Memoirs I hate

I’ll be very upfront in admitting that this entire post is fueled by jealousy. Awful jealousy that makes me want to flip a table.

I spent all of Sunday night, five hours worth, writing travel articles and male advice columns about awful, wrong topics and stories for the blog and all I can hear in the back of my head is my friend’s voice,

“Heather, you know Bristol Palin has a memoir.”

And that is just fucking bullshit. That moron isn’t even old enough to drink yet and she has a fucking memoir about her being an idiot all her life. Oddly enough, every Republican, middle aged woman will buy that stupid book and make that girl think she has writing skills. Which she doesn’t.

Other skanks that have memoirs about stupid shit that has caused me to hate them.

1. Jessica Cutler. The original memoir bitch that I hate. For years. Not only does just the look of her bother me but that nightmare got paid and famous for writing about blowing men at lunch and taking money for The Bad Sex. She was paid to write about being a skank and partying on the weekends. GODDAMNED LUCKY BITCH. Now I’ve never taken money for sex but I do have some great tales and I just hate her in general for getting paid to lay on her back and tell a story about it. I bet that bitch doesn’t even have a Trident gum story.

2. Snooki.

I don't even know where to start with this picture.

Do I even really need to get into this? The girl looks like a troll and drinks pickle juice.

3. Paris Hilton. Flakey skank. Dumb as bricks. Though this picture seems right up my alley but that’s beside the point.

4. Tila Tequilla.

All natural.

Why would I even have to elaborate on this one? Girl takes clothes off, becomes reality star, swings both ways and writes a book. I hate her. Furthermore, I can’t decide if I’m jealous or not that her last name, though self given, is a booze. I don’t think Heather Gin has a nice ring to it but Heather Bombay isn’t bad.

5. Fabio.
OHMYGOD. I know he’s not a female skank but christ, he is famous for having long hair on trash romance novels and spray butter commercials. And please do not tell me he has better hair than I do because that will just set me the fuck off.

6. Anyone with the last name Palin.

Dream Team of Brilliance


I reduced myself to buying Older Crazy Palin’s book last year for my stepdad for Christmas and just touching the thing made me want to launch myself off a bridge. The thought of reading about Bristol giving up her dignity after a night of binging on wine coolers like the pile of trash she is makes my head want to explode. That family is full of bullshit and the less I know about it, the better.

I cannot go on. The amount of moronic memoirs out there is too much for me to handle right now. I need to get back to finishing my chapters before five more idiots come along and finish another book first.

Must.stop.the.laziness.

Me, but a cartoon. Kind of. Discuss.

So because I bought myself a fancy new web address, http://www.theheatherchronicles.com, and I’m trying to switch over to that this week, I figured I’d do a number of things to spruce up the new page. I want this new address to be the page I really want, not just a placeholder for my blog.

So, the thought occurred to me to have this artist take some of my real photos and make them into cartoon images to use for my Wednesday’s Ask Heather column. Figured that would be cute. I also asked her to do one of me at an airport so that I could attach that to any airport stories, because let’s be honest, I fly about every 7 weeks which means I’ll 99% positive I’ll come back with a new detainment story each time.

I got this idea from The Bloggess’ website (www.thebloggess.com), because she had one done of her, and not that I want to copy every last good idea Jenny has, but honestly, she is a brilliant and the pictures are funny. So in girl crush fashion, I kind of copied the idea but asked the artist to make mine as different as possible so I don’t set anyone off.

That was the idea.

I email Miss Mortis, the famously fantastic cartoon drawer, for lack of a better term outside of artist because I am a moron, and she wants me to give her a little background. Here is what I tell her.

My name is Heather. I love traveling, gin, white wine and cleavage. My hair looks like a lion and I’m chaotic. Then I send her the link to my blog and explain the picture will be used for the Ask Wednesday male/sex/relationship advice column. I figure that should do it.

Then I attach this picture, to give her an idea of what my hair is like.

With an emphasis on the lion part.

And then this one, to show her what my face looks like when I’m attempting to take a nice, appropriate picture.

Very few normal pictures of me around, I realize.

And then this one, which is what my face usually looks like every time I have an ounce of booze in me. I don’t know why I make these faces.

I know I believe this is always a charming look at the time.

I send these fine examples of myself to her and viola! Here is my image.

So....

Ummm…Feel free to openly discuss this on my fb page. In the meantime, I’m going to continue studying the picture.

