Hilton goes out clubbing in her pink car – which is a crime in itself.  I like the one called “Just Me” – which I’m guessing is just an empty bottle.  The weirdest people that have colognes are Alan Cumming – because I thought he was way to cool to fall victim to the stank trade, Bruce Willis because who the hell was asking for that scent, and Sarah Jessica Parker because I believe this is when she jumped the shark for me.  In fact – if you have a perfume – you are no longer cool in my eyes – sorry.   I was about to rekindle my love affair with Jennifer Aniston when she started dating the amazing Justin Theroux – but her perfume really made me rethink things.  I don’t want to smell like your memories.  I want to make my own memories in a smell I love.   I wear Herve Leger although today in my Prius I was most definitely wearing the scent of Moron.

Male Whoreticulture

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!

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

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.

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

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.

Shitopia

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

“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.

Menopause: The Prequel

They were out of half and half last night at the supermarket.  I burst into tears.  Uh oh.  It started in the conference room at EXTRA yesterday.  I was writing something on the grease board and all of a sudden I got extremely hot and sweaty and dizzy.  I mean hot like I had just walked into a sauna – white hot – the kind of hot you get right before you barf your brains out.  It happened in a flash.  I went from perfectly fine to holy shit I think I might be dying in two point five seconds.  This happened in front of a room full of people – many of them men.  People started scrambling and saying – do we need to call paramedics?  Should we get you to the hospital?  I really had no idea what was happening.  Thankfully my obsession with aging led me to the brilliant conclusion and I being a moron said out loud – holy shit I think I just had my first hot flash.  I noticed several men shrink back in disgust but Tommy fled the room and got me one of those portable hand held fans they use on red carpets in the summer for the stars.  When I turned it on it said EXTRA AT THE EMMY’S as it spun but this was definitely not an award winning moment for me.  I shoved so much food down my gullet to stop feeling dizzy and eventually it passed and I realized I just had a personal screening of my new life movie Nightmare on Menopause Street.  Unfortunately it wasn’t a private screening and now every time any one at work looks at me they’re going to think Menopause.  I am the new poster child for crazy women who burst into tears and have sudden hot flashes.  Terrific.

I read that hot flashes and dizziness can go on for years before you actually start Menopause and I can’t help but think – how long before I can’t see over the steering wheel?  Should I just start saving phone books now because I am definitely going to be one of those old ladies that shrinks and I won’t be able to see out the front window of my car and god only knows how long they’ll be making phone books for with technology what it is today.  Maybe I should invent some kind of baby booster seat for old people.    There can’t be anything more embarrassing than not being able to see over the steering wheel.  Can there?

It’s almost Christmas and for me that means going to the movies and then eating Chinese food.  I usually go see something where Jews are killed and thankfully Steven Spielberg has provided me with that fare for years.  In light of recent events I’m starting to think a tearjerker is a very bad idea.  I could have a complete mental breakdown in the middle of  War Horse.   I barely made it through Planet of The Apes with the animal abuse.  Combine menopause with animal death and they will have to get the jaws of life to get me out of my seat.  I’m thinking maybe I should just do the Chinese food and pray they make my dumplings right or this will be one horror movie where the Chinese man dies first.

Introducing The FUFA

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

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.

IS MY ASS MIC ON?

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

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

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

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.

I Now Pronounce You, Handy Man and Wife

“Hi Marvin, it’s Heidi.  There is water pouring out of some pipe in my yard, what do I do?”  “Is it your water?”  “I don’t know.”  “Did you shut off the main water?”  “Where’s that?”  “It’s in the front of the house by the street.”  “I don’t think I should do that.  I think you should do that.”  This is how conversations usually go between me and the man in my life, Marvin, my gardener.  Thankfully Marvin is a lot more than a flower planter.  He’s an electrician, a plumber, a landscaper, a contractor and anything else I want him to be unless I want a licensed person for any of these jobs because Marvin does not come with the States approval.  That’s why everything Marvin does, costs fifty bucks.  Every time I need anything done, I call Marvin.  I have no idea where he lives and I don’t care how far he has to travel to get to me – just get here fast – cause shit is going down.  I have graciously given Marvin to other people because that’s how I got him, but I worry that he’ll get too busy for me and I secretly want to stop recommending him.  I gave him to a friend once who gave him to Kathy Griffin and the next thing I knew Marvin was on television renovating her house.

This week we had some seriously weird weather in Los Angeles which I realize usually just means rain but we really did have a wind situation on our hands.  My shit was blowing everywhere.  I was afraid to go outside after I saw my picnic table and umbrella fly by the window at such an alarming rate I thought I’d be killed.  There was no electricity which meant no television or internet and I was never so thankful for my ipad.  For once I went to work looking like I got dressed in the dark because I actually got dressed in the dark.  The lights eventually came back on but whatever was blowing led to the water situation in my yard and as far as I could tell – my neighbors pool had exploded and it was draining through my hill and this is when I started having that thought I have every time some kind of home issue or mechanical failure happens – “if I did have a boyfriend would he know what to do?”  Women always assume men have the answers to the few questions we can’t handle on our own.  Questions like:  Is that supposed to do that?  What does off sides mean?  How much is a stamp worth now?  Actually that last question is one I’ll ask anyone because it confounds me that they keep changing the price of a stamp but now they never put that price on the actual stamp so I have no idea how much it is.  When did they stop doing that?  How the fuck am I supposed to know if this is the right stamp?  If I’ve had a pack of them in my wallet for longer than a month I just start using two.   This is wasteful.

I read in the paper that there’s a new trend for couples – engagement bands for him.  They’re called “management rings” and they’re gaining popularity in the hetero world for “forward thinking couples.”    I’m thinking I should get one of these rings for Marvin so that he knows I mean business.  If not that, at least a promise ring.  I don’t want to think about what happens the next time something falls, breaks, or comes unglued without him.

Homeless of The Month Club

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

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?

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

“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

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.

Prescription For Shame

  I was publicly humiliated at the animal hospital last night.  Two horrible things happened and I’m not sure how to deal with the embarrassment.  First of all, if you want to know where all the mental patients in Glendale are – they are at my Vet – talking to their cats.  It’s always the cat people and they are almost always women.  The dog owners are slightly nuts but the cat ladies are full on bonkers. There is also the occasional Rabbit retard.  Last night – while I was minding my own business reading Cat Fancy and laughing at the actress on the cover who I happen to know is a bitch –  a cat lady called me out in the middle of a crowded waiting room and then Peaches herself delivered the second red faced blow.

     It was just a routine visit to the vet for Peaches.  The usual Friday night crowd was gathered at the animal hospital picking up their various pets or checking them in.  Everyone was comparing animal ailments.  Mine has a bad heart, mine had a cyst removed, mine was in a fight with another dog etc.  It’s like the animal version of that boat scene in Jaws – everyone trying to top the other in what their pet has.  In the corner of the room however was crazy cat lady.  She was chatting it up with her tabby at decibel level 13 and talking on the phone with someone who’s apparently deaf.   Then she got up and bitched out one of the vet assistants.  Then she turned her sights on me – whipping around from the counter and yelling to me… “Oh my God, you’re wearing your Target Missoni and I’m wearing mine!”  She might as well have pointed at me and yelled “Murderer.”  I was horrified.  I tried to hide my head behind Peaches head but she kept talking.  “I love my skirt, I wear it everyday.  I’m a seller for the most part but I had to have this skirt for myself.”  The entire waiting room was staring at me.  Yes I was wearing what I consider a very chic corduroy car coat I picked up at some Target in Monrovia,  but she was wearing the one thing I passed up while shopping the entire Missoni look.   The one item I didn’t want.  The fact that she was now comparing us as if we were two style icons separated at birth was the definition of hideous.  Here she was, the Cat lady of Glendale outing me at the Vet.  I may never wear that coat again and I will definitely not be wearing any of my Missoni clothing items for at least a year.  I need to wait out all the regular people walking around in Target Missoni.

     The other thing that happened at the vet?   Peaches surprise diagnosis – Herpes.  “I’m sorry what?” I said to the vet.  “How did Peaches get herpes?”  I wracked my brain.  I have been leaving her out during the day – has she figured out how to unlock the gate?  Is she out there whoring around the neighborhood making out with dirty dogs while I’ve been at work?  It’s always the quiet ones. The doctor told me it’s a type of papilloma virus that’s not exactly like human herpes but the same kind of viral infection.  They don’t know how dogs get it but it’s very common.  I guess if one of us had to get herpes I’m glad it’s not me. Peaches doesn’t seem at all embarrassed.  I need to change vets.

Push It Real Good

 

     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

 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.

Fupa!!

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

   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

   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

     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

     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

     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

    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.

Happy Birthday To Mean

  “Let’s face it.  We’re on the downside of life now” a friend said to me on my
fiftieth birthday.  I decided to have him killed.

If you’re one of those women prancing around shouting fifty is the new thirty than you need to cut back on the scotch.  The only thing fifty is – is fifty.   If you’re lucky, you’re halfway through your life.  If you’re not – you’ll be dead by the time you’re halfway through this post.

There is a kind of wisdom you get when you turn forty – this amazing and enlightening invisible book you’re handed that has all the answers to the questions you’ve been pondering for decades.  You find yourself walking around talking to yourself going – “ohhhhhhhh, now I see.  If only I knew that when I was twenty.”   Blah Blah whatever.   That’s the genius of youth – even if you have any kind of knowledge you don’t want to use it.  It’s annoying.  Logic is kryptonite to young people.  They back away from it like the liquor free punch bowl at the frat party.  No one wants it.   They can be smart later in life.  Who needs brains when there is a bong and a “Jersey Shore” marathon happening in the same room.  Don’t get me wrong.  I think Snooki is the best comedy writer on television right now and she doesn’t even know it.  Half the stuff that comes out of her mouth would get shot down in most of the writers rooms in Hollywood.

     The only thing you get when you turn fifty – is meaner – and I’m talking super cranky.   You start to think about death all the time.  You find yourself talking to god asking to be spared as if there’s a plague on the way sweeping up all the fifty year olds.  Somehow overnight you have become Cloris Leachman. You’re boobs are at their final resting place – which sadly is your waist.   Doing just about anything other than breathing suddenly results in something hurting – i.e. I threw my back out bending over to tie my shoe.  I suppose this is okay because I know that later in life that line becomes  –  I farted when I bent over to tie my shoe.  Can’t wait for that.  Yay seventy!!  You pretty much hate everyone who doesn’t think exactly like you do and can be driven into a homicidal type rage by even the simplest of things.  “Why is everyone so stupid?”  I always find myself cursing at people at traffic lights who pause for a split second when it goes from red to green.  “What are you waiting for?”  The bigger question is – what am I in such a rush to get to?  The supermarket where there are more stupid people waiting to piss me off?  “Oh I forgot something I’ll be right back.”   Great.  I’ll just wait here for you to run through the entire store like it’s the game show Supermarket Sweep and see if you can find the can of lima beans you can’t live without but couldn’t remember to pick up while you were shoving the double stuff oreo’s and other carcinogenic crap into your cart you giant nut bag.  Breathe.

Turning fifty is both a gift and a curse.  You really do become a completely filter free version of yourself and you finally understand that you have to be asked for advice and not just throw your opinion at people.  I think the “I know what I’m talking about you moron” speech comes at about sixty and I’m not gonna lie, I look forward to that.  I can feel it gently tickling the back of my neck.   The hardest part of turning fifty is understanding that sexually, it’s over.  And I know what all you sexually active women are saying right now – “that’s not me” – well good for you.  You’re probably the one other person on the planet who looks like Bo Derek who by the way is the only woman alive who gets better with age… okay Bo and Michelle Pfeiffer… and Cher.  No young guy wakes up in the morning and says “ I need to find a hot fifty year old broad to bang.”  If he does, please give him my address.

     Turning fifty does not however make you a rocket scientist.  For instance… I decided fifty was a fine time to get in shape for the first time ever.  I started juicing massive amounts of random fruit and vegetables and within three days I was bent over screaming with cramps and my urine was bright red.  I rushed myself to the emergency room.  Bet you didn’t know that a lifetime of ignoring vegetables means you can’t digest them instantly and that beets make your pee look like blood.  Now you know.    Saved you 150 bucks right there.  You can thank me later.

          There are great things about turning the big five o.  You really know who you are and if you’re lucky you are happy with that person.  You stop wasting time with toxic people and you don’t let yourself get undermined by the insanity of others.  You are fine if you don’t get invited to every party and staying home on the couch at night in your underpants with an array of snack items that could kill you is better than an invitation to the Oscars.  Those beautiful people don’t talk to the great unwashed (regular people like me) any way.

     If you’d really like to shake up your life when you turn fifty – do what I did.  Quit your six figure job and take a long hard look at your life.  Throw up.  Rinse.  Repeat.   Strap yourself in and get ready for for the UPSIDE of life.

If These Dogs Could Talk

   I have four dogs which is equivalent to two cats which is unacceptable in most circles including my own.  I didn’t mean to have four dogs but the two older ones simply refuse to die.  There is Tulip the French mastiff who is one.  Peaches her aunt who is three. Lola, the Chihuahua, who is fifteen.  And Zoey the miniature pinscher who is – wait for it – seventeen.  That’s two billion in human years.  She is blind, arthritic, and shits and pisses herself every chance she gets.  I spend every morning cleaning both Zoey and the crate she has decimated.   She loves pooping and then stepping in it – the shit oozing through her nails only to fly off in every direction the second you pick her up because she’s freaked out and blind and I could be a giant chicken hawk flying her to her death for all she knows.  But Zoey will not die.  I have friends that come over and see her walk into tables and fall down entire flights of steps and once she even fell out of the house. They always say “you should put her down” and give me that look as if I’m the one being cruel.  I know it’s considered insane to compare dogs to people but if you have a dog you know what I’m talking about.  You can’t just pick up a living breathing thing you’ve spent almost two decades with and drive her to Doggie Dachau and say “get in the shower honey it’s fine” without feeling massive amounts of guilt.   I’ve asked her to die on numerous occasions.  The conversation goes something like this.  “Zoey, I just don’t think we have a quality relationship any longer.  You don’t like to be picked up or hugged and you are ruining all of my floors.”  Zoey is nonplussed by this conversation. It’s as if she doesn’t understand me and I know she does because we have spent seventeen years together which is the longest relationship I’ve ever had. I could never “put her to sleep” as people like to say.   What if I see her when I get to heaven and she can talk. “You know Heidi,  it was totally fucked up that you killed me.”  What if, in heaven, dogs and people are even?  What if she makes my celestial end a non living hell because I offed her? I know people always say they wish their dogs could talk but I’m thrilled mine don’t.  That would be hideous. In fact, if these dogs could talk, I’d have to go into the human protection program.

