Welcome to Heidi!

If books were attractions at DisneyLand, Heidi Clement’s book, Welcome to Heidi” would be Mr. Toad’s Wild Ride. Her experiences are hand-picked from the kind of blog posts that make us realize how exciting, exuberant, and downright entertaining life can be – if you gaze at it through kaleidoscope-colored glasses.  Let’s focus today on Chapter Three, the one I like to call the “Koo-Koo for Cocoa Puffs” Chapter.

 

There are times in everyone’s life when they need a psychic. 

Okay, maybe it’s just me and it’s not need in the same way that you need to have a drippy chocolate doughnut or someone’s going to lose an arm, but you’d really like to know how events around the corner are going to play out, and could sure use the wisdom of someone who can peek into the future and tell you if leggings will go out of style before you lose 50 pounds.

Or if the shoes that are the perfect match for that “I Got a Promotion and You Didn’t” day are going to go on sale before platform pumps become passé.

Life challenges are just part of the fun with Heidi Clements in her hilarious book, Welcome to Heidi, when she takes us along on her long-term relationship with Letty, the psychic.  At thirty-seven bucks a pop, that’s a relationship even I could afford.  

Heidi also checks out her life prospects with Tomo, a Trance Channeler. With all the indecisiveness spread around these days, it’s helpful to know someone who can tell when me when the control-bot I’m dating will try to accessorize my outfit with a gun to my head or that my dream date was once my brother. 

At times like that, hitting the yellow pages for someone like Tomo makes perfect sense. That’s better than confiding in my Aunt Edna who tells me, “Marry a picky eater. You’ll never have to cook.”

Turns out Letty the Psychic hits the bullseye on all the major topics:  Happiness, Money, and Mean People. 

Want to put that old flame who broke your heart in his place? Bam! Need to press the mute button on your neighbor who put the the “psych” in “psycho” and who takes out her hostilities on your  dog who’s a buddy, not a biter? Heel, please. Or else!

 

Need Letty’s help with a career change?  Heidi’s got the right idea.  “If a chicken has to die in order for me to get the job of a lifetime or the man of my future, then so be it.” 

A breast and a thigh is a small price to pay for peace of mind.

I once had a drunken neighbor who used to sleep in the driveway and kept a goat chained to his heat pump so he wouldn’t have to mow the lawn.

Wonder if I can get Letty’s number.

Hall of Blame

To celebrate the first day of my favorite season (Baseball!), I'm reposting a tidbit created a few years ago during the height of the steroid superstories. Seems to me that it should be easy to tell who's on steroids. The Captain took them for a week to rid himself of a mysterious rash, and was meaner than a fire ant the whole time. As a lifelong Yankee fan, any reference to George Steinbrenner is respectfully meant to be taken exactly as intended.

Major league baseball is embroiled in a scandal so big that by comparison Marge Schott looks as sweet and innocent as, say George Steinbrenner, except that old Marge has gone to that great big dugout in the sky, and Steinbrenner is still hanging around trying to make the rest of Joe Torre’s hair fall out. Marge Schott was a very bad lady who gained fame by mistreating minorities, such as baseball players and her coaching staff, as opposed to George Steinbrenner who was never a lady at all.

Apparently, one baseball player, who shall remain nameless except on the cover of his best-selling book and on the front page of all the newspapers that showed the­ Congressional proceedings, ingested enough performance-enhancing medication throughout his baseball career to give him biceps the size of vitamin-enhanced hams. This particular baseball player claims that most of the other baseball players he knows also took performance-enhancing medication and that is why baseball players make the field look like a meat-lovers pizza when they all come out to play ball.

For the most part, the other players involved say they are innocent babes who grew extraneous body parts the size of small wildebeests through good genes. None of them mentioned who the good genes originally belonged to, or if they came in small bottles with instructions that read: Take one every four hours as needed for ginormous growth spurts.

The government took charge of the steroid scandal for two reasons: 1.Because baseball people have a notoriously difficult time discussing anything without a large man in a suit and chest protector squatting over them hollering Hiiiiiieeeeehhh!!! while pointing his finger, and 2.Because government employees don’t have anything else to do until it’s time to campaign for a Federal holiday to honor Shoeless Joe Jackson, another famous baseball player who got in trouble for not doing anything.

In a dazzling display of intelligence, the government brought several large baseball players to Washington where the government people asked them questions to trick them into giving themselves away. “Did you take steroids?” the government people asked. “No,” the baseball players responded. “And anybody who says we did is a stinky goo-head.” Here all the baseball players stared meaningfully at the book-writing baseball player. Well, they stared meaningfully in his direction, but a lot of them have bad eyesight from years of not taking steroids and weren’t sure exactly where he was sitting.