Blacklisted, Maxim and reason #871 I hate most girls

So my partner in crime, JLaw has returned to the North and I’m bummed because she was a fantastic house guest and splendid to have around. My house turned into sleep camp for her for a week, as well as American fat camp, except the reverse, because we just sat around eating every American snack we could get our hands on, primarily because she can’t get American snacks up North and I used her as my excuse to eat cupcakes and Doritos all week. Between snacking and wearing lipstick, we were very busy all week.

But now she’s gone and so I’m lying in bed, working on some writing proposals and fucking around reading other people’s blogs. OHMYGOD I almost forgot. Speaking of blogs, guess whose fucking blog is blocked from FACEBOOK? MINE. Of course it is. And all because someone reported it as abusive. I don’t even know what the fuck that means.

First of all, there is nothing goddamned abusive about my blog. It is obviously vile and inappropriate and wrong on so many levels but it is not fucking abusive. And obviously whoever reported me does not like ass sex because that’s the post that did it, not shocking, but it’s not my problem you don’t like that. Just stop fucking reading it and go back to having your stupid vanilla sex.

Furthermore, I would understand if I talked about wanting to ass rape people. Like as in that was my thing and I detailed how I went about violating people from behind but that’s not what the stupid post was about, was it? It was merely a very nice tutorial for men so they can trick their unwilling girls into having The Bad Sex. I felt like I was doing people a service and then some fucking emotional trainwreck has to go report me. And who are you even fucking reporting me to? Who sits at Facebook and answers these fucking babies? Because I feel like Mark Zuckerberg is NOT taking my side and I’m not thrilled about it.

And I hate feeling like I’m being punished. I use facebook to send my posts out. And if for one second FACEBOOK THINKS THEY ARE THE BOSS OF ME, they are fucking sadly mistaken. And so hopefully by tomorrow I will have my new site up so that I can post that link and world order will be restored. Also, I’d love to know who reported me so I can do a specific post on them about why they suck at life in general. Not that I’m angry.

So back to the proposals. I’m working on a few for the fall. One being a travel one, because I travel to so many countries, it’s really a waste not to write about it and maybe get paid to do it. Second, my advice column for men proposal, which is why I do the Ask Heather posts. It’s practice. And I get to use my posts as examples to pitch magazines. So, contrary to popular belief that I write those posts to ruin my husband’s life, I am doing it for myself. So ANYWAY. I’m looking up appropriate magazines today to write this pitch to and of course Maxim is on my list because it’s trashy as hell and they love inappropriate things and so in googling “Maxim advice column”, I come across this piece of bullshit.

http://www.advicenators.com/qview.php?q=457874

And that just reminded me that I hate girls. Not all girls but a large number of the vagina having population. And especially this type of girl. I mean really. If I were this pathetic girl’s boyfriend, I would fucking smack her across the mouth with my Maxim magazine for being a stupid wench. Jesus Christ.

I heart my brother

I probably won’t have time to write until this weekend due to a friend in town, trying to help plan my sister’s wedding which I am going home for IN 5 DAYS!!, I’m planning four work trips, one girls trip, and ah yes, I’m working.

BUT. I did want to take the time today to do something important. I want to wish my brother David a VERY, VERY happy birthday.

Dave and Achilles

Dave is six years younger than I am and we have very few things in common in our personal lives, despite our blood and fondness for each other. He married young, has already bought a house, has a dog the size of a horse, works endless hours doing manual labor to beautify the lands of Maine, drink tequilla and whiskey like a fish, is laid back and simple in that he enjoys little things and isn’t seeking something grandiose or complicated. He has a great laugh and a mischievous smile. He tans like an Indian in the winter and isn’t pasty in the summer. His hair is shiny and milk chocolately and he grows a beard sometimes that reminds me of Jesus, though there aren’t many things Holy about David.

The unholy part and the drinking like a fish part are the things we share most in commno….Right, Dave?

I don’t write about David enough and we have surely gotten into enough trouble together. He has always stood by my side and he’d throw down for me in a second, or hug me or toss me a high-five, depending on my needs. I miss him and I am so, so excited to see him next week.

So, Dave, happy, happy BIRTHDAY!! The shots are on me next week when I come home….

xoxo,
heath

Wednesday’s Ask Heather: The Getting Ass Edition

So today’s Ask Heather is not for your mother to read. Unless your mom likes a little ass play. In that case, she can keep reading.