     So I did what any normal rational smart thinking person would do.  I had a doggie psychic come to my house to talk to my dogs.    My friend Jeff Lewis, the star of the show “Flipping Out” was going through something very traumatic with his beautiful white dog Casey.  She had been through a terrible operation and he wanted to know how she was feeling so he found an “animal communicator.”  Things had worked out so well for Jeff and Casey that he gave me the gift of “Star” the communicator and paid for a session for her to come talk to my dogs.  My first thought was – I better hide Zoey because that bitch will take me down and tell Star how mean I am.  I was not that far off.

     The whole process was pretty fascinating.  Star would ask me what questions I had for Zoey and write them in a little journal.  Then she would close her eyes and quietly sit and then open them and write something in the journal and then close her eyes and repeat the process over and over again for about twenty minutes.  I was pretty sure if I grabbed the journal it would say “what a moron” over and over again filling the pages like Jack Nicholson did in “The Shining.”  But apparently Star really was having a full on chat with Zoey and it wasn’t pretty.

     Zoey told Star that she didn’t understand why I didn’t have any compassion for the fact that she was now 100 percent blind.  “Didn’t I realize that she had lost absolutely everything and how scared she was?”  Oh shit, I was in trouble.  “She hates being picked up because the height is terrifying to her and she loves being quiet and in her crate.”   She told Star that I would never have to choose to put her down and that she knew she was at the end of her days and I would know that she is ready to die when she simply stops eating.   I sobbed like a child and have never felt such a deep and horrible guilt.   I know most of you are currently thinking – Hey this Heidi is one hell of a money burning lunatic but here’s what Star told me that made me realize she was truly talking to my dogs.  Peaches had just started acting really mean to Zoey.  She would snap at her whenever she came near and this was a brand new behavior.  She closed her eyes… asked Peaches the question – silently of course – and then opened her eyes and looked right at me and said – Zoey went to the bathroom near Peaches bowl and Peaches is pissed off. Holy crap this was totally true.  I was so used to Zoey shitting on every square inch of floor in the house that I was totally non plussed by this and forgot it even happened. Well Peaches didn’t forget that’s for sure.  Star wrapped up her session by telling me that animals are here to love us unconditionally and to teach us things.  Clearly,  Zoey is trying to teach me to be patient.

     Zoey has seen the absolute worst of me and has never shown any signs of disloyalty.  For that, I cannot kill her.  Zoey is a survivor and the best friend a girl could ask for.   She has never said “you shouldn’t have another drink” when I was on my third bottle of wine.  She has never said “don’t fuck that guy” when she knew he’d never leave his girlfriend and she certainly never pointed out how truly bad my taste in men was.  She has never said “you look fat” or “I hate that dress” or “don’t you think that’s a bad idea” or anything negative about anything I was choosing to do.  She just wants a cookie for her silence.  This is a concept that should be adopted by humans.  I give you a treat – you shut the fuck up.

I’m Starving

 The words “you look anorexic” should always be followed by the words “thank you.” Women love to tell other women they look too skinny and anorexic.  This is actually how you know you have reached a perfect weight.  The second a woman says – you look anorexic – smile and hug her because she really just told you “you look perfect.”   Any woman who tells you that men hate skinny girls is a fat liar who wants to steal your bone lovin’ man.

A good friend will not only use the “A” word but will share her diet stash.  For instance my friend Suzanne and I were driving downtown the other to get her an ass bra when I horrifyingly exclaimed “Shit I forgot to take my diet pill.”  Without missing a beat she replied “Oh here have one of mine.”  This is a good friendship.  The ass bra?  Google it.

     Maintaining my mental disorder in a town that changes it’s mind daily about what’s good for me and what will make me fat is the thing that actually keeps my fear fat madness moving at full tilt.     Every day a new study comes out that tells me what I have been eating to lose weight is now the number one fat builder in the entire universe.  This is clearly a government conspiracy.  Right after they shot JFK – the CIA devised the “Keep America obese” plan.  Maybe it was the FDA but whatever.  One second you’re cutting carbs and eating cardboard flavored pasta and the next your chowing down on some berries that came out of a koala bears ass.  Women will do anything to lose weight.  Except give up shoes and purses.

     I am currently addicted to diet ice cream cones that are only 150 calories each.    I am quite certain they are made of cancer, but that’s not really a problem since everything that comes in a box or a bag in this country is pretty much going to kill me.   The real issue is that I eat the entire box in one sitting which pretty much cancels out the low calorie concept.   There are four in a box.  Do the math.  The cones have quite the oxymoron for a name but clearly the only oxymoron is me because I cannot learn how to just eat one. I need some sort of Cone Delivery System set up with my grocery store.  Maybe they can send one of those weird checkers over to my house each day with one cone to drop into my freezer.   I mean , they don’t look that busy to me.

       I used to do the low carb thing but I needed a math degree and an atom splitter to really figure out just how many carbs where in something.    The box lies.  I’m just saying.

   I have no off button when it comes to food.  I dream about my prison meal constantly.   If you don’t have a prison meal then you are obviously not someone who plans ahead and you need to get one immediately.    This is the last meal you get on death row right before they off you.  You can have anything you want.  There are no limits.  This is every skinny girls dream.    Except the part where they kill you right after you eat.  I don’t like that part.

     I am not ashamed to admit that I judge others by what their prison meal is.   Suzanne needs to do some serious work on hers because so far all she has is a mint chocolate chip cookie puss ice cream cake and her sister Karen’s homemade egg rolls.  I mean hello? – you’re about to kick it for good – jewish egg rolls?

     My prison meal changes quite a bit but there are always two staples.  Fried Chicken and Waffles from Roscoe’s and Ralph’s birthday cake.  If you don’t know what these two items are then I suggest you move to California immediately because these are two of the three good things we have.  Roscoe’s, Ralph’s, and weather.  I would also literally kill someone extra just to get one small piece of the tres leches cake at Animal.  My other item is usually Art Smiths Mac and Cheese and I expect he’ll come prepare that for me himself as I will be a high profile killer everyone in the country will want to interview and he’ll step in for Oprah as he is Oprah’s sometime chef and she will be fighting for my exclusive because it is the greatest murder story ever told and she will triumphantly return to the airwaves with my explosive one on one!!!

     I am so food obsessed that I cannot keep anything good in the house by good I mean anything with any kind of taste.  I tend to wake up at 2 a.m. and eat.  This is not some sort of Ambien induced refrigerator raid – it’s just pure gluttony.   I have taken down some pretty vile shit at 2 a.m. – like an entire jar of Fluff.  Don’t ask me why I had Fluff in the house in the first place.   I have also eaten out of my garbage can.  Now before you all start faux vomiting into your hands – you know you’ve done it too.  Sometimes there is just one perfectly good brownie sitting on top of some tossed spaghetti and well you know how it goes.  I now have to have the garbage removed from my house after a dinner party or the rest of the pecan pie or bread pudding is coming to bed with me.  I realize this admission is killing my chances of ever marrying John Hamm (and yes it could happen – we eat at the same restaurant in Silver Lake and he looked at me once-ish) but I do it for you.

      Suzanne emailed me the other day at 2:22 a.m. to ask if it was okay to eat a bag of toll house chocolate chips.  How is that even a question?  Of course it’s okay.  Isn’t that why you buy them?  I know she’s not baking cookies.  Jews don’t bake cookies.  Jews buy cookies.

     Lately I’ve been thinking that maternity pants are really the way to go.  They make some very stylish ones lately and the idea of an expandable panel in the front of my pants makes me a little giddy – not gonna lie.  I could just tell people I pulled a stomach muscle or something and they’re support pants for while I’m healing.

      Dieting is the single most hideous concept in life.  Everything that tastes good is bad for you.  I would live on bread and cheese and wine if I could but I already tried being a fat bloated drunk and it didn’t work out for me so well.  I love crap food like potato chips and sour patch kids and cheetos and French fries.  In fact, I love anything fried.  I would eat ME fried if someone were selling it.  I have tried every kind of diet there is and I have every size of clothing I’ve ever been in my closet.  The skinny pants and the fat pants all hang together like one happy dysfunctional family.  I bet they talk to each other when I close the door at night.  The fat pants mocking the skinny jeans for lack of wear and how I have to lie down on my bed seventies style to zip them up.  I keep them all because every time I get skinny again and throw out the fat pants the universe teaches me a lesson in economics and makes me fat again sending me back to the store to get a new crop of fat pants.

     It’s difficult to know what size you really are these days because designers are fucking with us and lowering the sizes of things.  For instance – I know I’m a size six but all of the clothes I buy now are a size 4.  Clearly they all got together and said – let’s convince people they are skinnier and change the way we label things.  The only thing more brilliant than that was the creation of the “boyfriend jean.”  This is the most ingenious way of selling fat pants I’ve ever seen.   The “boyfriend jean” is nothing more than your skinny pants made bigger and slapped with the same size label.  So now we all feel great about ourselves because our size 8 boyfriend jeans are swimming on us.    But we all know the truth.  Just because you gave them a cute name doesn’t make me thinner.  If you can fit in your boyfriend’s jeans you need a fucking diet.  I say go back to wearing the super tight brand i’ve renamed “The Camel Toe.”

     I have also tried every kind of exercise fad known to man.  The one I stuck with the longest is Boot Camp.  I’m not sure why this appeals to me the most because it’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done and after an hour I feel like I’m going to die or vomit or both.  The drill instructors scream at you if you aren’t going fast enough or you aren’t listening to their instructions.  I have told almost all of them to fuck off.   They play hideously bad pop music and to this day when I hear Beyonce’s Single Ladies I am very likely to drop and give somebody twenty.   Kim Kardashian has been in my Boot Camp class on many occasions and the photos of her do not do that ass justice at all.  It is a thing to behold and quite frankly – worshipped.  But it’s also a little table like.  I want to rest my water on it – and my towel – and my keys, purse, and shoes.  There’s room.   I also worked out next to Juliette Lewis once and decided this was the closest I was ever going to come to fucking Brad Pitt.  If her sweat that once mixed with his sweat flung off and hit me – well then – Brad and I had as good as done it.

     I have tried yoga (snore), pilates (bore), barre method (fuck all you ballerinas), running (why?), and a litany of other useless ways to tone up my cellulite.  I have now decided to embrace the fat and stop looking in the mirror from the neck down.  I figure if I ever have sex again I’ll keep the lights off or tell him I’m in training for The Biggest Loser which come to think of it – isn’t a bad idea.

Das Bloat

     I woke up the other morning fifteen pounds heavier then when I went to bed. Like a tic that fed thru the night I had BLOWN UP.  This is not an unusual feeling for any woman – But I didn’t THINK I was fifteen pounds heavier… I actually was. I got on that dreaded scale that I hide under the sink and sure enough – fifteen pounds – overnight.   The other situation was my breasts – they were huge. None of my bras fit.  How did this happen while I was sleeping?  Is there an “Implant Fairy?”  Did I unknowingly put my boobs under my pillow and ask him to bring me a new pair?  (and yes, the implant fairy would definitely be a dude.)    I had to go the mall later that day and get all new bras – double D.  Now, I know small breasted women think this is the greatest thing ever and I’m sure if a guy went to bed and woke up with a bigger penis he’d go out without his pants immediately and fling it around, but I was not happy with this situation.  Bigger boobs on a small woman make you look like you are going to topple over at any second and there is no conversation to be had with a man looking you in the eye.  All male eyes go to the boobs.  And from what I can tell – the boobs tell very interesting stories to men – stories they cannot tear themselves away from.

     I tried to act as if nothing major were happening and hit my bootcamp workout with a new fervor.  Unfortunately I chose to wear a pair of red and white striped leggings that morning and when I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror I looked like a candy cane with botulism.  I almost fell off the

treadmill and decided it was time to call one of my best friends – Dr. Fred.       Freddy has been one of my closest friends for over twenty years and it just so happens that he’s a genius doctor.  Unfortunately he lives in New York so I am constantly texting him my ridiculous health issues while he’s in the middle of seeing actual paying patients.  So I texted him my big bloated question and he fired right back  – “perimenopause – get used to it – the weight isn’t going anywhere anytime soon.”  Perimenopause?  What the fuck is that?  Is that some sort of hideous prequel to “The Pause?”  I know i didn’t buy a ticket to that movie.     Apparently women don’t have to just suffer through one hideous life transition – we need a warm up exercise – a training camp dare I say which has probably been instituted so we slowly get used to the full menopause and don’t murder people immediately upon reaching that stage.  And don’t think I’m not already pissed off that MENstruate and MENopause are spelled in a way to remind us that those fuckers aren’t having anything awful happening to them.  What life transition do men go through?  Hair loss?  I’ll take that!!!  Have you seen Raquel Welch’s wig line – it’s amazing!  Plus – the concept of never having to wax my vagina again makes me giddy.  My waxer has touched my clitoris far more than any man has in the last few years and quite frankly she could teach them a thing or to.

         Dr. Freddy tells me to take something called ESTROSENSE, which I realize already sounds like a bad commercial… “I no longer have an embarrassing extra 15 pounds because I have the estrosense to take this supplement.”  What a racket.  But I went and got the tablets at one of those health food stores that always smells like someone is dying in the back and everyone shopping looks sickly and thinks they look like a million bucks which oddly enough they do because they have that similar greenish hue that money has.   The estrosense smelled like estro-ass but I’m happy to report my boobs started shrinking and I am now a D cup – hallelujah!!!!!  When I hit a C I’m going to hold a press conference and when it’s a B I’m only going to wear button down shirts because it will be the first time that the buttons don’t pull apart in the middle and make me look like a fatty.

 The only place you see good looking men with fat women is on TLC and that’s only because they live in the midwest and don’t know or can’t admit they are gay.

When The Going Gets Tough The Jews Go To Florida

 I haven’t seen mine yet but apparently all Jews have a contract with God or Jesus or somebody really important that says when you hit sixty-five you must move to Florida.  I have no idea how Florida became the Hebrew beltway but it is.  Maybe the heat is similar to Israel – but I’ve never been to the Holy Land.  I don’t want to die in a grocery store.  People tell me every day how beautiful Israel is and how I’m an idiot for not going but I’m sorry – I’m not jumping out of an air plane and I’m not going to a country that is in a constant state of war and crazy people strap bombs to themselves as routinely as I wipe my ass.

