Mentor to the youth of the world

Yep, this girl. I have added “Official Mentor to the youth of the WORLD” to my resume after agreeing to take on my third teaching gig this year for the children of the world.

These kids do not even know how lucky they are.

First, in November, we had my detailed and animated presentation to the children of France to teach them of the settling of America and the true meaning of Thanksgiving, the world’s most awesome dinner ever. In history. I also tossed in a small blurb on American football and a geography lesson which included the homes of the movie stars and where my family and lobsters are from. You can read about that here if you didn’t catch it the first time.

Then last month, I began my teaching career in Germany, which thank God for them, because well, maybe they need a few American teachers sprinkled around the country.

Last month my German, fifteen year old neighbor came over one day asking for the movie Illuminati. I had no idea what he was talking about, until we played a fun game of word association and he made me realize he wanted the English speaking version of Angels and Demons, which I’ll have you know is my least favorite Ewan McGregor film.

Two weeks later he comes over to
1. look around my house because I think the Germans are fascinated with American decorating
2. see if I have any American snacks because I keep pushing treats on them which in turn makes him want to come over for funfetti cupcakes
3. see if we invite him to play video games which we do not because he would stay forever
4. ask if I will help him edit his report, which I am happy to

Apparently they were all allowed to pick any topic IN LIFE and write a report about it. Why this kid chose “Illuminati” is beyond me. I could think of much better movies and much better topics to write a report meant to test my German skill but then again, if I were told to write a report in German, it’d be on beer, so I’ll not judge his topic choosing skills.

He leaves the report with the Mr. one day while I sleep and I open it the next day to find nine pages of somewhat broken English, describing the movie second by second. So much for summarizing or discussing characters or plot or themes. Just a second by second account of the entire movie, which I am supposed to decipher and then teach him where he needed a little help with his English.

Well, for the most part, it was just undoing what Google translate had probably taught him, like an explosion is an explosion, not a “firework spark in air” and that suffocating in English is not “losing best breath until almost die”. I actually thought the word mix-ups were kind of cute and I loved helping him learn the words and phrases and tenses he should try using next time.

And by helping him I meant I did an elaborate track change job with multi-colored highlights to show him what to edit and what not to edit. I did explain to him how I changed things and told him if he had any questions, to text me later because I had to go buy magnets for my scale and while I have always wanted to be an English teacher, I had priorities that day because this weight is not going to lose its motherfucking self without a working scale NOW IS IT?

For my efforts, he delivered me fresh-cut orange tulips that his mom helped him wrap in twine and ribbon. Swoon. No wonder teachers teach.

And now, my third project this quarter.

My little Irish friend, Christine, who I think is eight (or seven, but not nine surely and definitely not six so she must be eight, regardless of if she is as tall as me), is doing a report on a chosen topic and apparently she picked Walt Disney.

Walt Disney? Really? Ugh. I’d rather do astronauts or write a tutorial on how to make a fake volcano explode using baking soda. WALT DISNEY?

I asked my friend, her mother, if she could change the project topic because that didn’t really suit me and I had just offered to help with her fancy American report via Skype sessions, which of course I would hold out of my office and be sure the globe was clearly in view of the camera.

For the record, who picks Walt Disney, unless you thought that was Disney World’s first name? In her defense, though, she wanted to do Toy Story, which thankfully she did not get because I cannot support writing a play by play of that movie. Lion King? Yes. Toy Story. No.

“Mommy said she talked to you. We are not allowed to change our topic. I have Walt Disney.” It was 11pm, I had no idea what she was doing up but she was texting me again, which I LOVE.

Stubborn teachers in Ireland giving these kids no creative license to change their minds.

So. I’m not sure if she has the man or the World but either way, I’m sure I’ll be up to my newest teaching challenge.

Two Gays and the Queen of Frump

So two of my favorite gays are coming to Europe for the first time and I cannot WAIT to have them here. They are excitable, witty, pretty, fun and open to any adventure in Europe that I toss their way.

I told them that when they come over we (mostly they) can do a couple of things:
1. I will take them to one major city for a few days of fun…their choice. We are going to Paris! I cannot wait for the open cafes, the Louvre, the stationery stores and the picture-taking! And the wine…did I mention the French wine?

2. They will be my personal organizers and assistants while here, expectations being they clean up my makeup, my toiletries, my closet, my life. I will also have them doing other assistant like things such as make my phone calls, lay out my clothes, and slap baguette out of my hand because as personal assistants, they are on diet watch, even if they have to shame me into skinny. I told them if they’re good enough, I’d consider hiring them for the summer.