Here’s an email I woke up to yesterday, confirming the fact that it’s time to get dirty.

Heather,
What music to play to get it on and why are chicks always late — are these really the best topics you have for ask heather? The last one started out well, sucking balls, I thought it was going to be an expose about the fact that women should not actually suck balls, but rather tongue them, cuz they’re sensitive, but no. Disappointing. How about this — when, if ever, is it acceptable for a guy to go for some butt play with his girl? How best to start, discuss first or no, what’s the best reason to cite for wanting said butt play, etc. This took all of 3 seconds for me to think of, you need to step it up…
Signed, JP, Washington, DC

And so today I will answer the age-old question, How to Get a Girl to Take it up the Ass, with a little WHOWHATWHENWHEREWHY session.

But first, guys, jesus CHRIST. What is with the fucking ass play? Obviously this has more to do with wanting what you can’t have than actually enjoying shoving your dick up our asses. Because I can’t really imagine that the actual sex is 8 trillion times better. Unless it is, and then fine, you can freak the f out all you want and go on dying to do us up the ass like it’s the sexual equivalent of winning the Nobel Peace Prize.

Here we go.

WHAT: We already know the what. You want to shove something hard and large (hopefully for you but in this case not for us) up our balloon knots and you are driven mad by the fact that you are not allowed to. Fine. That’s the issue at hand.

WHO: You making ridiculous demands when being given a blow job or a session other than missionary should be suitable but you have to get all selfish and idealistic about things and start demanding whoever you’re with “be open” with you. And as for the girl, the who part goes something like this. WHO would let you shove your dick there? Three options. One, someone that’s madly in love with you. Really, stupidly, would do anything for you in love with you. Two, a whore. Whores have no problem taking it up the ass because they are easy and I assume use their ass as a canvas more than the rest of us and so they don’t mind giving it up. And then lastly, girls that want to impress you for who knows what fucking reason. Primarily because they have insecurity issues and feel like offering you their ass will win your heart. Which it will, for one second, but then you’ll go tell all your friends about how you screwed some skank up the ass and then her poor, stupid, naive heart will be broken, as will her O ring, but that’s her own fucking fault for resorting to the big game to win your heart. Duh.

So now we know what kind of girl is pumped to give you her ass. But that’s not what this question is really about, is it? You want to know how to get your vanilla sex loving woman, who you have been banging for so long that it bores you to tears and forces you to wank in the shower and you’re just dying to get her to do something new. So. How do you turn your woman into a bent over dream? Well, let’s carry on.

WHEN: Well, normally I’d say that unless it’s Christmas or your fucking birthday or you got a promotion or you won the lottery and she gets half, you shouldn’t be asking unless you know she’s into it because she’s just going to be pissed at you for being greedy. That being said, if you can get her to consider the idea, you should know that wining and dining her are a good idea but think logically. Spirits and wine make girls aggressive, bubbly, warm inside and often more aggressive and ambitious than normal. Beer is going to make her bloated and want to shit later and it’s not great for getting in her ass. As for dinner, you should not be dining anywhere disastrous like a Chinese restaurant, Mexican is obviously out and if you’re cheap, skip Popeyes, KFC, Mc Ds or anything else you can drive through a window booth to get. You don’t want to promote bathroom emergencies. In fact, come to think of it, if I were to do this ass game, I’d want some notice so I could stop eating for two days.

Where: The only place that’s suitable for ass sex is the bed. We’re not going to sit on you backwards in a car or let you bend us over in the kitchen or anything cheeky like that. Maybe you’ll get this in the shower but water has never really been a great lube and so I’d just say stick to the bed where you can get out some toys and maybe a towel because who knows what could happen. And comfort is key.

Why: Because you all want ass sex. All of you.

So how do you accomplish this task?

First, you need to tell her, preferably in the middle of some hot and heavy, great, mind-blowing other sex, Honey, I want to do everything with you. Give you everything (this will seem sweet and she certainly won’t know what the fuck you’re getting at) She’ll be all, me too. At this point, you have to see where she’s at mentally. This is where I’d suggest you toss a finger in her ass while doing her. OR BETTER YET, while you’re going down on her. Perfect. This works brilliantly, unless you’re bad at that and then you’re just fucked. I like to refer to this as the finger recce.