     What I do know about moving to Florida is that once you get there – time stands still.  How else can I explain that my parents still don’t have call waiting and I constantly get a busy signal when I call them.  Who are they talking to anyway?   They are so busy.  My parents have a bigger social calendar than I do that is for sure.  It seems like there is a lot to do in Del Ray.  I’m pretty excited for when I move there.

     I lost about six hours of my life one day trying to get my parents on Facebook.  I could have taught them how to build a bomb quicker.  If you want to know the true meaning of guilt, yell at your parents.  It’s akin to screaming at Mother Theresa.  I know we didn’t choose our parents but seriously, how can you ever get angry at the people who gave you the gift of life.  Now I am as hard and cynical as they get but I am so grateful just to be breathing.  I don’t know if the alternative is cloud dancing and cocktails so I really truly do relish being here on Planet Earth.

    I think my parents are here to remind me to be nice to old people,  oh and to tell me gossip about the kids I grew up with because miraculously their parents all live in the same complex as my parents. According to them,  I am the only successful one.  The other kids are massive fucktards and can’t keep a job or a woman or a house or a calendar.  It’s completely untrue idle gossip but it does make me feel a bit more grand.  My parents also inform me every time one of my friends parents dies.  The conversation goes something like this –  My mom: “Remember Bobby Something-Witz?”  Me: “No.”   My mom: “He was married to Jodie BlahBlah- Stein?”  Me: “Sort of.”  My mom – “Well he’s dead.”

       I have never been to any kind of high school or college reunion.  The idea of seeing someone twenty years older and most likely fifty pounds fatter is not at the top of my to do list.  I find that really depressing because I know I haven’t aged one iota.  I believe I look twenty-three.  How else can you explain my otherwise unnatural affection for twenty-three year old. Boys?   Just yesterday a twenty something year old parking attendant winked at me and said “stay beautiful.”  He really did.   At first I thought – “Wow tell the rest of the rat pack I say hi” and then I thought about throwing him into my backseat and hog-tying him hostage style.  I learned how to do that on Law and Order SVU.  I have learned an incomparable amount of useful things from the SVU – though I haven’t been able to use the words “lawyer up” yet – I am always looking for an opportunity.

     As I get older however I do find the desire to reconnect with people from my past.  I’m not sure what this is about.  Perhaps the only true friendships you’ve formed in life happen at an age before you were trying to impress everybody. Maybe the kids you hung out with at ten are the people who really know you the best.  At ten everyone is just waiting for the same things – to grow boobs and facial hair and you are all pretty much on the same playing field.

     I was on Facebook for a while before a crazy person started stalking me on it.  I reconnected with so many people from high school and started feeling really good about myself because they were so kind about what I had achieved in life when I thought it wasn’t all that great.  Most of them had simply just stayed in our home town and were divorced and working on a second marriage so outdoing their achievements wasn’t exactly a stretch.  Though I do feel like a loser that I never got married and totally forgot to have kids.  It’s funny what you remember about your past and how others see it.  I was apparently always headed for great things according to these people but when I look back all I see is an awkward little Jewish girl who’s mom didn’t let her wear makeup and never had the cool clothes.  There were divisions among the groups of high schoolers and I didn’t really fit in any of them.  If High School were Big Brother – I would have been a floater.  All I ever wanted was to have a last name that ended with a vowel and the opportunity to wear blue eye shadow.  Like Melanie Griffith in Working Girl I couldn’t wait to ride the Staten Island Ferry to my big job in New York City.  What a massive disappointment that turned out to be.

     My parents didn’t like most of the people I was attracted to when I was younger but that’s because we lived in Staten Island – the armpit of New York – and everyone was a mobster – for real.  I had friends with giant houses whose parents didn’t seem to work and whose dads wore Italian horn necklaces bigger than my chihuahua.  Their last names all ended in either “o” or “I” and they had thick New Yawk accents.  I loved these people.  They were colorful compared to my family.  But the truth is – we had nothing in common back then and I’m pretty sure we would have nothing to talk about now other than – hey isn’t it weird how fat we all keep getting as we get older?

   My parents are British and for some reason they thought it was a brilliant idea to move from England to Staten Island right after they got married.  Maybe they had some sort of sixth sense that this would be the future home of one of the states first shopping malls or perhaps they loved the idea of living on a landfill – not sure – but I was born in Staten Island.  I tell people that I was born in France because I figured – the Statue of Liberty is there – and that’s from France so – well you can see how I came to this.  The problem with having British parents is that the English are about as different from New Yorkers as you can get.  They don’t emote the same way in fact – they don’t really emote at all.  The British are refined and reserved and keep their feelings in check. This does not fly in America and this is a really hard way to grow up in a city where all people do is shout their emotions and stab you in the front with their feelings.  The good thing about having British parents is their complete lack of knowledge of American children.  I got away with murder as a kid.  I started drinking at age 13 –   and was smoking pot at about the same age.  I dropped Mescaline to go to school and tried pretty much every drug before I ever got to college.  I even got high with my history teacher. My parents had zero idea.  They just thought I sucked at school because I was stupid – which I may very well have been.  Have you ever met a smart thirteen year old?

     Things were so different in the seventies.  Not one teacher tried to sleep with me and some of them were really hot.  I totally would have slept with the boys gym teacher if he had asked me even though I had no idea what sex was until I turned about sixteen.   That was the first time I saw a penis.  I screamed and ran out of the room.  This is pretty much still the same reaction I have today.  I try to keep my feelings in check but I am screaming on the inside.

     My parents told me nothing about sex.  In fact, they told me nothing about everything.  I freaked out the first time I got my period.  I had no idea what it was. I figured my vagina had died.   My mother shoved a tampon at me like I was an idiot.  “How could I not know these things?”   Well it’s not like I grew up in some real life version of Sex and The City.  Back in the seventies girls didn’t talk about that kind of stuff.  No one was walking around Susan Wagner High School shouting “hey you bleeding yet?”

     I’m so glad I forgot to have children because these days kids are far too savvy.  They know everything about everything and it has to be incredibly hard to raise a young person in an environment that is so over the top sexual.   I think about what they have versus what I grew up with and I wonder what I’m going to have to learn when I’m my parents age that will confound me within an inch of my life.  Today it’s the computer, tomorrow – jet packs?  If that happens there is definitely going to have to be an age limit on flying licenses because old people will be blowing up all over the sky.

      I studied Kaballah for a couple of years.  It’s some four thousand year old mystical side of Judaism and they believe in reincarnation and that we do choose our parents.  They say that when we are souls in heaven we decide which people will raise us in our next lives based on things we need to learn. Guess I needed to learn guilt.

Another Saturday Night And I Just Shot Somebody

I am obsessed with my hatred for the movie “Something Borrowed.”  If it were a person, I would punch that person in the face.  Last night I was minding my own business living out the cliché of a spinster at home on a Saturday night eating cookie dough out of the jar.  Yes they make it that way now because they know we don’t bother to cook it and that tube thing was just far to “on the nose.”  First of all I hate the fact that your couch is considered the capital of Loserville when you stay home on a Saturday night.  If you lived in Los Angeles you wouldn’t go out either.  The blinding light from the white pumps and sparkly mini dresses is enough to kill an old woman like me.  I enjoy the solitude of a Saturday night at home but don’t get me wrong, if my boyfriend – who exists in an alternate universe or was killed in Vietnam – called me, I would have gone out. Instead, me and the snack side of the fridge stayed home and found out the two most hideous words in the English language – romantic comedy.

     I am a huge fan of romantic comedies.  I like them all.  Even the ones that Katherine Heigl made after “Knocked Up.”  I know these perfect sweet I’m sorry baby please take me back male characters couldn’t possibly exist in a real world because if they did I’d be married but I am sucked in to all of them because at the core of my being I really am just a girl who believes in being rescued by Princes and riding off on White Horses though at my age it’s more likely to be Zsa Zsa’s husband Prince Von Anhalt and a geeze from White Snake.

     The plot lines are pretty much all the same these days.  Boy meets Girl.  Boy gets girl.  Boy dumps girl because he’s a moron.  Girl takes him back anyway. They live happily ever after or at least until the credit roll is over.  There is a reason you never see sequels from hugely popular romantic comedies.  All the couples are divorced.  If we all lived in that sappy existence we’d run out of insulin in America.   In “Something Borrowed” however the premise is a full on slap across the face to women and their friendships.  Now I have just started accumulating best girl friends at the tender age of fifty.  We didn’t really see eye to eye before now and it was almost always for the same reason – because every bitch I’ve ever known has thrown me overboard for some hairy mouth breather in the time it takes to finish her first cosmopolitan on their first date. Women do not have each other’s backs.  Maybe all this changes as we get older but in order to find out I’d have to get a best girlfriend, then a boyfriend, then see if I dump her for him and quite frankly I don’t have time for this kind of experiment and I don’t think the funding is available.   So in the movie Kate Hudson is a hideous self centered bitch who’s about to marry a super hot guy. Her best friend, who shall remain nameless because I happen to know someone she dated in real life and cheated on and I will never forgive her,  is the one who introduced Kate to the guy in the first place and blah blah blah the plot line is so heavy  and hard to follow my head hurt and it made figuring out “Inception” a walk in the park.  I still have no fucking idea what happened in that movie.

     Anyway, this chick sleeps with Kate Hudson’s fiancé and the movie tells us this is okay because she really loved him first and Kate Hudson is an annoying cunt anyway.  (in the movie people)  At some point I found myself literally screaming at the t.v.   Hello???  Every single woman in the world has a best friend who’s a cunt,  but this does not make it okay to fuck her boyfriend or fiancé.  I will never forgive Angelina Jolie for what she did to Jennifer Aniston.  I don’t care how many babies those two adopt or how many countries they save or even if the fact that they’re so hot they will probably explode right in front of us one day – this is a really fucked up thing to do.  Now in the movie this chick gets the guy and Kate gets something every fucked up evil bitch who’s a cunt needs to become whole and sweet – a baby.  Holy shitballs  I almost blew out my television.  Then,  in the end, we see a pregnant Kate Hudson running down the street trying to catch another guy.  What????  Is there a google map for this fucking movie?   “Something Borrowed” should have borrowed a plot line from Nora Ephron.   By the way it’s based on a book that probably sold twelve billion copies while I sit here writing and reading things out loud to my dogs who do not seem all that impressed but I’m sorry – me no likey.

     For me, one of the hardest things about being a single woman is finding other women I can relate to.  I do not want to spend my entire night talking about men or sex.  This may have something to do with the fact that I don’t have either which is a heated discussion in itself but come on ladies isn’t there something else for us to talk about? I’m sorry I just said come on ladies I really am but men who are total strangers can get together and instantly bond about sports.  They go on and on talking about the teams and players and the runs and the averages and the hits and oh my god my head is going to explode.  It’s as if they actually own them or have some sort of stake in the outcome of a game or a trade or whatever that shit is about.  Women do not have this same area of mutual knowledge.  We need something.  Not men.  Not sex.  Not shoes. Though I can talk a blue streak about a good pair of Louboutins.  Lets all get together next week and figure this out.

Angry Gay Dot Com

There is nothing I love more than a super Mary gay taking someone down. Like a hissing tire going flat the S’s are flying and the person on the other end of their sibilant spew has no idea what’s happening and usually just stares into the face of beautiful evil.  I think angry gays could make some serious cash if they all got together and formed a company to rent themselves out to boring people who don’t know how to handle their shit.  I mean the possibilities are endless of what an angry gay can manage for you – tell your boss to fuck off, demand some respect from your credit card company or break up with your boyfriend, though that one could be dangerous if you have a hot boyfriend and you send in a hot angry gay – and when you live in New York or Los Angeles – chances are your gay is hot.

     I am not one of those girls that believes gay men love women.  If they loved us so much they’d fuck us.  Just mention the word vagina to a gay man and watch him back away from you like a leper.  A leper wearing shoes he wants.  I don’t ask gay men to cut my hair, pick out my clothes, or tell me how I look in general.  These are also things you should not allow straight women to do.  They will just lie to your face.  I do think gay men relate more to women because we tend to see the world more like they do – in color and richness and texture – as opposed to straight men – who only see it in black and white and duh.   I also believe that gay men and straight women get along so well because we’re not hunting the same men and if we were – the gay would win – hands down.  We do not know how to handle sexual warfare the way a homosexual man does. It’s an art form.  Just take a look at that website every gay on the planet seems to know about… Grinder.  It alerts you to nearby gays telling you how many feet you are from one.  I loaded the app onto my Iphone because one should always know how close they are to a gay.  It was a $2.99 investment – cause I got the super upgraded Grinder.  I am Jewish.  I need the best.  It was $2.99 well spent. Hundreds of snapshots of gays popped up doing all sorts of things.  A lot of them were just pictures of guys rubbing their chests.  Almost all of them are shirtless.  They really should be pant-less.  There’s a button that says “load more gays.”  I mean guys.  What an option!!  Why don’t straight people have this? That’s an option I can use.  I love being in a crowded restaurant and my Grinder telling me I am ten feet from a gay but the gay doesn’t have his picture posted. The whole night can be spent playing “Find The Gay.”   This is a game all women play anyway in Los Angeles so Grinder just weeds out the ones to steer clear of.     I was once standing in front of my house late one night and Grinder told me I was ten feet from a gay.  The only other person on my block was my married next door neighbor getting into his car.  I think he was going out for some late night gay.

     They say that straight men can’t be best friends with women but I had a straight best friend for over fifteen years – until he came out.  It was pretty devastating and not because he was gay but because my Gaydar was so far off I didn’t even notice.  I mean I did not have a fucking clue.  In fact, he may be just pretending to be gay so he doesn’t have to date me.  I’m that

difficult.  He used to have this male friend who was always at his house when I got there and always stayed after I left for the night.  I’d get up to go and his friend would remain firmly planted on the couch – and I’d think – god these guys are retarded… but never – god these guys must be fucking.  I even asked him – “how come he stays so late all the time” and his response was – “Oh he’s just weird.”  I am a moron!    I mean, if I caught them in bed and he said “oh we’re just making the bed – from the inside” – I would have bought it.   Now it wasn’t 1808 it was 2008 and I was well versed in gay.  I just couldn’t see it.  He finally came out to me after seeing the movie “In Her Shoes.”  Despite the irony there was no real tie between the movie and his confession.  It was just the timing of it all, though a bad Cameron Diaz movie can lead most people to confess things like wow she’s not a very good actress.   We sat outside the theater after it ended and when he started to tell me I thought for sure he was about to reveal that he was dying of cancer.   I was terrified.  Then I was so relieved.  “Is that it?