3. I will allow them to put me through and film a WHAT NOT TO WEAR episode, which I know they’ve wanted to do for a while.

Now granted, I know numbers 2 and 3 are more for me than them but you would not believe how excited they got about the Heather Makeover aspect.

And so for episode one, I will allow them to rip through my closet, make me try on my own clothes and just tear me apart, creating two piles—one fierce and one frump. I may bag the frump pile, but only if I have enough clothes in the fierce to wear, which I won’t. I can just see their faces now when they have the ability to prove that I truly don’t own a belt because I DO NOT BELIEVE IN BELTS and that I own more pair of sweatpants and hoodies than jeans or jackets. For the record, I own two jackets and one is a fleece.

And for episode two, we’re going to tape in Paris. They’re going to parade me in and out of stores, making me try on clothes and pick outfits meant for my body and hopefully the outfits will include lots of scarves and sunglasses because I’m great at wearing accessories. And lipstick. There will be lots of that.

Then I’ll hopefully figure out how to set some parts of the videos to music, obviously anything from Glee, upload to youtube and I’ll have my first two videos for the blog. Sounds like a plan to me.

I’m sure I don’t know half of what I’m in for. Maybe the conversation I had with one of them about possibly going to a cabaret show should give me a hint.

Me: Maybe we could go to Moulin Rouge or Crazy Horse, make a cabaret show our big event of the weekend. I wondered if they would even appreciate girls in lingerie. I suppose they would, as much as I probably appreciate looking at half naked women, kind of in a, I want to touch you/be your friend/aw you’re so pretty and flexible, type way.
Him: Gurrrrrrrrl, I am going to wear my HEELS! And how much glitter do you think I can get through customs? And I can’t wait to wear my black skinny jeans all week. His lispy accent was getting more excitable.
Me: I’m not going to wear heels that weekend but you are? I considered the fact that having a cock doesn’t have to mean you have shoes unfit for heels I suppose.
Him: Well we all knew you weren’t wearing heels, Skittles. Rainbow hair to him has created my new nickname, Skittles. Cute.

Jesus, they are going to have a field day with me and they are surely going to burn all of my clothes.

Bring it on, my pretty little gays. The Queen of Frump awaits.

My German hairdresser is officially ruining my life

My frump is at an all time high this week and my German hairdresser is really pushing it by making me ugly I assume ON PURPOSE, which is good for no one because all it does is set me off.

Now normally, I really don’t care. I don’t get all starry-eyed about pretty things and I’m certainly not in the running for some beauty pageant but there are at least three things I care about.

1. My cleavage
2. My hair
3. My upper lip situation, meaning I prefer not to have a mustache.

And my German hairdresser has outdone herself by ruining my #2 personal priority by making me look like Rainbow fucking Bright.

Last time she pulled a fast one on me by giving me whatever hair color she wanted, I thought it was cute. I was all, “Awww, the Germans. They are just so misunderstood. I am so flexible. I will just roll with this red hair and call myself spunky.”

Well now I’m not spunky and the only person misunderstood in this whole situation is me. Me with the ugly hair.

Let’s flash back to two months ago when I went in and said I wanted to go strawberry blonde. I showed her this picture of Lindsay Lohan:

Seemed like a good idea to spice up my winter.

To this idea, she shook her head and said no. Not, ok, if you want it. Not, let’s think about it. Just no. And then I ended up with this bright and deep red number:

Ignore the hideous attire. Focus on the crazy hair.

So this time I go in with two pictures. One is of me on the beach in the summer, with my blonde hair, which I am still not quite ready for. I say to the girl, “Here is what we need to shoot for in June or July. We need to get back to this. And when I say shoot for, I mean work towards.” Just so we don’t have any lost in translation problems with me and my German hairdresser.

She nods and then grabs at the other picture.

“Jennifer Anniston. You know her, yes?” I asked. I don’t know who they know over here. She nodded.

“Ok, great. So let’s try this out. A nice brown that is some sort of compromise between deep red and bright blonde. Feel free to go with caramel or something else that sounds nice.” I then realize the German community may not compare hair dye to desserts or sweets but she seems to understand. She yaps to the younger girl to go mix up my hair magic. This is what I assumed I’d come out looking like, minus the movie star aspect:

Minus the perfect smile, tan and perfect body, of course.

I spend the next two hours getting all dyed up, dying in anticipation for the shampooing process. I was beyond giddy to have a new stranger wash my hair. This whole, I love it when strangers wash my hair, is becoming a problem. I’ve even added “personal hair washer” to my list of staff I’ll need one day when I win the lottery.