So you’re face deep and you reach around and insert said finger and work your magic. If she tenses up, bites you in a non-sexy way, pushes you off her, hits you and screams WHATTHEFUCKISWRONGWITHYOU? I’m guessing she can’t be turned. If she goes wild and loves it, you’re going to probably get to choose your own adventure on this one. If she’s somewhere in between, you have a bit of work to do. Keep at it and break her in slow. Our asses are not used to stuff going in them and even fingers can be awkward and kind of painful at first.

So you get that far. Now it’s your job to continue to break her in slowly and make sure she’s having a good time with it or you are not putting yourself anywhere. This is where you introduce lube and possibly anal beads into the equation. And by lube I don’t mean lick your finger or spit on your dick for fucks sake. I mean get some KY out. Nothing kept in a kitchen pantry should be used, either, and I have no idea why I felt the need to clarify on that one.

Now I should note that probably 75% of girls are freaked out by anal beads. They look scary, they’re hard and we all just have visions of you pulling them out covered in shit, which makes us feel sick and awful in the stomach and that’s a nightmare to us even when you totally lie and say, I really WILL NOT CARE if that happens. Really, you won’t? You’d be thrilled to pull out a string of my shit and we’d just what? Carry on like nothing just happened? Yeah right.

I almost forgot vibrators. Vibrators are very essential in this process. YOu’ll be too busy behind us being pumped that you’re getting in that you’re focusing like a maniac so you don’t blow it the minute you get in and we’ll be too busy biting our lip and praying to god nothing rips or there’s no bleeding and we’ll be deep breathing and thinking of the best sex we’ve ever had to ensure we’re as fired up about this as possible and I think everyone involved will be too busy mentally to focus on diddling the bean while you’re ass fucking. So grab a vibrator and put it on her clit because that will help with the nerves and keep her in the mood for somewhat painful sex and being outrageously horny will make the ass sex a good, I kind of like the pain, experience and not some unlubed personal violation that mentally scars you for life.

Now your size. This will be a factor. Typically, we are obviously pumped if you are hung like a baby’s arm (like a two-year olds). But in this case, we would prefer a penis of the smaller variety. Smaller penises are going to be less scary to begin with and will give us less anxiety going in. Also, NOTE TO SELF. In this type of sex only is it acceptable and somewhere preferred to go in half cocked. Not limp, but halfway there works. That way you can kind of squish it in and then we can feel it grow gradually, kind of like when a sponge gets wet. This reduces any sort of painful push your way through issue that’s bound to happen when you’re trying and we’re ass tightening and you keep trying and we’re like, no no no, and you pretend it’s one of those good no situations but seriously we’re like, OHMYGOD I take it back, get your dick away from me and then you push one more time like my ass is going to unpucker and when we scream WHATTHEFUCKISWRONGWITHYOU and you’re like, oops, sorry, I didn’t mean to.

OOPS, SORRY, I DIDN’T MEAN TO? In what situation does that type of denial ever work? And we know you meant to. I’ve never just happened to slip and land jage first on your lips and you didn’t accidentally just try to jam however many inches of hot cock up my ass because that’s where it landed, so let’s not be all cute about it.

Ok, so we’ve covered that you need booze to loosen her up, but not to blackout status because that’s just not fair or fun. Then you need to sweet talk, start slow with some lesser ass play, bring in the lube and sex toys, go in not so hard, yadda yadda.

But now you’re in. So now what?

Just go for it. Slowly. And not like a fucking jackhammer. Not like you’re fucking jabbing at something and have some rhythm so she can get as into it as she wants and there’s some chance of it being enjoyable. And while you’re doing this, you better be fucking moaning our name because I want to HEAR the enjoyment and the deep breathing. Also, a nice, firm, hands on each side of the ass, pulling us back and forth would be nice. That’s taking control of the situation and it’s nice. Also, keep with the vibrating toy. This will help her get into it more. If you feel her rocking back, like she’s interested in what’s going on and is kind of fucking you back, consider this method a winner. If she makes any noises that seem pleasurable, lucky you. You are a lucky man and she is a champ.

And to end? You have two choices. Blow it in her and risk her being pissed that her ass will leak for a few days. Or pull out and shoot it on her back. And if you do the shooting method, don’t even fucking complain that you had to pull out and do that because you were just in her ass so I don’t want to hear it.