      It made me really sad that he felt so pained by what was merely the truth of his life.  That’s what’s wrong with this fucking country – no one gets to just relax and be who they are and live out loud and proud.  Except for the mental patients – like every news anchor on Fox – they won’t shut the fuck up about their opinions.

     I think it’s disgusting when people ask a guy if he’s gay.  Unless you have plans on blowing them why do you need to know?  No one has ever asked me if I’m heterosexual and they certainly haven’t asked if I like missionary or doggie style so why is it cool to query on whether someone’s a top or a bottom?  How will this help you in knowing this person?  “Darn, if I knew you were a bottom I would have made you go get me shit at the store?”  “Oh you’re a top?  I guess you should lead the meeting then.”  I don’t think the policy should be “Don’t ask, Don’t tell” it should be “Don’t ask but if someone does ask – DO tell.”  No one should be ashamed or afraid to admit their sexuality – they should be ashamed to admit they like the feeling of a warm diaper and sipping from a baby bottle at the age of 43.  But you can’t keep that person quiet – in fact – they have their own t.v. show.  Being angry at someone for who they fall in love with is just insane.  How come no one gets upset by those women who write letters to serial killers in prison and then go and marry them and have conjugal visits and give birth to their little devil babies?  That is something to protest.  If one more person tells me that god created Adam and Eve not Adam and Steve I’m going to report that person to the government as a terrorist.    It’s not even a good line.

     I love all of my gay friends and not because they’re gay – but because they’re great friends.   My best friend is still my best friend and he also happens to be the only gay man I will ever really love as a straight.  We don’t live in the same city anymore so I can pretend he’s my long distance boyfriend.

     You don’t have to understand everyone’s sexuality – it’s not a prerequisite to existing.  You can have great love for something or someone without understanding.  Just ask my parents.

Hot or Homeless?

If you ever see me at Starbucks with a laptop please make arrangements to have me killed.  Either they started selling laptops there or they’ve passed some sort of Starbuckian Law that says you have to have a laptop to order a latte because when I went there this morning for the first time in 600 years – I was the only person not furiously typing away clearly working on some sort of manifesto. It seems that people having coffee at Starbucks in the morning do not have jobs or they are all writers working “from their home offices.”  This makes me wonder, if all of these people in all of the Starbucks are writers then how come there’s nothing good to watch on television?    Maybe like me – they can’t find an agent. They are very difficult to locate.  Maybe agents have their own coffee shops and you need to show your “I have no soul” card to get in.

     It’s also highly possible that these Starbuckers are terrorists hatching plots and emailing them back home since there is free and convenient wireless.   Just because a guy’s in Docker shorts and Teva sandals does not mean he isn’t communicating with someone far away in a turban about his plans to take out a Jewish daycare center.     It’s called a disguise for a reason people.

     I happen to know why the Taliban hate us.  American women are constantly leaving the house naked – and not just the good looking ones.  I am quite certain there is a caveat that all chunky Latino women must own at least three pair of spandex and wear them with a cropped top.   Maybe it’s so we can count the rings to know their age without having to cut them in half.  If I see one more ounce of back fat or one more gelatinous stomach trapped beneath a stretchy tank top – I’m going straight to congress.  The truth is these women all have better self images than I do and I’m pissed so rather than admit that – I will mock them for their poor choice in clothing.

     Los Angeles is a great place to drive around and people watch.

I can’t tell you how many times I see young women out on the street and think – wow she totally forgot her pants.   This is also a  sign that I am becoming my mother.  But if I leave the house like that I have in fact forgotten my pants.  We also have an inordinate amount of men who jog topless.   I have no problem seeing a hot young man in nothing but a pair of flimsy shorts, especially if I’m not watching porn, but this is a bold move if you are not built like an athlete.  Taking your top off for a run when you resemble  Fozzy Bear isn’t doing any of us any good and it’s simply not nice to fling a hairy sweatball on an innocent passerby. If you do that in WeHo you’ll have your gay card revoked.

      Los Angeles does however have some of the best looking homeless people I’ve ever seen except for the one I talk to everyday.  His name is John and he hangs out at the Gower exit just off the 101 South.  Now John may be dentally challenged – he only has one tooth – but he is incredibly astute.  Just this morning he asked me if I changed my hair color.  “As a matter of fact John I just had some highlights put in, thank you for noticing.”   Not one of my friends had said a word about my hair.  I am now looking at John in a whole new light. Perhaps a little makeover could make him the perfect date.  I always know where he is and I’m already paying him.

     Sometimes it’s almost impossible to tell who’s hot, who’s homeless, or who’s both hot and homeless in Los Angeles.  I think this would be a great game show.     The prize could be a laptop and they could go to Starbucks and write their rags to riches story and sell it before I ever get an agent.

Nip Yuck

“You look great!  What have you had done?”  is a phrase heard by anyone who lives in Los Angeles and is over the age of 23.  I have had people say this to me and I’m never sure how to react since I don’t really know if they believe it’s an insult or a compliment.  I believe it’s an insult because to me it means that I resemble that puppet Madame who is clearly the template for all plastic surgeons in Hollywood.  Well it’s either Madame or Jack Nicholson as the joker. These must be the two pictures they hand you when you graduate from plastic surgery school.

     There is no such thing as “good” plastic surgery – despite how many times the person with the shitty lift tells you her doctor was very “conservative.”  When you can’t move your face and your neck still looks like a chicken this is not good plastic surgery.  People are constantly fucking up their faces in this town and convincing themselves they look youthful.  I have never heard of a young looking Platypus.

     There isn’t anything you can’t have nipped or tucked or sucked.  While shopping downtown the other day I eyed a fabulous 7 dollar shirt clearly made from old cat but when sharing that I thought this would show the two dreaded fats – both bra and back – my friend Zelda replied – “Oh I know a guy who can get rid of back fat while you’re awake.”  This is something all Jews have – a guy – for everything that ails you and anything you need done.  I dare you to ask a Jew a question about something and not have them say – I have a guy for that.

     Zelda decided she wanted to have her eyes done.  This is something she does not need to do.  She is a beautiful woman.  She’s already had pretty much everything else tightened except her anal cavity and if that were available she’d probably go for that as well.  The eye surgery was going to cost her 4,000 dollars.  She made a down payment – apparently it’s like a save the surgery date card so you have a slotted appointment in what is clearly a chock full calendar.  Zelda made her appointment for this life changing surgery.  Once her eyes were done everything would fall into place.  She’d have the perfect boyfriend, perfect job, and she’d feel perfect when she looked in the mirror.  Of course Zelda knows this isn’t true but it’s her way of feeling better about herself and I would never condemn someone for wanting to feel this way.  I had Botox once and a headache for a month and I have been known to the grab the back of my neck to see how it would look if I had those giblets removed and Jane Seymour used a piece of tape on the back of her neck to pull her shit tight as a drum but for me it’s easier to just pretend I’m sitting shivah on a regular basis and keep all the mirrors in my house covered.    Who needs a mirror when everyone else is so quick to tell you how you look.

     So with Zelda’s eye surgery fast approaching there was nothing holding her back until… ruh roh… her aging pooch had cataracts and now he needed eye surgery and his was going to be even more expensive and Zelda could only get one surgery done!!  This is what you call a Jewish dilemma.  It is a problem so steeped in guilt that it makes it paralyzing to make a decision so Zelda did what I had done previously for a vexing problem – she called in the Doggie Psychic to find out if her pooch really “wanted” the surgery.  No I am not lying.  In came the psychic.  On came the trance.  Out came the question.  And the answer was – no Mommy , I don’t want cataract surgery.  Clearly the animal psychic was connected to the Plastic Surgeons Society of Beverly Hills.

     I think it’s cool to fix your outside but I think it’s harder to fix your inside and quite frankly I know a few people who could use that kind of surgery.  Just because you’ve had your face permanently frozen into a smile does not make you a happy person.

The Dating Game

 If you want a man to fall in love with you tell him to go fuck himself.  He’ll never stop calling.  This is my expert advice on dating.   Shocking that I’m single.  I can say fuck off to almost everyone but someone I’m attracted to.  This is our problem as a gender.  Men like to chase.  Women like to trap.  We’re constantly running towards each other and this is not how one can succeed in dating.  Somebody has to be running after the other person.  You can switch off if you like.

 I recently signed up for one of those dating websites – let’s call it Z Gallery dot com – because it felt like furniture shopping.  I’ll take a grey couch with hard cushions that looks modern but is really vintage.  They should have called it Saggy Nads dot com because after browsing the pictures from my so called “match” list I was pretty sure no ones balls had been anywhere near their penises for years.  I mean, don’t get me wrong, my shit has moved, but these guys were fucking old.  After giving it a full fifteen minutes I decided this was not the way for me to meet someone.  I was catapulted into a depression from these photos and I thought if I don’t get off of this website now someone will find out I’m on it and I will be labeled a loser for the rest of my life  and if they see the matches I’ve been sent they’ll think I’m setting up a scheme to rob old men of their money and bury them in my backyard if I had a backyard.  I blame those bullshit commercials for Match Dot Com.  I love seeing Jodie 26 and Jim 28 fall in love over spaghetti and meatballs when he tells her she’s the one thing that’s been missing in his life on their first date.  They say one in five relationships starts with online dating!  WE’ve got to get out of our houses.   For me –  some guy is gonna have to drop out of the ceiling and onto my bed.    This is how I believe I will find my soul mate.

     A lot of my girlfriends have met their boyfriends through one of these dating sites.  They have no problem going on hundreds of dates to find their prince. This to me is like accepting a job where all you do is get interviewed by men over and over again.  What’s your favorite movie?  What do you like to do when you’re not working.  When the answers are “Field of Dreams” and “Eat Mallomars” you need to know me to understand that these are not truly pathetic answers.  I have been on a handful of blind dates over the years and the last one convinced me never to do it again.  He picked my dog up by the scruff of her neck like she was a cat and she screamed like someone was de clawing her.  I threw him out of my house.  He also looked like Quasimodo.  Thanks Mom for the hookup.

     I have a white Jewish girlfriend who only dates black men.    If you look up Jew in the dictionary she is there waving a brisket while bathing in TAB.  (My friend Suzanne said that when TAB and FRESCA were taken off the market Jewish girls all over Longisland – one word – sat shivah.)     Don’t get me wrong – if a black man would have me – I’d tie him up in a closet right now because I happen to know that if you want to kill a jewish mother born anytime before 1940 – tell her your boyfriends black.  If you insist on dating a black man – tell her you are a lesbian first – then later on tell her you’re over that and have moved on to man meat – dark only.  Anyway , my girlfriend opted to stay home this past Saturday night (as did i) so of course I took the opportunity to mock her saying “you’re probably on chocolate fuck dot com all night looking for love.”  I checked by the way and there is a website called chocolate fuck dot com but it’s not about dating black men.

     It’s truly amazing how many people say to me “why aren’t you dating someone you’re awesome” as if it must be my fault that I’m single and I know what the reason is and I’m doing nothing about it because I’m a lazy asshole. The truth of the matter is married people just want all the single people hooked up so that they aren’t the only ones who are miserable.   I love the person in a hideous marriage who gives you dating advice about a second after they told you their husband makes them want to vomit inside their own mouths.  “You really need to open yourself up to love.  You’re so close minded.”  Yes, you are correct, because look how well it’s turned out for you being married to a mouth breather with more hair on his back than my French mastiff.  It’s not that I dislike men – I actually think they’re quite fantastic – I just don’t want to go hunt one down.  I’m not a hunter… I’m a gatherer.  So if there’s a store I can go to and gather a few up to test out – I’m in.

     One of the funniest women on the planet Lizz Winstead once said – “I think therefore I’m single.”  But I’m not going to blame my brain or my age on why I’m single.  I guess I just choose to be a solo act for now because let’s face facts – if you have a vagina – you can get pretty much anyone to use it.

Vagina For Sale

 White people are boring.  If you don’t believe me – watch “Basketball Wives” on VH1.  These women will cut a bitch.  They make me want to cut a bitch.  They use phrases and words I’ve never heard and know nothing about.  I think they have a secret blackabulary somewhere on the web but you need to know someone to get the password to the site.   Every African American I know seems to know these expressions.  My favorites right now are   “Let’s get it crackin’’” and “What bitch boom.”   I believe both of these symbolize a fight is about to break out.  I don’t see a day where I’ll ever be able to use these expressions.  White people need better writers.

     Compare a black reality show to a white one and you’ll realize just how dull white people are.  I think after we did the whole beads for New York City trade thing – we pretty much ran out of creativity.  Just watch “The Bachelor” or as I like to call it “Vagina For Sale.”   There’s a reason there are hardly ever any African Americans on this show.  Black women would not put up with that shit. The Bachelor is a bunch of desperate white women throwing themselves at dopey white men and having sex with them on national television?  Don’t they know America is on the other end of that penis?  You’re making a porn honey.  Any time I’ve ever watched the show and the guy says “Will you accept this rose?”  - I vomit.  He’s offering her a flower for her vagina.  My vagina deserves a lot more than a rose.  My vagina deserves some jewelry or a car.  In fact it deserves a car filled with jewelry.  I’d definitely fuck The Bachelor on my special one on one date if he gave me that,  but I would punch him right in the face if he handed me a rose.  The women on “Basketball Wives” would never fall for that Rose Shit Ceremony.  These girls will get some serious shit in exchange for ass and from what I can tell they spend all their money on earrings.  The earrings are so big on this show they should have their own show.  Now I know why black girls always have to take their earrings off when they fight.

     Reality television is a giant steaming pile of shit right now and I roll around in it like a happy little piglet.  I think my dogs are writing most of the formats and I know I’m contributing to the delinquency of the nation by watching it but I just can’t help myself.  I love hearing Heidi Klum say “get in the oven” – I mean “you’re either in or you’re out.”  I practically live for that house full of idiots doing absolutely nothing three nights a week on “Big Brother” especially when Julie Chen hosts a live eviction night.  The possibilities for zero drama are endless!  I would also consider paying a large sum of money to spend a week in the “Bad Girls” house.