Major League Baseball, an organization so important it is nearly always written with initial caps, banned the used of steroids in the year 2002. Some baseball players thought they said stereos because they had bad hearing from years of not using steroids, and also from listening to loud stereo music with headphones on, so they were unaware that they were supposed to deny steroid use.

Therefore, Major League Baseball, who hopes to someday be written in all caps, instituted testing for steroids two years later and promised that anyone who got caught would have to sit and watch the game before cashing their paycheck. These days they’re getting really tough and the baseball powers that belong to the exclusive Baseball Rules Club considered instituting a penalty of at least $10,000 which is as much to a Major League Baseball Player as a shiny new quarter is to you and me.

This season, the average baseball fan is ready for the Government People and the Major League Baseball People and the Baseball Players with Thighs the Size of Boston Butts, no offense to the Red Sox, to stop arguing so that he can finally go to the ball bark and settle down in his seat with a nutritionally enhanced and nitrate fortified hot dog served in an enriched bun, and for one afternoon forget death, taxes, and whether it’s a crime against nature for Washington D.C to be home to a baseball team.

And if a large man in a suit and chest protector points his finger at anybody, he’d better be sure he knows his balls from his strikes.

Hippy is Not a Guy with Long Hair

I’m like Shakira--my hips don’t lie; even when threatened. Don't ask me how I know.

However, without much coaxing they’re willing to reveal every bite of doughnut I’ve had in the past ten years. Try to stuff them into a pair of pantyhose and they’ll also let on what happened to the last box of Thin Mints, the banana bread the neighbor brought when the Captain was flu-bound, and the six dozen zombie cupcakes intended for the third grade Halloween party.

My hips and I have never had a very good relationship. All I long for is to see daylight between my thighs one time before I die. On the other hand my hips fantasize of a day when we can coexist on the buffet deck of the Love Boat without me snarling every time a skinny chick sucks down a piece of cheesecake.

These days they’re spreading the dream to my chins, who have rebelled and resorted to disguising cupcake crumbs in their folds for a late night snack. I’m so nearsighted, I thought it was just stray whiskers. If I ever locate my bifocals, I intend to act sternly in regards to my personal appearance even if I have to read up on excavation techniques to dislodge a certain Hostess Twinkie that's been missing in action for several days.

When I was fifteen, I was all shin bones and shoulder blades. Now I’m fifty and I’ve discovered that love handles are the new hipbones. I used to sing “Head, Shoulders, Knees, and Toes,” but now I have to admit that my head and toes lost touch long before I discovered the beauty of a long distance relationship. My knees are still active, though. They take every possible opportunity to go out. So these days, I’m more likely to sing “Shake, Rattle, and Roll” and hope I don’t lose anything important when I stand up.

Last week I wanted to buy a pair of hip hugger jeans, but I had to get three estimates on the location of my navel to determine the right size. I was going to wear them with a halter top just like the old days, but my kids hit me with a restraining order, the comic strip character Cathy came out of retirement to stage an intervention, and the government declared the entire Head to Toe area unsafe. I’m expecting FEMA to approve my application for natural disaster assistance any day now and Naval engineers to construct an overflow device to be worn around my waist.

In the meantime, I’m investing heavily in Krispy Kreme; specifically Cruellers, Raspberry Filled and Chocolate Glazed. Because even though hips don’t lie, maybe they can be bribed to keep the sugar coated truth to themselves.

Pole Bending

That old “touch your toes” thing isn’t working for me anymore, so I thought I’d find a new exercise program. It isn’t that I’m rejecting my toes; it’s just that I rarely see them. We don’t hang out in the same neighborhood any more and have little or nothing in common. So in the interest of personal conditioning and self improvement, I decided to swing with the new fitness craze: Pole Dancing. My family was excited for me.

“Absolutely not.” Sons One and Two answered in harmony. They haven’t agreed on anything since the great “Whose hiney put the hole in the living room wall?” debate of ’05 and they pick now to show solidarity.

“But everybody’s doing it.”

“Everybody’s having hip replacements, too. Tell that to your insurance company. Can you say deductible?”

That settled the matter for me. If the boys didn’t approve, it was just what I needed. I searched the Internet to find some local lessons.

However, I didn’t want to take a class without trying it out privately first. I’m not exactly Dasher or Dancer when it comes to the ladies aerobics class at the local YMCA; I figured I’d better work on some moves before I shinnied up a metal pole in a room full of Vixens. I slipped on my laundry day gym shorts, a clear violation of the rules of fashion etiquette for public exposure, and sauntered down to the elementary school playground where an old volleyball pole cemented into a tire stood guard over some dandelions in a sunny corner.