The clean-up. If there is ANY sort of mess, there should be no mention of such, no gagging, no throwing up and especially no, OHMYGODTHATISDISGUSTING. You need to pull out and walk yourself straight to the bathroom, wash your dick and wash your hands. Toss her a towel, give her a kiss and leave the room and go get some juice for her or a snack. Not only is this thoughtful in general, but it also gives her the chance to stand up alone and redress. Standing up is a bit of a nightmare because who knows what noise or leakage could occur, wiping probably needs to be involved, we are probably going to want a shower and no matter how long you’ve been together, this particular clean-up, especially the first time, is best alone until you feel like you’ve mastered what you’re ass is going to do as a reaction.

So that, boys, is my advice on how to win the prize. Good luck and may the force be with you.

Tuesday Likes

Well, now that I’m done acting like a grumpy little hobbit, I will post some things that I like about this week, now that I’m back in the liking mood.

A little late in the game, but this picture makes me really sappy.

I want to be lying all dress up in the street getting kissed like that. Hmph.

It’s like the new version of this picture, which has made people all googly-eyed in love for DECADES.

Romance WIN.


I would say I want a picture captured of me like that, but typically I’m running around doing things like this, which are not so across-front-pages-internationally-charming…more mentally unstable disturbingly funny, which I’ve just come to terms with is MY THING.

This would be what we call Tongue Placement FAIL

So yeah, I’m not going to become the world’s next poster girl for romance but whatever.

The other thing I’m pumped about is my new tattoo I got in Amsterdam when I went with the boys this weekend. Me and Mr. H drove up to meet one of our most favorite friends from home, ML, and somewhere in between beer 5 and 6, ML was all, What if we went and got tattoos tonight? At which point, I starting pumping my fists over my head like a special person and shrieking, TATS TATS TATS, not to be confused with TITS, TITS, TITS, which I had already seen a lot of early that day. And wow, it should be noted the girls in Amsterdam are looking much better these days, or at least less beat in the face than 2007, when I saw the Red Light Whores last.

So, for those of you not on my FB page, here’s a pic of me getting my third tat.

It says, VACILANDO. I double tramped it up.

When it’s done hydrating and not peeling, I’ll post a pic of it all close-up style. It says VACILANDO.

vacilando. n. A wanderer. A person for whom the act of traveling is more important than the destination. The derivation is from the Spanish verb vacilar and is cited by John Steinbeck in his book, “Travels With Charley.”

Lastly, I found a Krav Maga instructor in Stuttgart. I figure between taking that AND my boxing training I sometimes get around to, I am going to be fucking people up in no time. Or at least I can if I want to.

At least I have goals. Happy Tuesday.

Mondays blow.

If your Monday is anything like mine today, you’ll need a little pick-me-up. This video always gets me fired up. Kinda makes it seem like jail is pretty fun. No one in my office ever fucking dances EVER.

Aw, Michael. I have to remember to put you on my iPod again.

Kama Sutra in your mouth

It just wouldn’t be a 7 year old’s birthday party if Black Riesling, ice cream cake and Kama Sutra weren’t involved. Forget ninja turtles, transformers, ride the dwarf pony your mom rented or football parties. My friend’s kids like to party with the best of us. Or, we make them because look, they are all under seven and what choice do they have? Plus we give them plenty of fanta, fried foods and sweets so it always appears like they’re having the time of their life.

Last night was my little buddy Jalen’s 7th birthday and he wanted to go out for sushi. Jalen is obviously a very classy lad already and we share an intense love for shrimp tempura AND ice cream cake so we’re pretty much best friends. Actually, we are best friends. He told me himself. Here we are together at dinner.

Me and Big J

Sometime during dinner, maybe between my glass of Black Acid Death and my free glass of champagne, Tracy says to me, “Did you see the chopsticks? They are Kama Sutra sticks and VERY graphic.”

Now I cannot focus until I inspect all of the sticks. I was about to put these sticks in my mouth and little did I know they were covered in pictures of Asians doing dirty things to each other’s bits in broad daylight. And the fact that I put things in my mouth, like little pictures of sexy Asian games, without realizing it apparently, was just a bit overwhelming.

Yes, you can see balls on these chopsticks.

In looking at them closely, we all discovered the little Asians were doing one of three things. On one set, Mr. Japan was merely performing some sort of normal penetration, which would have been boring but there was a real focus on the insertion process, which I have to say was nice to look at. In the second set, there was a healthy dose of finger action going on and you could really get the feeling that everyone was enjoying themselves. Lastly, and my personal favorite, they were performing the very exciting and efficient, Reverse Cow Girl move. I felt kinda dirty just watching all this, and when I say all this, I really just mean looking at the dirty chopsticks like some pervert.