    Andy Warhol said in the future everyone would be famous for fifteen minutes but he didn’t tell us what to do with minute sixteen and counting.  America is going to be this giant pool of kinda famous dumb dumbs walking around broke trying to figure out how they all know each other.

     There is one show that almost made me give up on reality television because it held the moron mirror right up to my face.  I’m talking about the series finale of “The Hills.”    When the cameras pulled back on that final episode to reveal Kristen and Brody were standing on a Hollywood movie lot I was beyond outraged.  Wait a minute – it was fake?  The show is scripted?  Of course I knew this but I did not need those douche nozzles rubbing my nose in it.  I was already embarrassed that I was watching it.  Now they were trying to pass it off as a scripted show – with actors?  Who the hell cast Lauren Conrad because she has the personality of wet wood and that Brody Jenner must have been some kind of contractual hire a retard clause.    I may never get over my anger for the finale of “The Hills” and if I ever run into the perpetrators of this ending I will stab them – with my eyes.   For now I look forward to season 7,652 of Survivor where just like in a horror movie I can watch boring white people in their underpants vote the Black person off first.

She’s Come Undone

     I know where all of the creepy people in Los Angeles were

yesterday because I was swimming in their yucky DNA pool at the “Porn Convention” or “Exxxotica” as it’s called.  This was a place that needed hand sanitizing stations every five feet.  I had to pee while I was there and I doubled down on the toilet seat covers.  I would have been happier if they hermetically sealed me in something before we started roaming the booths.  I’m fine with porn when enjoyed in the privacy of your root cellar where you keep your girls tied up but quite frankly it was a little too out loud and proud for me.  Tragic was the word that kept coming to mind.

     I went with my friend Suzanne and at noon we purchased our 44 dollar tickets.  We went inside the brightly lit room filled with girls, dicks, and a lot of penis toys and we were the only women at the convention that were not porn stars.  Well – us and one woman who was about 6’8’” who walked behind her very short boyfriend with her hand on his head.  I think I saw a leash but I’m not sure.  An older gentleman asked to take a picture with us.  He probably thought we were retired xxx stars and wanted to get a shot with a couple of classics before we died.  There were porn stars of every size and shape and age.  They played their videos on monitors behind them in their booths as they signed autographs.  There was one woman who was far too old to be naked on film and thankfully she did not have a monitor.  I did not want to see her taking it doggy style.  I did not want to see her taking it any style.

     All the girls were in very skimpy outfits and of course this led me to do what all women do – look for cellulite.  I always feel better when I see cellulite on someone else and when I see it on a porn star – it’s like a super double rainbow.   Not only are they on a path of destruction but they are walking there in bad plastic shoes and cellulite.  There were girls in cages and girls on see saws.  They all looked bored to death dancing or gyrating to some music that wasn’t playing.  You could take a picture with them if you tipped them and while I desperately wanted one – I didn’t have any singles and I wasn’t drunk.

     Suzanne was looking for a gift for a bridal shower but I found the best booth at the entire convention – a jewelry stand with a crazy old woman selling fake Chanel and Van Cleef jewelry.  Finally something I could relate to.  I guess she was there in case a bunch of gross men dragged their girlfriends to the convention.    I bought two necklaces and a pair of earrings.  Suzanne bought me a rainbow cock pop or a dick on a stick as it was called and after about an hour she said – “do you think you got your 44 dollars worth?”  I said – “I got that before we even walked in the door.”

     I went to the Porn Convention on a hot Saturday afternoon in Los Angeles because I was desperately trying to move through what was the most horrible morning of my entire life.

     There are very few things that can break me and I try to find the humor in everything but yesterday I was crushed so deeply and I can’t see my way through to the other side.   Yesterday I had to say goodbye to my 17 year old dog Zoey.    I was forced to make that decision I swore I never would – to put her to sleep – a decision I don’t know if I’ll ever come to grips with.

       Zoey was in bed with me the night before – the first time she’d really let me hold her in years.  She was so peaceful at first but then her little body was wracked with a terrible earth shattering seizure.  She was in such horrific pain and could not stop crying and I rushed her to the vet emergency room.   They said they would give her fluids and watch her and figure out what to do in the morning.  I never thought it was going to be her last night alive.  I would have slept there with her if I knew.  I would never have left her side if I knew.  The next morning I was told they could not stop her pain and that I needed to give her the dignity she deserved and put her to sleep.   It was a gut wrenching moment – a bullet to my heart.  I didn’t know what to do.  I called my best friend who said “you have to let her go.”  I called my sister Wendy who told me what her vet told her the day she had to put her beautiful dog Lucy to sleep.   “You are only keeping her alive for yourself.”  I knew they were right but I just couldn’t do it.  I stood there shaking and weeping and holding Zoey who was clearly in such a terrible place and I knew it was time but I couldn’t let her go.  And then I did.  I hugged Zoey and put my head on her head while they gave her the two shots that finally gave her some peace.  In an instant – she was gone.  Seventeen years – over – in one deep breath.  She looked so sweet and peaceful and I remembered exactly where I was the first day I brought her home.   And that’s when the guilt rolled over me in a way I didn’t know guilt could roll.   I stood there screaming “I’m sorry” , sorry for all of the times I had been mean to her these past few months.  Sorry that I didn’t understand just how sick she had been.  Sorry that I was a terrible mother who used to joke about her dying and was now begging for her to come back.  All I can remember is every moment I did not have compassion.  All I can remember is every moment I was unkind.  I’m hoping this will pass.  I came home and put her crate in the garage and threw away the little pink coat she had been wearing the past few months.  I guess I didn’t want to be reminded of what a shit head I had been.  I could not stop crying.  I have not stopped crying still.

     The Porn Convention was a temporary escape but not a great idea.   Last night I took her little sweater out of the garbage and washed it and put it on the nightstand next to my bed.

     There is nothing like the unconditional love of a dog.   Zoey was one of life’s greatest girlfriends and an incredible companion through so many difficult chapters she could have written quite a tell all book.  But Zoey never told.  She was the recorder of dozens of moments – good and bad – and her death symbolizes the end of an era.  As I write this the corner where her crate stood is empty and I miss her so much it hurts.  I want one more day to say goodbye.  I now have three dogs.  The oldest Lola is fifteen and I can’t help but think about how she will leave me.  If only these dogs could talk.

My Eggs Are Old But I’m Young At Heart

 I am a google-holic.  I will put anything in that search box.  Long rambling questions are my favorite and google always has an answer.  Last night at 2 a.m.  I typed in “can you die from swallowing chewing gum?” because I fell asleep with a piece in my mouth.  It was the only thing I had to eat in the house after I ate all the baby food.   I had baby food because I decided to try the one diet I’ve never attempted.  Baby food is low in calories.  I ate 7 jars.  It’s true what they say – banana is the best.  If I had a kid it would starve to death because Mommy ate all the food.  Mommy eats like a donkey when it’s her “time of the month.”

     I am careening towards fifty-one and I still get my period.  This is not useful to me.   I could find more things to do with a chainsaw.  I do not need to be fertile.  If I have any eggs left they have most definitely expired and if I could reproduce I would absolutely pop out a retard.  Go ahead and report me to the National Association of Retards.  I don’t care.   I love the word retard.  I saw a PSA the other day with Jane Lynch and her sweet retarded co star saying it’s not cool to use the word retard.   But I had to give up “that’s so gay” and “you’re so queer” so I’m keeping retard.  You can all go fuck yourselves.

     What’s really the epitome of retarded is menstruating at my age.  There’s a really old joke about not trusting anything that bleeds for five days and lives, well I’m clocking in well over three decades so what does that say about me? Sometimes I look down at my vagina and yell “DIE ALREADY!!” but it’s not listening.   I hate getting my period mostly because still – at the age of fifty – I can ruin just about every pair of decent underwear and or pants I own with a spectacular and embarrassing bleed through.  How is this possible?  It’s like practicing the piano five days a month for over thirty years and still not being able to play chopsticks!  How could I have been doing something for so long and still suck at it? Shouldn’t I know by now when a tampon is “full?”   And by the way – what a disgusting concept a big fat Q-tip filled with blood lodged between your legs is.  Who the hell invented that?   I need to google that.  I suppose it’s better than a massive wad of cotton shoved in your underpants that makes you walk funny and look like you have a penis and balls so big you pull them back towards your ass but that string hanging between my legs should at least play something when pulled.   How about a nice tune from that period mix tape Ashton Kutcher made for Natalie Portman in “No Strings Attached.”

     There is not one woman on earth who has not had her period seep through an outfit at the most inopportune time – like while deep sea fishing with sharks or on a chair while on a first date.  Can you imagine if our next President Sarah Palin leaves a spot on her chair during what will be her ground breaking peace talks with Kim Jong Il?

     I have decided to work tirelessly to help get a law into place that says if you are over fifty and still get your period you are allowed to do all things a handicapped person does and you will be sent a giant red placard with a P on it to hang from your cars rear view mirror.  Fifty year olds with their periods should not have to do anything stressful like walk too far from the parking lot to the grocery store and we should most definitely be allowed to drive in the carpool lane.  I am also going to design some really cool splotchy type pants that makes it impossible to tell if you have had an accident.

     My Friend, Time of the Month,  On the Rag, Auntie Flow, The Curse, and my favorite Riding the Cotton Pony, these do not make having your period any cuter when you’re my age.  According to google it’s called a period because it occurs periodically.  Wow I’m dumb.  I think it should be called Retarded.  No I cant go swimming today Bobby, I’m retarded.

I Look At My Poop

I am going to devote one full hour today to start a new campaign that would make it illegal to have a child without a license.  There are far to many mental patients popping out kids faster than they can get jobs or a psych evaluation or a hair appointment.   If you need a license to drive a car because you might kill someone because you don’t know what you’re doing then why shouldn’t you need a license to raise a kid that will turn out to be a killer because you did fucked up shit to it when it was a baby?  That crazy woman dubbed “Tobasco Mom” is definitely raising the next Jeffrey Dahmer.  I love when nutbags get nicknames.  Tobasco Mom is probably quite proud of hers since it got her in front of that fat mean assbag Dr. Phil.  She should have had to talk to a couple of people with nets and white coats before being allowed to procreate.  Quite frankly I was more upset by her bad perm than I was by the video that showed her pouring tobasco sauce down her little boys throat.  Having his friends see that hair drop him off at school is a memory that will stick with him much longer than the pain of hot sauce.

     There are quite a few people who should have their children taken away from them and most of them have reality shows so it would be easy to spot them and go ask them to see their licenses if there were such a law.  I think there are some basic questions I could help write for a possible exam.

1.  Will you abuse your children you creepy mean asshole?

2.  When is the last time you had a rational thought?

     The episode of Dr. Phil was called “Mommy Confessions.”  Isn’t that cute? That’s a title you use when you dress your kid up as a Kate Gosselin for Halloween and no one gets it.  But Tobasco Mom and her confessions made me think that maybe saying it out loud made it easier for her to finally get some help with a problem she clearly isn’t proud of.  Maybe this is something that would work for me.  Maybe Tobasco Mom isn’t alone – and maybe neither am I.

     I have a fanny pack.  Sometimes if I put on new underpants to go out at night – I wear them again the next morning.  I plucked an ear hair last night.   I judge people who have a hideously long middle toe.   I judge people who buy cat food.  I judge people.  I cried watching Hoarders when a chicken died.  I want to join the dating website Christian Mingle Dot Com.   I do not love thy neighbor… especially the creepy one my friend Brian calls Underdog Lady who acts like she wants to be my bestie but I think really just wants to eat my liver.   My knowledge of politics is as good as my knowledge of Samoan Male Eating Habits.  I hate people.  I think the person who names MAC lipsticks has the best job on the planet.  I have unhealthy feelings for my Nespresso machine.  I look at my poop before I flush it.  I think people who say they “like long walks” on their dating applications are fucking liars.  I believe that money does buy happiness and I know which stores sell it.  I don’t remember anyone’s birthdays but if they forget mine I hate them for an entire year.   I hate people who write cutesy clever emails that you need a code book to decipher.   I have no idea how many people I’ve had sex with.  I have been known to scream “I’m a fucking Jew shut the fuck up” whenever anyone says Merry Christmas.  I have peed in my sleep more than once.  I would wear Depends if no one would find out.  I once fell for that “now lets take a few with your shirt off” line.  I am a non-alcoholic.  I throw out my vibrators every time I go on a trip in case I die and my mother has to clean out my drawers.  I live for the day Barry Manilow admits he’s gay.

     I feel better now.

Who The Fuck Are You

  I really wish there was smell-a-vision so I could know just how bad the houses on the show “Hoarders” smelled.  I love that Dr. Robin Zazio with the crazy eyes who really should be on the show because cause she’s hoarding hair streak kits somewhere in her house.  I love when the hoarding specialists get mad at the hoarders because they don’t want to part with their valuable dead cats and armless dolls… uhm they’re mental patients people what do you expect?

They really should just call it what it is – “White Traah.”

     It’s weird to see so many people locked behind pristine doors living these completely secret and bizarre lives.  I was a liquor hoarder.  In fact – I was a dirty rotten drunken little whore.  There I said it.  You can roll your eyes in disgust at me all you want but I don’t care because I had a good fucking time, literally. Dateline June 20^tth 2000 – Heidi quits drinking.  The head runner in the Moronathon hangs up her shot shoes for good.  People around the globe sighed the day I quit drinking – I was an awesome drunk.  I was such a good drunk that I made you look less drunk when you were out with me.  This is the kind of drunk everyone wants to be with.

     I drank back when it was okay to drive drunk.  I never got a D.U.I but I did have to walk the line once when I was completely shit faced and I passed with flying colors.  Love you L.A.P.D!  You rock!!  My friend got pulled over one night while we were drinking wine and barreling through the Hamptons.  She went to jail.  I invited the cop back to the house for drinks.  Our entire beach house went to her arraignment for breakfast the next morning.

     I had so many one night stands fueled by such massive amounts of alcohol that I couldn’t even begin to give you a number of how many men I’ve had sex with.   I can however give you a number of how many men I’ve banged since Iquit drinking eleven years ago – but I won’t.  He knows who he is.   My vagina is like Katrina – after the hurricane.   Sober sex is the most terrifying experience I’ve ever had.   It scared me single.  Having someone insert thier flesh stick into my lady parts without a drink is like a scene from “Paranormal Acitivity.”  Maybe if I videotape it I’ll see what’s going on more clearly but to tell you the truth  -  I don’t want to see that thing coming at me without a cocktail.  Huh, maybe that’s why it’s called that?