The videos I had seen on You Tube showed sleek, gazelle-like women, frolicking delicately around a shining silver pole like a lady’s dress of filmy chiffon blowing around her legs in a gentle breeze. Thinking chiffon, I circled the pole feeling a zephyr stirring strands of hair around my upturned face, and grasped the circumference of the pole in one hand as I swung my legs up into the Fireman’s Position.

That pole had been baking in the Southern summer sun long enough to cook a turkey, two dozen yeast rolls, and a sweet potato casserole.

And cook a turkey it did. The fat grabber treads of my thighs stuttered across the pole, popping like an old clutch under the foot of a novice driving student. A line of blisters the size and shape of a Tibetan mountain range sprung to life on my twirling hand and my thighs had the grill marks of a well-turned sirloin.

Releasing the pole is called the dismount, even if it’s accidental. I let go of the pole with a better understanding of the importance of the proper attire for pole dancing.

On the whole, it’s not a good idea to let go suddenly, even in case of trauma, particularly when wearing the type of shorts that maintain their position on the body with a drawstring. If you have elected to practice on an old volleyball pole that sports a hook whose purpose it is to hold up volleyball net, the idea is especially unfortunate.

Now I know what gymnasts feel like in the middle of the somersault-handspring section of their floor routine. If the Olympic committee had been on hand at that moment, I would have secured a spot as a favorite on Team USA. When I landed, I looked through my knees at the pole, spinning that old tire in circles and grinned. At least if I got a workout, I gave that wretched thing one, too.

But the worst part was that the blasted thing looked better in those old gym shorts than I did.

The Thighs Have It

I’m at the age when my thighs angrily reject fat-free muffins. “Bring us biscuits,” they sneer, spraying sparks as I walk. I would like to see daylight between my thighs just one more time before I die. I’m not planning on leaving the world of supersized fries and double-thick shakes any time soon, mind you. But it’s nice to have a goal.
So after an unfortunate career change (from having one to suddenly not having one) I decided to join the health and fitness craze and submerge myself in aerobic (free) activity. It was either that or shop for a new interview suit in the chubby department. “Let’s go walking,” I suggested to my sister, Laudy.
“Why?” she gasped, regarding me with the look she usually reserved for artificial cheese.
“Well,” I said, suddenly inspired. “If we’re out of the house, we won’t be licking crumbs from the toaster oven tray. I got a nasty burn chasing banana bread bits last time.”
So every morning we walked at the mall. We walked 20 minutes in from the parking lot to the biscuit place. Then we walked 20 minutes back to our cars, chewing thoughtfully.
“You think we should pick up our pace?” I asked one day as we strolled along.
“I’m stuffed. I couldn’t eat another bite.” She held tightly to her biscuit wrapper as two elderly ladies dressed in sweat suits shot past us, whipping up an unruly breeze.
“Well, maybe we’ve missed the point.” I brushed sausage crumbs from my stomach. “I wore corduroy pants last week and almost set my underwear on fire. Smoke was coming out of my pants leg and a waitress poured tea in my lap trying to put me out.”
Ultimately I had to give up the “walk yourself thin” health regimen touted by all the women’s magazines. I gained so much weight, I found out my stretchy pants were in cahoots with a panty girdle I’d stuffed in the sock drawer.
For the New Year, I’m tinkering with an experimental new program: The Sports Bra Allover Workout. With the startling acumen that usually alerts me to uneaten pie crust on the plates of nearby diners, I noticed that I often bust buttons off of blouses in spontaneous bursts of rapid fire. I also snap underwires like rednecks crush beer cans, only I don’t use my forehead.
Therefore I have instituted a rigorous physical training program. I plan to keep fit with a three times weekly series of stretching exercises followed by a trip to Wal-Mart to try on sports bras. Granted that this is a pastime fraught with danger, I’m going to approach my new exercise program with a certain degree of caution and respect for spandex.
Yesterday when I attempted my first fatbuster fitting, I foolishly tried to pull the treacherous garment on over my head. I exercised not only myself, but two elderly saleswomen and a security guard who thought I was trying to rob the lingerie department when the wretched thing snapped smartly around my face like a ski mask leech and wouldn’t let go. My ears stuck through the armholes and I had to chew an air passage in the doubleknit to breathe.
I may have to give up on my new exercise program, though. The store manager red-carded me and banned me from lingerie. Maybe I’ll try Victoria’s Secret. It did wonders for Heidi Klum. She’s had three children, looks great, and gets a discount on all the undergarments that fight back.