And by the way, I’m not sure why when I announced this on FB last night, ANYONE with a penis asked, What is Reverse Cow Girl? Jeez, guys. C’mon. I’d do you the favor of getting all graphic about it but here’s a pic from Cosmo that should do the trick.

Get.At.It.

Now picture that being done by tiny Asians on my EATING STICKS. Yum.
We were so delighted, in fact, that we asked Mr. Vi, owner of the sushi shop, where he got his sticks. We obviously needed some. And like a magician, he came back and gave each of us our very own set. Look at how fucking happy I am by this.

It's the simple things that make me this happy.

And so, like I was saying at the dinner table last night, these bad boys would make a perfect gift for anyone that likes Asian food or sex. That should cover pretty much everyone. You’re welcome. Now go buy some!

http://www.amazon.com/White-Explicit-Kama-Sutra-Chopsticks/dp/B003M5KXIO

PS, this song came on the German radio last night right after we left the sushi restaurant. Freaky Germans. I love uncensored radio. (Ear muffs for the kids, please)

PPS, One day when Jalen gets older, I hope he appreciates that I wrote about his bday, Kama Sutra and dirty south rap songs all in one post. And titled it Kama Sutra in your mouth. Because he should.

Wednesday’s Ask Heather: Answers for Dudes

Ok, ok, I know. I failed last week but working on this last week was a blogging fail. I was just too busy and scattered to blog and so I’m sorry. I make lots of promises that I can’t keep but here, look! I’m on time this week. Here is your Ask Heather question of the week and get ready, it’s a funny one. So funny, in fact, that I spit coke all over my keyboard when I read it.

Boys need all the help they can get.

Dear Heather,

I’m having my nuts regularly sucked by a girl, honestly H this girl could suck start a leaf blower, and I’m getting annoyed that she finds it impossible to be punctual. I know it may sound trivial, and appear that I’m full of my own self importance, but if I arrange to call on her at 8 she should be ready by 8. It’s my own prerogative if I decide to undo all her good work over the back of the couch before we leave.

What do I do? Arrive later, tell her to be ready earlier and remind her how lucky she is to be dating me? I know my lack of imagination hasn’t abounded here – I haven’t used the waiting time to look through her address book and find her friend’s phone numbers or find out if she has a vulnerable sister.

Help H, I don’t know what to do.

Ha. Well, this is a fun question and dear god, the answer is not to go find out if she has a vulnerable sister, you filthy whore. Unless the problem continues more than 6 months and then I suppose you secretly hate her so at that point, you can do as you please but I’d suggest keeping it out of the family. Sleeping with people (plural) that share DNA is aggressive and fundamentally wrong and needs to be the subject of a whole other post. (*noted)

Now. The girls never being on time thing. This is 86% a game because we technically start getting ready for dates the minute we are asked, so if you ask us out on Monday for Friday, we start getting ready on Monday. Actually, if we like you, we have already planned out fake date number one in our head before you ask us, so most of the time what we are wearing, how the hair shall be did, what amount of cleavage will be revealed and how bare down there we will be has already been established. I would say that it’s not because we’re bat ass crazy but rather we like to be prepared, but crazy is a factor as well.

First and foremost, whether we walk out of the door looking like we belong on a pole or in your 11th grade science class, looks require a certain amount of detail to appear effortless or full of effort, depending on your approach. Looking like the girl next door means makeup that looks not like makeup at all but like your eyes happen to sparkle only if you turn your head in a certain direction and lips that shine just a little, only like you licked them, not plastered them with something. Cleavage looks deeper if you put bronzer on the girls and stomachs look slimmer depending on what shirt you wear, how it hits your pants or skirt and if you went with cleavage, usually eyes stay up top so your bottom half doesn’t matter as much til later. Though if you wear jeans, you have jeans that go with flops, ones that look great with boots and ones you’d wear with sneakers but no one wears sneakers on a date unless you’re 18 and going to a game. So there’s all that. Plus, hair doesn’t curl or straighten itself, accessories of the earring and nail polish nature must be added and then you have to consider a coat, a purse and JESUS CHRIST don’t forget to wear underwear that flatter and match and at the very least are just clean and not filled with holes.