     Before I quit drinking there were a lot of men in a lot of places including Princess Diana’s front lawn at Kensington Palace – before she died.  Some English idiot I couldn’t pick out of a lineup convinced me to hop right over the fence and do it right there.  Dumb.

     Once I moved to California – I took the drinking and fucking to a whole new level.  The wines got older and the men got younger.  My favorite liquor store was “The Pink Elephant .“  Let the irony wash over you.  One night I had a girlfriend in from New York and I took her to my favorite whoring spot in Los Feliz.  I picked up a guy and left her at the bar by herself.  Aren’t I an awesome friend?  “Welcome to L.A?  See ya!”  It’s amazing how important you think men are when you’re shit faced.  Hours later I woke up to someone banging on my gate and I ran out naked with this dude in tow – now sporting an oven mitt on his penis – to welcome my dear friend back to my apartment.  She was thrilled.  I also made her find out what the naked guys name was because I had no fucking idea.

    I eventually went to one AA meeting but when all the god squad shit started about turning my troubles over to jesus I thought – fuck – if he has time to handle my chardonnay problem than we are in some deep shit. There are a million drunken stories I’ve tried to erase from my head over the years, getting thrown off an airplane, hitting another car and running, the cops showing up at my house with my friend who thought I had been kidnapped, the homeless man and his dog who lived with me for a week,  blah blah hammered.   It’s hard to forget some of them because I’m still friends with a lot of my drinking buddies from back then and they love to whip out a great story about what a colossal fuck up I was.  Thanks.  Really.  Shut it fucking down.

     I have never looked back for one second though I’m kinda bummed about the time I wasted dating (fucking) idiots and not dating (fucking) the great ones who came along that I was far to messed up to love.  I have no idea why I have never really fallen in love.  Something truly hideous must have happened to me in my past and no one wants to tell me.   Maybe I was born with a penis and my mom and dad wanted a girl so badly they cut it off and made me a vagina?  It’s possible.  But I think I’d be a lesbian if that were the case.  Who knows?  For whatever reason, I am not a master at the love game and I have never actually looked for a boyfriend.  I’m pretty sure mine died in Nam which is a good thing because the whole dating and mating experience for me sober is on par with peeling back my scalp and when I can’t drink you smart or pretty – it’s kinda over.

I See Fat People

 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.

I Forgot To Have Kids

 I don’t understand people who let their cats out at night.   Why not just kill them at the end of the day and get a new one in the morning.  This is basically what you’re doing anyway.  I would never let my dogs just go roam the streets unattended.  They are my children and children need to be kept on a leash at all times.  What are these cats doing anyway – meeting up to meow about who’s got the bigger hairballs and who’s shit doesn’t stink like litter?  It usually sounds like they’re having a key party out in front of my house and there’s one piece of neighbor pussy they all want to bang.  I do not enjoy cats because they do not seem to enjoy humans.  They are using us and talking about it at night out in front of your houses.

     The only thing that scares me more than the sound of cats fucking is the theme to A&E’s “Intervention.”  That song scares the shit out of me and in my head it’s the soundtrack that’s playing during my home invasion.  I believe that’s what I’ll hear when a machete wielding mental patient bursts into my home and kills me so fast that my dogs don’t even notice.  If A&E wants those people to sober up so badly they should just lock them in a dark room and play them that theme song over and over again.  That’ll scare them straight.

     I feel badly for the parents whose kids are featured on “Intervention.”  It must suck to have a kid, spend your whole life slaving away working to feed it, educate it, and keep it off the pole, only to have it end up like that huffer on “Intervention” who sucks the gas out of whip cream cans while shouting “I’m walking on sunshine.”   I think you’d probably blame yourself for their fucktardedness.

     My kids would be raised in a crate – padded of course.  That’s the only safe place these days.  I mean have you seen that racist pop tart commercial on television?  The animated one where the white kids mom hands her a pop tart and she does a sophisticated little ballerina twirl then the black kids mom hands him a pop tart and they do some hand jive black handshake and booty bump? How am I supposed to explain that to my kids?

     I mean I love myself so much it hurts sometimes but I really never felt the need to create a carbon copy of me.  I may change my mind about this later in life when it’s too late to do anything about it – probably around the time I’m looking for someone to wipe me – so that unborn kid should consider itself lucky.  “Honey – I had you so I could burden you later in life and make you put tennis balls on the bottoms of my walker.”   I do worry about who’s going to change my diaper when I’m drooling all over the canasta table but I have some time to figure that one out.

     I think the step right after menapause is the big move to the state of S.C.  – Stopped Caring.  You can always pick out a woman who lives in S.C. because she’s not wearing makeup, her extremely short butch hair is brittle, her clothes are from the Chico’s S.C. line and the only way to distinguish her from a lesbian is the chunky jewelry she’s wearing from the Joan Rivers QVC Collection. Groups of women seem to move to S.C. together and I don’t think you know when you go there so someone has to be good enough to tell you that you should move back to where you came from.  My friend Brian has promised to tell me when I have inadvertently moved to S.C. so I can get the fuck out of there fast.  This is what friends are for.

     The only thing Brian and I love more than watching a group of ladies lunching in the state of S.C. is watching what he calls “the dining dead” – couples who have clearly been together past the relationships expiration date and don’t have one fucking word to say to each other.   They’ve already had kids and that didn’t work so now they have hired a sitter for their one night out a month so they can silently stare at their plates of food.  We love to eavesdrop on them waiting for the one or two words that pass their lips so we can figure out what went wrong. “Did you lock the front door?” means – “I think you are an idiot who can’t remember to do anything I ask.”  Maybe all of these people should go on Ashley Madison – that website for couples who are bored with each other but too chicken shit to divorce so they fuck other married people.  I think I’m going to sign up for Ashley Madison and just pretend to be married because quite frankly having an affair is the only kind of time I want to invest in someone. Eavesdropping on someone’s first date is also quite awesome.  I recently saw a very popular actor on a date with a very hooteresque blonde and heard her say – “I just enrolled in beauty school.”   This was probably the beginning of a beautiful one night stand.  I would be pissed if my kid grew up to be a hooters girl.  Who aspires to wear a what is at it’s core a Halloween costume for a living?

     I am hopeful that if and when I decide to have a child I will be able to purchase one on the internet.  I will be too old and will have to fight off public outcries but I won’t care and will want to make sure I get the right kind. Something that will grow up to make me proud and wheel me around the S.C. home though I will probably want to give it back at the age of thirteen since I know for a fact that’s when they stab you while you’re sleeping because you didn’t let them drive your car or because they hated your creamed corn.   I’ll probably hear the “Intervention” theme song as it’s happening.

Coffins Aisle Five

 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.

You’re Why I’m Fat

  I had a huge fight with Jennifer Aniston last night.  She wanted me to watch her movie “The Switch” but I really wanted to watch “Piranha.”  I won – but I think she’s pretty pissed off.  Not like Angelina Jolie pissed, but pretty mad.  She was probably right anyway because the people who made “Piranha” should kill themselves.  I couldn’t understand how this thing went from creation to completion.  How did a movie like this catapult from inside the brain of one very demented writer – to a pitch meeting – to shooting – and not one person said – “wow this is the biggest pile of shit I’ve ever handed America.”  It was astounding.  “Piranha” is some ridunkulous sort of hybrid mix of porn, horror, and camp.  It was like a really bad version of those Wayans movies which are already really bad.  Jerry O’Connell was either high as shit when he said yes to this or he really wanted to get away from his wife and kids.  The credits say Richard Dreyfus is in it but I must have been rolling my eyes to the extreme back of my head during his screen time because I totally missed him.  I yelled to no one – “how could this movie get made and yet I have a perfectly good script no one will buy?  I could have written Piranha”  I have this conversation with myself and anyone who will listen constantly.   Blah Blah shut up Heidi because actually I couldn’t have written “Piranha” but Peaches, Tulip and Lola could have.

     I was watching television because the book I wanted to read – the follow up to “Water for Elephants” – made me feel like a loser before I even hit chapter one with this note to readers.  “In order to write this novel Sara Gruen studied linguistics and a system of lexigrams so that she could communicate more directly with the Bonobos apes living at the great ape trust in Des Moines Iowa.” I’m sorry what?  Couldn’t she just make up what it was like talking to apes.  I don’t think I’d notice the difference.  I don’t think anyone would.  Who knows how apes talk?  Who cares how apes talk?  Okay maybe I would like to have the ability to talk to that monkey that ate that woman’s face.  I really do want to know what she did that ticked him off so much.  But this Sara really got into some heavy shit with her research.  I hate research.  If I can’t Google it, I’m not writing about it.  They say you should write about what you know – so I should be done with this nonsense in about another week.  I’m pretty much tapped out.

     It had been a pretty exhausting day that started with driving to the OC in a rainstorm.  If you want to know the meaning of head explosion – drive in Los Angeles in the rain.  People react like nuclear waste is raining from the sky and they just don’t know what to do.  They are paralyzed with fear and I just want everyone’s license plate to be their phone number so I could call them and yell at them to fucking step on it.  I was ready to kill by the time I got to Costa Mesa where I was attending a massive cult meeting – the cult of CrossFit.  If you don’t know what this is – it’s an exercise craze that is not only sweeping the nation – it’s taking over the globe.  That may be the cult talking but I’m pretty sure it’s big. There are CrossFits all over Los Angeles and for the most part they are named for the area in which they are located.  There’s Costa Mesa Crossfit, Pacific Palisades Crossfit etc. etc.  I saw one dude in a blue t shirt I wanted to have retarded babies with and the slogan on his shirt said – “Aspire Fearlessly, Prepare Boldly, Endeavor Courageously, Excel Intrepidly.”  He lost me at blue t shirt.

     Yesterday was the Next Invitational Level competition and my friend Nick was competing for a title.  I don’t know what the exact title was but hundreds of ripped men and women were going for it like you read about.   My first thought was – I don’t see an outfit that will make me join this cult.  I usually need an outfit to get excited.  They did have cute t-shirts but it just wasn’t enough.  The first part of the competition was called AMRAP – as many rounds as possible.  I was told this meant Nick had ten minutes to do as many burpees and double unders as possible.  Uhm – I’ll take “I have no idea what that means for two hundred Alex.”  Turns out a burpee is like a retarded push up where you start standing then drop into a push up where your stomach touches the ground and then stand back up again.  My stomach always touches when I do a push up – because that’s how I land and drop for good after just one.  A double under is the kind of rope jumping that puts a black girl and her double dutching to shame.  I got dizzy watching and almost threw up in my poncho.   There was screaming and shouting and sweating and exhaustion on a level like I’ve never seen and there were hot guys everywhere.  So basically it was like a big outdoor porn fest.

     It was a pretty intimidating environment for someone who hasn’t worked out in months and looking at all of these people with zero body fat drove me right to the calorie shack.   There were healthy snacks everywhere but just beyond the perimeter of the event – crap food mecca – pizza and barbecue for the regular fatties that weren’t there to see the CrossFit Competition.  I had to eat my greasy pizza so fast I almost choked on it but afterwards I’m pretty sure some people could smell it on me because they had that – you’re disgusting look in their eyes.  My friend ate his barbecue alone behind the bleachers so he wouldn’t get caught.   He’s a Crossfitter who wasn’t competing yesterday and I’m pretty sure if I name him he’ll get booted from the cult.

     Nick did great.  I gained two pounds.  But I do think the event made me want to really get out there and get some exercise.  I am going to start today.  I will jump to a conclusion.

Men Behaving Badly

 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

   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.

Tinkle Tinkle Little Star

  Great news everybody!!  Depends now come in peach!  Or as the commercial said – “Confidence now comes in colors.”   I think they meant incontinence but thank you Jesus for the invention of these pretty new panties.  What took them so long?  I cannot wait to get a pack of peach adult diapers so that when I pull up my skirt in public – I won’t be embarrassed by the ugly white color of a poop filled plastic bag on my ass.    Fecal Incontinence does not have to be unstylish.   Now – I can coordinate my diaper with my dress.  I can’t wait until they come up with the no panty line pamper.

     I feel badly for people who star in these kinds of commercials for products like Adult diapers, Viagra, Anal Wart removal.  I haven’t seen a spot for that yet but I’m sure it’s on late at night when those infomercials for Chaz Dean’s Wen is on. I guess whatever gets you your SAG card counts but I’d hate to have someone recognize me because I was the chick in the Rosacea commercial.

     I’m pretty sure I’m about a week away from diapers because I talked out loud to myself for the first time ever yesterday.  I’ve been talking quietly inside my own head for years but this was the only time – I actually answered – in my outside voice.  It was in aisle ten at Gelsons – the oil aisle – and apparently the choices in olive oil were so overwhelming that I had to speak out loud.  The gay guy at the fish counter shot me a look because apparently my chattering was getting in the way of his shopping.  How did I know he was gay?  Because ten seconds earlier I heard him say to the fish man – “there’s two of us and I just want to do something fun on the grill.”  I know.  Even I’m not touching that one.

     So many things are changing as I get older and the maintenance bill of me is about to rival my mortgage payment.  There’s hair coloring, cutting and styling, facials, manicures, pedicures, waxing, trainers, skinny clothes, fat clothes, skinny clothes, fat clothes, bloat clothes which are just slightly bigger than skinny clothes and slightly smaller than fat clothes, I just can’t keep up.   Boys have it a lot easier.  They just get up and leave the house.  There are those who spend a lot of time on their appearance and have more products than I do and I know we coined a cute word for them back in 1994 but if you’re calling yourself metrosexual call me after you give your first blow job because really that’s how far you are away from being gay.  If you meet a guy who calls himself metrosexual there is also a good chance he is from my tribe.  Jews like products.  Even our boy Jews.  So Jewish or gay – hard to tell.  Very rarely are they both.  Even gay men find Jewish men a little to fey and I don’t mean Tina.

     I’m trying to keep it together but I’m not sure how much longer I want this charade to last and who exactly I think I’m fooling because even the dogs are starting to talk about how much my shit is moving.  I can tell. They try to make it look like they’re just sleeping but they’re clearly speaking to each other about my shambles of a situation and I think they’re speaking in farts.