That shit takes time. We’re not fucking miracle workers and if you take us out on a Friday, we had to work so try to manage all that in three hours while you try to drink wine to calm down AND talk to your best girlfriend on the phone so you can go over the game plan for courses of action if
1. Your date is cheap and makes you pay, even if you like to pay for yourself anyway.
2. Has a small/dysfunctional/visibly odd penis that would force you to never want to get in pants again and is making you want to leave immediately without looking like Cunt Of The Year.
3. The date just sucks in general and you need out now.

Those are all true life situations we must discuss on the phone with another vagina before you pick us up in case we blank and need a very recent conversation to fall back on. We go in prepared for anything.

And so the waiting thing is more about making an appearance. We want to red carpet it out to the couch or to the bar if you’re waiting there having had your third beer….We want you to look up at us and smile like you’ve just seen your first motherfucking unicorn upon our unveiling. And we want you to be like holy shit, WAIT?? WHO WAITED??

Furthermore, your “Shit, Shower and Shave” routine before a date is not strategic or acceptable EVER FUCKING EVER. Shitting, showering and shaving your face should be givens. Wearing a baseball hat is a dating fail. Cut your fucking fingernails so you don’t make me bleed at some point in the night. Brush your teeth twice, run your fingers through your hair or put some sort of product in it. Remember to deoderize your smelly parts and for FUCKS SAKE WASH YOUR BALLS. And please try to at least look like you washed your clothes and didn’t pick them up out of your hamper five minutes before you left your house because you got all distracted playing Angry Birds/Mortal Combat/touching yourself/whatever it is you do with your time that’s stupid.

So don’t even bother talking to her about it. And do yourself a favor and leave out the “you’re so lucky you’re dating me” part because you won’t so much as get an unlubed, painful handjob for that comment.
And for the record, if an extra 15 minutes of wait time ends up getting you laid, I’d quit your bitching and spend those 15 minutes working on how to master the fake smile.

You’re welcome.
Love,
H

When it’s socially acceptable to hit the elderly….

As I boarded my second flight en route to Stuttgart last night, I had a realization as I was walking down the aisle. I had not been stopped in security, patted down, detained, strip searched or harassed by zi Germans. And somehow, I felt sad, empty and disappointed.

Had no one wanted to touch me discreetly over the pants? Did I somehow manage to not look sketchy and homeless or like a drug smuggler? Is this the treatment I get for showing up early, prepared, sober and WEARING UNDERWEAR? Well, hmph. This is nothing I hate more than a day without drama and frankly, this attention whore was disappointed. So much so that as I stored my carry-on and wiggled into my seat of Austrian Air luxury, I fondly thought back to better flights, ones filled with hints of danger, blurred vision, frantic missed connections and aggressive verbal exchanges where I shrieked words only in English to morons that only spoke International Gibberish.

In the midst of all this reminiscing, I suddenly remembered a United flight I took in 2007 from San Francisco to DC in which an initially delightful flight turned horrific the minute an elderly woman started beating me severely while I was sleeping and I could not escape.

Back in those days, detainment and strip searches were never an issue, sadly enough. Those issues seem to have only started around the time I obtained a passport and filled it with more than ten stamps. Back then, my days of flying simply and undetected, the most I had to worry about was blacking out at the airport bar and missing my flight because I actually physically couldn’t figure out where my gate was. Like that hasn’t happened to anyone else. Also, I have a formula to explain.
Gin + gate numbers + time management – sobriety x the heatherfactor = EPIC AIRPORT FAIL

So anyway. I boarded this flight with my coworkers after a weekend work trip. I remember being hungover and tired but that’s what happens when weekends are funded by company credit cards. Whatever, at least I was sober.

Taking my preferred seat, I leaned against the window and waited. Shortly after, a small and harmless looking woman sat down next to me, jostling around acting generally annoying, swinging her carry-n around and invading my personal space. When she finally sat down, I watched her fumble around trying to put her Maine license back in her wallet and not exactly succeeding, while at the same time clinking some glasses around in her purse, which at the time, I thought nothing about.

As we took off, I looked her way and smiled, offering, “You’re from Maine?”
She whipped her head toward me and her crazy eyes made mine open wide as I stopped smiling and tried to back away from the crazy faced person that now sat before me.