     Nothing makes me laugh harder than my two giant dogs when they fart and snore.  It is pure comedy to me no matter how many times I’ve seen it, heard it, and sadly smelled it.  This however is something I find deplorable in a human being.  I would rather be water boarded than sleep with a man who snores and I find nothing cute about a man farting especially men who do it on purpose and then laugh about it.  Why is this cute?  Is shitting the bed cute too?  It’s almost the same thing.  The first time a girl farts in front of her boyfriend is one of the single most hideous experiences of her entire life. I have blamed the dogs, a plastic seat, my shoe – you name it.  I have had very lengthy relationships where the man has no idea that I even poop.  I will hold it in until they leave the house. Or I will leave the house and go to a gas station or coffee shop to poop which is something I do not like but public pooping is better than pooping in front of your boyfriend.  Granted if you spend the rest of your life with someone they will probably see and hear a lot worse.  Putting your lady friends diaper on is probably a romance killer.  Unless of course its peach.

St. Fu

I am a mental patient magnet.  If there is a crazy person within 100 yards of me – they will be flung towards me within ten seconds of me entering their nutbag orbit.  I do not engage the mentally deficient.  I am terrified I will get hit in the head with a brick.  Crazy people seem to really enjoy Starbucks coffee. There is always someone with a direct line to Wackatopia standing outside a Starbucks.  Maybe they all talk to each other and arrange meetings but forget to say which Starbucks the meeting is at?  Sometimes the crazy’s even work there.  My friend Lisa went to get some coffee the other morning and the Asian girl behind the counter said to her “What time we meet at park?”  She of course had no idea what the girl was talking about and just wanted the coffee she ordered.  “I’m sorry I don’t know what you’re talking about” she said.  The Asian girl repeated – more loudly – “What time we meet at park!”  “I think you have me confused with someone else” Lisa said.  “What time we meet at park!” the Asian girl now adamantly demanded.  Lisa really wanted the coffee the girl was holding hostage so she said “I don’t know – what works for you?”  The girl said – “You pick time.”  Lisa said – “Okay 11.”  “No!” screamed the Asian girl – 9!”  “Okay” said Lisa – “9 it is.”  She grabbed her coffee and has never returned to that Starbucks.  That crazy coffee chick is probably still waiting in the park.

     It’s pretty hard to tell who’s nuts and who is just a self discloser her in LaLa land.  This is the act of telling total strangers your most intimate shit.  If you are born here then you have self disclosed since birth.  If you move here you will become a self discloser.  I remember the first time I went shopping at a Saks Fifth Avenue and while attempting to pay for a dress was smacked in the face with a self discloser who went on about how she wore that same dress the night her boyfriend dumped her and how her best friend was now dating him and … holy cow shut the fuck up.  Just the other day I ordered some tea and the waitress said “I named my new cat Earl Grey.”  Thats terrific honey.  Now go away.  I’ve seen it happen to the best of them including my friend Pete who went on about a square plate and a colonoscopy with a waitress once for days.  I had to pretend to look for something under the table to get away from the horror.   I will admit I have self disclosed on occasion but I’ve tried to block out the few times it’s happened.  It’s kind of amazing how something takes over your body and all of a sudden you have launched into the biggest who cares conversation with a stranger that you can’t wind yourself out of and end up walking away in shame.

     I think reality television shows are the result of people who want to tell the world their shit.  How else can you explain the mothers on “Toddlers and Tiara’s.”   These ladies should be vacationing on the island of ST. FU not putting their lives on blast.  They should also be on diets because they’re all morbidly obese.   When regular clothing doesn’t come in  your size you may  not want to be on t.v.  I love how they get upset when they’re portrayed badly on camera.  “It’s the editing.”  So the editing made you put false eyelashes on your 2 yr. old and wear a hot pink tent?  If you are going to tell the world everything – expect a few people to have some problems with your crazy shit.

     Famous people love to pretend they want to keep their private lives private then they take naked pictures of themselves leaning over a sink and want to know how they got hacked.  I want to know how they got so stupid as to think they wouldn’t be hacked?  Why not just walk out of your house buck ass naked because less people will see you that way than if you take a picture and email it to your creepy ass boyfriend who asked you to show him your I-Vadge.  I have never emailed naked photos of myself to anyone but that’s mostly because the last time I was in really good shape email didn’t exist.  If I ever get a pic worthy ass again- expect to see me on a computer near you.

The Hurl Locker

My dog Tulip ate my poop.  Okay.  Breathe.  It’s not pretty.  It’s not funny. It’s disgusting and quite frankly unacceptable but it happened so fast I couldn’t stop it.  She didn’t so much eat it as she did drink around it but you know – what’s the difference?  Poop water or poop itself – it’s a toss up on the disgusto meter and I’m sorry for the vomit inducing moments I’m causing right now.  See, sometimes I forget to flush the toilet.  I don’t know where this habit comes from and I think it’s truly bizarre behavior but try as I might – it just keeps happening.  Maybe I’m thinking about saving it for later when I can take a picture of it and post it somewhere like Poop.Com or SeeMyPoo.Org?   I don’t know but I don’t think I’ll ever forget again –not since I’ve seen my dogs tongue dangerously close to a floater.

     I delightfully discovered that Tulip had learned to drink out of the toilet at a friend’s house during a dinner party when the host said – “what is that gulping noise?”  Oh it’s just my dog drinking your disgusting toilet water.  Maybe for desert we can watch her lick her anus.  Ugh.

     I believe Tulips new found love of H2Bowl is simply a case of wanting what she can’t have because her dish of water is always full and normally just a room away from the toilet she’s slurping out of.  She is after all – a woman – and we often want what we can’t have.  I want straight hair.  I want long flowing shiny bouncy hair.  I want to whip it around like a horse tail and have it air dry stick straight when I get out of the shower.  I want to feel it on my back and never ever have to take a styling tool to it.  I want to be in a Pantene commercial.   I want to complain that I can’t do a thing with my hair because it’s just too darn straight. The bottom line is – I want Asian hair.

     If you want to know the true meaning of sacrilege – watch an Asian woman get a perm.   This is like spitting in the face of the hair god and I know there is one because when I was little he passed right over my house and put a big red smiley face on all the Asian front doors.  Perms on Asian women should be illegal and the penalty should be a hair transplant with a Jew.

     I’ve been wrapping my hair around a coke can to keep it straight since I was a little girl at Camp Indian Head.   Well, the coke can is gone but I still wrap up my hair at night in a truly hideous fashion to keep it straight.  It is the opposite of sexy.  It is a male repellent.   I believe this is another reason why I don’t have sleepovers.  Having straight hair in the morning is more important to me than having sex.

     Just this morning I burned myself with a flat iron – again.   I have singed myself so many times that if you connect the dots of the burns on my upper body you get the shape of Idaho.  I’m going to start telling people that I have an abusive boyfriend who puts his cigarettes out on me.  Hooking up with a beater sounds a little less pathetic than I can’t use a hot stick my 11 year old niece has mastered and not as gross as – I got distracted by the sound of my dog drinking poo water.

Fore Play

  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

  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

 “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.

I Am The Itard

 I have decided I have to move back to New York.  It’s not for a job, or money or love – it’s for the wardrobe.  I have 72 coats.  I just counted them and then threw up.  I had no idea I had this kind of a situation on my hands or in my closet.   I am a New York transplant so it makes sense that I have acquired some winter wear over the years but all 72 coats have been purchased right here in LaLa land home of the consistent 72 degree uncoatworthy temperature. I would count my jeans and shoes but I don’t have that kind of time and I’m pretty sure I need an abacus.  The shoes have their own closet – as do the coats.

     The main reason I don’t want to leave Los Angeles is for the weather but the thing I love most in life is clothing and variations of it so you can see where my dilemma rests.  The only place to really where a coat in this city is indoors because the air conditioners everywhere are turned up so high you can freeze to death shopping. Los Angeles is like a giant Mac store.  Everything is bright and shiny and pretty and everything starts with “i”.

     I have all the tools of the Mac trade.  The  iPhone, iMac, iPod, iPad, iBook, iWhatever.  It’s more than a little iRonic to me that all of these things made to simplify my life start with i-i-i- but i-i-i- can’t figure out how to use any of them. Today I had to go to the Geinus Bar at the Mac store at The Grave, the outdoor shopping center that looks like someone’s always filming Dawn of The Dead.  I really want to marry someone from the Genius Bar but I haven’t met a hot one yet.  I know it was gods plan not to give too much of one thing to one person which is why all supermodels are stupid (please god I hope) but can’t he give me just one hot Mac guy?   Today my Mactards name was Evan and he was super helpful and started explaining to me why my iPad kept saying Error 1004 and how he had to wipe it clean and download everything all over again and reset my system preferences and what will be great is when iCloud starts and you can put all of your things in one place and really compact your information and e=mc2 and what is pi and the square root of moron is simple on the iPad and I just have to move this one thing.   Here’s what I heard. Blaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaah…. Ten minutes.

     My iPad is all fixed and I even figured out how to download some television programs to watch on my next plane ride.  I bought an external hard drive so I don’t lose my precious words the next time Tulip and Peaches decide to have a dog fight in the office and drag my desktop crashing to the floor.  Now all I have to do is figure out this whole iCloud thing because it sounds like an excellent place to store my coats.

Vadge-onomics

When it comes right down to it, the main difference between men and women is that men can do tricks with their penises that we cannot do with our vaginas. Men treat their penises like toys.  They make videos like “Meatspin”, “Vacuum Blowjob” and “Origami Penis” and dedicate Broadway shows to it like “Puppetry of the Penis.”   Even if women could do a play with their vaginas it would consist of one imitation – a Dolphin – and that’s not really worth 700 bucks a ticket.  Maybe if we could have more fun with our vaginas we wouldn’t take the damn thing so seriously.  A little twatfoolery could be good for ladies so that we too could dominate the web with fun movies we make with our girlfriends.  We could spend hours together shooting ourselves lighting our vagina farts on fire and punching each other in our private parts and laughing.  Men are so lucky they can do these things.

     If women are going to have more fun the first thing we need to do is get rid of Lifetime and especially the Lifetime Movie Network.  My friend Brian says the logo for this channel should be a closed door and the sound of a woman screaming coming from behind it.  The entire network seems to be devoted to bad shit happening to women.  If you’re slightly depressed and watch the Lifetime Movie Network you will for sure kill yourself by the end of the evening. Last night the big Saturday night movie was called “Mom, Dad and Her.”  I’m guessing it was about some hideous woman who stole someone’s husband – aka – The Angelina Jolie Story.   I couldn’t watch it because I was too busy playing the Criminal Minds drinking game.  This is where you take a shot every time Shemar Moore says the words “baby girl.”  You’ll be shit faced in ten minutes.

     I did take in an amazing documentary about Bill Cunningham – a true artist who has spent years documenting women and their fashion for the New York Times and others.  He has biked all over the city for decades snapping street wear and predicting trends.  He doesn’t have a bike helmet.  I want to send him one.   I am worried about him. He said wonderful things like “He who seeks beauty will find it” and “It’s about the clothes not the celebrity in them.”  He lives in a tiny one room apartment with no kitchen and the bathroom is down the hall. He is surrounded with scads of filing cabinets filled with his photos.  At one point they featured the former diplomat to Nepal who described his outfit – a jacket made from his old couch and pants made from the ottoman.  It was genius.  Of course the Documentarian wanted to know if Bill Cunningham was gay.  He never did answer.  I was glad he didn’t.  At one point he snapped a picture of two young girls walking home from school and one said “Don’t take a picture of me or I’ll break that fucking camera.”  If she could make things like a kangaroo with her vagina she wouldn’t be so angry.

My Psychic Hot Line

 I have been told that Nancy Grace’s nipple popped out last night on Dancing with the Stars.  I don’t know this for sure because if I look myself my eyes will explode like two tiny grenades and I will most definitely need a spiritual cleansing which I was about to schedule anyway so I may just check the DVR and throw caution and my stomach contents to the wind.

  I have my own psychic and her name is Letty.  She stands about five feet tall and is the most powerful little person I have ever met.  You do not fuck with Letty or the people she loves.  I’m not sure what gets killed in order for her to set the world right against a person who has harmed you but there will be blood.  She once told a friend of mine to throw a coconut she had blessed outside and report back to her what kind of a sound it made.  She threw it too close to her car and broke the side view mirror so I guess it made the sound of money burning.  But Letty knows her shit.  I was sent to her the first time through a friend and now text with her in some fashion on a weekly sometimes daily basis.

     “Why are you so sad?” she said to me within the first fifteen seconds of our meeting.  I burst into tears, literally.  It was a cry that was many years in the making and while it scared the hell out of me – it felt good.  I was sad.  I was destroyed actually.  I had just left a highly paid job and had no idea what I was going to do next.  I knew I didn’t have a choice and I knew the reason I left would have her date with the Karma police one day but I still needed to move past my decision so I was seeking the counsel of a psychic.  I know what you’re thinking.  “Nice move nut bag.”  But to me psychics are cut to the chase therapists.  They tell you things you already know but there is no way THEY should know these things.  I mean – how the hell did Letty know I was sad?  I was smiling from ear to ear when I walked in.   Then she said – “there’s a woman who doesn’t like you at all and she is going to say some terrible things about you.”  Duh.  That could be anybody.  She told me what I did was right and that I will never have to worry about money.    She told me that I was incredibly smart and that I should stop thinking so much and be grateful for the things I already have and just open my doors to letting things happen.   Now granted – Peaches my three year old French Mastiff would have been dead on if she told me the same things but there is something about Letty that makes you believe.  She told me quite a few things that first session and they were all right on the nose and when I left I was truly smiling ear to ear.  Thirty seven dollars later I was a new woman.  Some Dr. Lie-On-My-Couch-While-I-Pretend-To-Listen would never have cost 37 dollars.   Woody Allen should go to psychics.