“How do you know that? Are you following me? Who told you that?” She was shrieking and in my head I started shrieking because first of all, I was in that fucking seat first so I couldn’t have followed anyone and I wasn’t even talking to anyone so obviously no one told me fuck all and ohfuckingshit I was sitting next to a skitzo who was clearly being followed by the FBI while being probed by aliens and shit, yes, she was that crazy and for fucks sake all I had wanted to do was relax on this flight and I know you can’t fight crazy with more crazy, as fun as that is, so I tried to talk Old Wild Eyes down.

“Oh. No. Sorry. Nothing like that. I just saw your license. I’m from Maine. I’m going there soon.” I smiled, like I was offering that bit of personal information as a peace offering or Christmas gift. I have no idea why I feel compelled to share a moment with everyone that’s from Maine, like we are long lost cousins. Also, talking to strangers always fucking backfires on me. And besides, Old Wild Eyes was having none of this. She was bullshit at me for reasons unknown. In fact, she had nothing to say to me but instead just hissed and turned away from me to look for something in her bag. That was fine by me. I chased a sedative with some ginger ale, put my headphones on and looked forward to my 7 hour nap as I headed east.

Two hours into my nap, I was in my deep sleeping mode, heavily sedated, sleeping peacefully and drooling when all of a sudden, I felt my face smack off something hard and I heard growling and before I could figure out what the fuck was going on, I opened my eyes slowing, half drugged, only to see Old Wild Eyes foaming at the mouth and one inch from my face. It looked like she was either going to spit on me or bite me and I had no idea what rapid response I was supposed to put forth here but it was just before my face smacked off the back of the seat in front of me again that I felt her hand on the back of my head, fingers fully entangled in my long blonde hair, which at the time was being ripped from my head at the very same time my face was smacked off hard and cheap plastic.

What.the.FUCK was going on? I was so tired and she seemed so angry and when I tried stand up in my window seat, the little old woman, who know had some elderly version of retard strength, started banging her fists down on my shoulders as she spewed a bunch of nonsense that does NOT EVEN EXIST IN AN ENGLISH DICTIONARY and it was around this moment that I started to get fucking bullshit and fight back. I don’t think my mom ever said ANYTHING about not punching a violent old woman.

And by fight back I just mean scream help and try to pry her arthritic hands off my fucking luscious locks. This bitch had lost it. I looked over and saw 6 little wine bottles on the floor and about 15 bottles of pills in her straw bag. Awesome. I love it when the old hag next to you blacks out on booze and drugs and then beats you for no reason just for the fuck of it on a Thursday. Somehow I had a feeling I’d be doing this to some unsuspecting youngster one day but there was no time to consider future regrets in life so I did what any normal person would have done in this situation. I hit her back and tried to climb over the seat in front of me, right onto the person’s lap who was staring at me by twisting their nosey fucking neck BUT NOT HELPING ME BY STOPPING THE ABUSE.

All the while I’m yelling as loud as I can, “HELP MEEEEEEEEE! MAKE HER STOP BEATING MEEEEEE!!” I could see people looking at me, including at least one of my coworkers a few rows up and MY BOSS, who always assumed everything was my fault and so we’ll assume that’s why he just stared at me and did nothing except smirk and later ask, “What did you do to the old woman, Heather?” Because RIGHT. I somehow egged an innocent old woman on and tricked her into beating me in my sleep.

Five minutes into my beating, airport drink handlers, four of them, dragged the women off me, but not before she scratched me and also slapped me across the face, I’m sure for good measure and thank god I was still somewhat sedated because at this point I was so angry that I was shaking and ready to early death that bitch.

“We’re going to have to separate you two and put you on opposite ends of the plane.” The ugly stewardess with ugly hair and ugly lipstick said to me as I attempted to drag my leg off the seat in front of me and pull my shirt down. United is not known for pretty drink givers. Or young ones, for that matter.

“I didn’t just cage match that woman. She jumped me. I have no idea what’s even wrong with her. Maybe you could ask your fuckbag security people why she was allowed to have 6 wine bottles to drink and I only get one and I think she might need her stomach pumped because all her goddamned pills are either in her belly or on the floor now and I JUST ASKD HER WHERE SHE WAS FROM.” The stewardess just stared at me like I was the crazy one. Whatinthefuck. I was trying to just escape.

“We’ve taken care of the incident,” she said as she walked away unsympathetically. I mean, for fucks sake. I was just in the middle of a true life assault and battery while mid-air and you’d think I could get a few band-aids or some water or a hair brush or something. But no. You know what I got instead?

A motherfucking air marshal to sit next to ME for the rest of the plane ride. Because that’s fair.