     I have always been into people who read cards or channel other people.  I never called the psychic friends network but that was more of a Dionne Warwick thing.  She didn’t look like she had any kind of a psychic clue. If Dionne is running a psychic friends network then she should have known about her niece Whitney’s crack cocaine habit or that Bobby Christina would grow up to be a fatty until she got hooked.   But I did go to someone called a trance channeler once.  This is a person who goes into a trance and channels a dead person who speaks through them.  I can’t remember the name of the dead person who mapped out my future but it was twenty five years ago and every single thing he said – has come true.  No joke.  He said I would live in California and become a writer ten years before I did either.  I wish he had said successful writer but I’ll deal with that one on my own .  It was if he had opened this big book and flipped to the page that had my name in it and read what was going to happen to me.  At the time I went to see this trance channeler because I had fallen in love with someone who was about to get married.  We had a very intense friendship and the one time he did kiss me – I fainted.  I was crushed when I found out he was getting married and I think he was fairly crushed that he met me after getting engaged.  There was an incredible connection with this man and I was having an extremely difficult time getting over him.  I needed a quick fix.  The trance channeler told me that I had in fact known this man in another life.  She believed we were brother and sister.  She said we had already completed our time together and that was why the relationship was not going to work out in this particular lifetime.  She said she could see us in our past life like a movie.  She said we were in a boat and I was wearing a big yellow hat and I was laughing and laughing and I was so happy.   I left feeling better.  Maybe this was a bunch of hogwash but I felt better.  Many months later the man called me.  He was now married.  He said he had just watched a movie called “Cousins.”  “I think you should watch it, it reminded me so much of us but I’m not sure why.”  I rented that movie.  It was not a great movie.  It was about cousins who fell in love but couldn’t really get together because they were related.  Duh.  How is that like us I thought?  Then came the last scene of the movie.  Ted Danson and Isabella Rossellini on a boat .  She’s wearing a big yellow hat and they cut to a close up of her laughing.  It was nuts.  Years later I wrote a movie about a woman dying of breast cancer.  About two years after I wrote it , this man contacted me through facebook.  It had been twenty years and his wife had just died – of breast cancer.  Take that Dionne Warwick.

     I hope Nancy Grace goes to see a psychic before her next Dance night and I hope the psychic tells her there’s no chance of her winning.  I don’t want to know what she’s willing to pull out to win but nobody needs to see that on t.v.  Letty and I may have to kill a chicken to get her kicked off sooner.

Defreinded Forever

 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

 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

  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 1^st.  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

  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.

Drill Me

   Female pattern baldness really freaks me out.  I saw a woman last night who is living with this horror and it made me feel really badly for her – or it made me say “thank god that’s not me.”  It was one of those two.  Probably the second.  Women losing the hair on their heads had to have been a total fuck up on Gods part.  I can see how confusing it would have been when he was handing shit out on his cloud that day 6 billion light years ago.

      “Okay here we go.  Women – you will bleed from your vaginas every month for decades.  Men – you will have things shoot out of your penis for fun for the rest of your lives.  Women – you will gain weight just looking at food. Men – you will eat whatever you want until the age of fifty and then any excess will only go to your stomachs.  Women – you will fall in love, carry the children and give birth.  Men – you will have the ability to think with your penis until it has sex with someone other than your wife and then you will say it has a mind of it’s own. Women – you will develop fatty tissue.  Men – you will maintain a nice amount of muscle from sitting and watching sports.  Both of you will grow hair everywhere but on women it will not be considered attractive.  Hmmm seems the men are getting the leg up on this one.  What to do, what to do?  I know – one of them will lose the hair on their head – Shazaaam – oops I think I got both.”

     This is of course a loose translation but I’m pretty sure it’s close to how it went down.  I love the differences between men and women but I don’t love that we expect men to know certain things we don’t.  For instance – last night I went to see the one man play “Hyper-Chondriac” written by and starring Brian Frazer who is proof there is someone crazier than me.  It’s brilliant.  Go see it or buy his book or do both.  My car had been making funny noises for awhile so I suggested to my date – friend – Dan that I drive so that he could hear it and perhaps decipher what it is.  Anyone who knows Dan knows this is the most ridiculous thought I’ve ever had.  Dan is a brilliant writer who can tell you how to grow a tomato.  The only thing Dan knows about cars is that they come in colors.  But Dan is a man.  So we get in my car and pull in to our first stop.  “Do you hear that?” I ask.  “Yes that is weird” he says.  Not exactly a scientific deduction.. yet.  “Maybe its just the car?”  I say.  “No, I have a Prius and mine does not make that noise.”  Brilliant deduction now I thought.  “Well why is that round light with the exclamation in it turned on” I ask.”  “Oh that goes on and off all the time” he says with extreme confidence.  We go to dinner and get back in the car to drive to the play and the second I pull out I say “Holy fuckwads I have a flat tire.”  “How do you know” Dan asks.  “How do you not?”  ugh.

     I know how to do a lot of things men usually do for a woman.  I can hang things, build things, fix many things, paint stuff and bring myself to orgasm.  Okay so I can do one thing they can’t.  But I do not know how to change a tire.  Guess who else doesn’t… Dan.  So this morning AAA will be putting my spare tire on and I will go back to Dan’s – head between legs or up ass or wherever it goes during a shame moment – to get my car.

     I hate the fact that I don’t know how to change a tire but at least I’m not one of those women who can’t do anything unless their boyfriend or husband does it for them.  I know far too many women who will not touch anything that looks like it comes under the man’s list of things to know.  They will pay someone with balls to take care of something you don’t need a vagina to fix.  I have a tool box.  I have a ladder.  I have three different saws.  I have a power drill.  Granted, none of these things can hug me.  But I can pay for that.

Will Write For Food

  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

  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…

YOU ARE OPEN MINDED AND READY TO EMBRACE NEW IDEAS.  YOU ARE AN EMOTIONAL SPIRIT.  YOUR REBELLIOUS EDGE MAKES YOU FUN TO BE AROUND.

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

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.

I Ink Therefore I am

  Steve Jobs put a major chink in my birthday.  It was really hard to read the happy wishes from friends amid the iMemories, iQuotes and general iDolatry.  How am I supposed to feel good about “Have an awesome day Heidi” when it’s shoved in between “Have the courage to follow your heart and intuition, they somehow already know what you truly want to become.  Everything else is secondary.”  Quite frankly – you people should have stepped it up.

     I got some great gifts for the big 5-1 – or as my friends called them “practical gifts.”  I felt like my mom the day my father got her pots and pans for her birthday.  She cracked him over the head with one.  If I wanted something practical I would have gotten a husband. What I got myself for my birthday was my ninth tattoo and I’m pleased to say that no one will ever confuse me again with a lesbian biker – it’s now crystal clear that’s exactly who I am.

      I got my first tattoo back when it was illegal to get one in the state of New York.  Me and Helen Gurley Brown went together and got a twofer.  I went to a guy in Brooklyn named Huggy Bear – no joke – and got a tiny rose with a stem that pierces a heart.  Can we all say it together – cliché.  Huggy was huge and covered in butterfly tattoos.  He said he got one butterfly for each man he lost in Viet Nam.  He told me this as he was inking my lame rose.  I tried to think of a great story to go with mine but I just paid and ran out.  After that I got another random flower.  I don’t know why.  I don’t even like flowers.  Then I got a tiny cherub, and a purple heart.  All of these tattoos are in one area on my thigh you can’t see unless I’m naked and quite small but enough to distract you from the areas I don’t want you to focus on when I’m only in underpants.  When I went to get my fifth the tattoo artist said – “You need to branch out.”  I have angel wings on my ankle, an H on my middle finger, the word “grateful” on my wrist, and an island with Palm Trees that says “St. Fu” on my ass.  They are all going to look amazing when I’m 97 and they are all in the same place on my body – down.

     There is something very addictive about getting inked but yesterday may have put the process on hold for me for about a decade.  I knew I wanted to get a tat of the tarot card angel Temperance.  This card has come up many times in my readings and I have been told that He/She is the angel that watches over me.  For those of you who are as retarded as I am – the word temperance means moderation and total abstinence from alcohol.  This is Temperance.

     I went to a new tattoo parlor.  They were playing the one kind of music I hate – heavy metal.  I had a headache within fifteen seconds.   This is when most people turn and walk out.  I am not most people.  The shop owner had massive earrings stretching out his ear lobes.  I’m not sure what this is called but Africans are laughing at him.  I  showed the guy who would be my artist the picture of what I wanted.  He said “I’ll sketch it up.  Come back at five.”  When I returned he showed me his drawing of some chicks head with two cups.  I said “people will think it’s a drawing of my lesbian lover who’s a bartender.”  So basically what I did there for those of you not paying attention was tell an artist that his work is SHIT.  And then I sat down and let him put a needle in my arm – actually quite a few needles.  He gave me exactly what I asked for and I am quite certain the gay bartender he drew is laughing at me.  It is huge.   I mean – massive.  I always get small tattoos and then I’m sorry that no one can see them.  Well everyone can see this one.  Fucking Martians in outer space can see it right now.  So can Steve Jobs.

Losing My Virginion

 I have sad knees.  The extra skin that seems to have grown overnight above my kneecap is forming a frown and when I wear a short skirt it looks like bangs on a sad face.  Albert from Survivor is not going to want to take these knees out for pizza.  I don’t care how many nights he had to sleep next to Papa Bear.  I never paid much attention to my knees before.  I never paid much attention to any of my body parts when I was younger.  I don’t really know what my knees used to look like but I bet they were smiling. Now I know what that old hen Chicken Little was actually saying “My thigh is falling.” I spend far too much time looking at other women and I always want to tell young girls with really smooth skin that they should be grateful and take care of it and moisturize but I feel like they’ll think I’m a creepy lesbian serial killer looking to make a flesh dress out of their body parts.

     I do remember the night I lost my virginity.  It is one of my life experiences that is unfortunately seared into my brain.  I was 18 years old and in college.  I had waited because I thought it was the right thing to do and I wanted to give this very special gift of my unbroken vagina to the right person.  When the right person didn’t come along I got really drunk and gave it to the hottest guy I could find.  I think his name was Steve.  It was one of the most traumatic experiences of my life.   I sort of forgot to tell him that I was a virgin and when he saw blood all over his sheets he thought he had killed me.   I thought this would be the beginning of a beautifully fucked up relationship but Steve repaid my gift of a sparkly new vagina by telling all of his friends he deflowered me and actually holding up a cherry and crushing it between his fingers at the local bar the next night.  Steve later got in a very bad accident when he was totally fucked up and was severely brain damaged.  I make really good choices.  Right after asshole Steve I started dating Billy.   We had a lot of sex.  I wrote him poems.  They were hideous.  He had a girlfriend back home which I chose to ignore and when she found out about me,  he dumped me.  He lived in the dorm room right next door to mine and when she later came to visit I could hear them through the wall having sex.  This is the definition of misery.   It’s no wonder sex is completely confusing to me still – all these years later.

     The White House has a place where you can go online and start a petition that calls for action by the federal government.  I guess if the First Lady has time to try and break a Guiness World Record for playing jumping jacks they have time to read petitions from mental patients.    It’s called “We The People” and all I need is 5,000 signatures in thirty days to have my petition reviewed and answered.  I am going to start one that says I get an official “do over” on losing my virginity.  It will come with a sign up sheet and a list of criteria for candidates. I will pay attention to what’s happening this time and will finally discover what all the hubbub is about.  Maybe this will turn my knee frown upside down.

You May Now Kiss The Child

 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

   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.

The Glasses Are Half Empty

   My friend Brian ruined my money soap.  Right after he used it he got three job offers.  I’ve been scrubbing down with it for days and no one’s dropped a bag of cash off at my house yet so I’m pretty sure he got all the psychic money out of the soap.   Letty gave me the money soap and told me to wash my hands with it before I go on a job interview or do something that has to do with business.  This seemed like a perfectly rational idea to me and I didn’t even ask her what kind of store you go to to buy money soap but I’m pretty sure it’s the kind that also sells eye of a newt and chickens blood.   I was waiting for the perfect opportunity to use the soap but when my friend Brian came over the other day to write a piece he was doing for PBS – I said – “Hey use the money soap and you’ll have an even better piece on the air.”   Well – Brian is now turning work away like the funny Steve Carell and I got jack shit – so now I need new money soap because mine is tainted or depleted or something.  The other issue is that I left the soap on the counter in the guest bathroom and I guess it smells delicious because I had to wrench it out of Tulips mouth so now the money soap is also damaged and Tulip could start puking cash at any second.  I mean for the love of Jesus Christ and all that is holy can’t I even have a decent experience with a cult item? I used that money soap before a meeting yesterday and I made my friend Jenny use it too.  She thinks I’m retarded but I could see a tiny glint in her eye that said “I bet this shit works.”

     Getting older has led me to become a more “sure what the hell” type of person but it’s hard to keep up a devil may care façade when you have to wear reading glasses.  My eyes are so bad that eventually my reading glasses will need their own glasses.  I also have hideous distance vision.  Basically – I’m like – blind.  I can’t get out of bed without putting glasses on because I will surely fall down.  I am like Adrianne Barbeau in “The Fog” in the morning.  If there’s a monster at the end of my bed I’ll never see it.  Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night with an idea and I email it to myself so I don’t forget it by morning.  This is what I emailed myself last night – “My do tlip nods khedive needs breTh rifhbr strips.”  If anyone knows what that means please call me. People tell me to get that lasik eye surgery all the time but I’m not having a laser beam slash my corneas to ribbons by a guy who advertises during Bad Girls on Oxygen.  This surgery is far to new for me to go under the beam.  What if we find out that twenty years after you have lasik surgery your entire head falls off?  Who cares how clear your vision is then?

     I hate having to wear reading glasses but my arms are no longer long enough to read tiny shit.  It immediately makes you feel 100 years old.  They should put that wheel of blindness you see in the drug store next to the adult diapers and the walkers… I bet they’d get some extra business done.  Some men say glasses make you look sexy but I think they all have a weird teacher fantasy and can already picture you naked in nothing but your glasses.  Men are very good at picturing things they want -  then forgetting they wanted it the second after they get it.   Jenny is so freaked out about having to wear reading glasses she goes to what I would call – extremes – not to reveal her dirty little secret – and you have to go pretty far for me to call it extreme.   If Jenny has a date she has her assistant call the restaurant so they can fax the menu to her at home.  Then – like a high school girl cramming for a home ec test – she memorizes it.  She also calls the restaurant on her way there to make sure they haven’t added anything to the menu last minute like fried boar because in her mind that would be a clear sign something’s amiss if she doesn’t say “how unusual that they serve fried boar.”  Trust me – if Jenny wore reading glasses on her date – no man would care – they’re already far too intimidated by her brain.  I think I’m going to invent some kind of soap that makes women okay with who they are.  It will probably have to be a shower gel because some of us really need a full hose down in self esteem.

Fuggedaboutit

  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

     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

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

    “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

   “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

    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.