After my orgasmic hair wash, I am even more excited to see the reveal, like I’m on some sort of makeover show, and I can barely stand it while I wait for her to take off the towel.

Look, life has been slightly boring lately. I look forward to the little things.

And then she does it. She attempts to ruin my life by revealing a look I can only compare to this.

Seriously. No offense to this little lady but "rainbow" was never mentioned in my directions.

And so no, I don’t have any blue or green or bright purple in my hair but the hair that was previously deep red is kind of pink and there is an abundance of platinum streaks everywhere, mostly in places they don’t belong. I look crazy, which is exactly why I’ll be wearing my hair up for two months.

Unless the 80s have some sort of revival and people are looking for the next Rainbow Hair Top Model.

Then I’m motherfucking in.

How I realized I was getting old…

Two weeks ago, I was staring at myself in the mirror, primarily to check and see if my hair was dreading again OR if the dreads I did chop off were now longer than one inch spikes and then I saw it.

Gray hair. Like 10-20 nightmare strands of it, sprinkled everywhere with no rhyme or reason.

This can’t be happening, I thought while gasping and grabbing at my heart while simultaneously trying to rip them out/pat them down to hide them. I tried staring them away with my evil eye, which can usually make anything or one disappear quickly. No luck.

I tried the, I’ll be proud of my experienced self and told anyone I came in contact with, just so I beat them to seeing it. I figured if I knew about it and was willing to announce to the world that I was going gray, going gray would be ok. Of course shouting, UM HAVE I TOLD YOU I’M GOING GRAY? the minute I picked up the phone, sans greeting, is not what most people expect and of course I’m lying about being fine with it and by the way, I NEVER NOTICED I WAS GOING GRAY WHEN I WAS BLONDE.

And yes, I have blonde hair. Really. Goddamn you, GINGER HAIR. Stop fucking with me.

Well, I thought my dark hair had failed me until one day, I couldn’t take this gray hair issue anymore and grabbed one of my girlfriends, forced my head in her face and shouted, LOOK. LOOK AT WHAT I AM BECOMING.”

She just looked at me and said flatly, “WHAT NOW?” She is very good at dealing with my panic and insanity.

“I am going gray. It is taking over,” I was not being dramatic at all.

This friend, a very trusted friend, a friend who has told me when I’m getting fat, when I’m dressing like a butch lesbian and when I’m being annoying (you wouldn’t believe how many times those things can be relayed to me a month), looked me straight in the eye, told me to calm down and said that I’m:
1. Not growing gray hair. That I’m paranoid and that it’s just lighter hair, growing against dark hair.
2. Still not as attractive as I think I am with my red hair.
3. I need to stop looking in a mirror.

So basically in my head that merely translated into, Heather, you’re not an old hag yet.

Thank fucking God.

This leads me to the following, though. I remember when I graduated high school that I thought if one was not married with one child by the age of twenty-six it meant something was obviously wrong with you because you were almost over the hill and your vagina was probably drying out at an alarming rate and if you were male, your penis was probably a candidate for a Viagra trial.

hahahahahahahahhahahahahhahahahahah. Dear, sweet, naive, fucking stupid Young Heather. Jesus, she’s cute.

So. What are my (thirty-two year old) current top three indicators of getting old?
1. Gray hair. It obviously gives me a complex, especially since I love mirrors.
2. When buying appliances excites you. No lie, I cannot even explain how giddy I get when I purchase a new appliance. Just the other day I mentioned that I wanted a newer, higher powered vacuum and when given the ok to go crazy, I shouted, Vacuuming is my number two favorite chore only behind doing laundry. What the fuck is wrong with me sometimes?
3. Hangovers are hell. I could quite possibly be the queen of all things hungover and dehydrated but even I can’t handle a solid hangover like I used to. And jesus, I’ve had practice.

I do realize that most of these things happen while in your 30s, which is funny considering up until around twenty-two, I thought the age of sixty-six was old. Like worthless old, though truthfully, I find very little value in the elderly for the most part. A decade ago, I figured that after the age of sixty-six your mind is gone, you start to smell and you become a burden on society, therefore everyone should just be ok with dying at sixty-six and get over it. I was willing to add myself to the “It’s ok to die at 66 list” and so I told this to my boss at the time one day over drinks and she said, “Nice, Heather. My mother is sixty-six.” I just shrugged because I’m sure on one level, she was worthless and it was not my problem.

Then I became 32 and our parents are in their 60s (well, not mine. Mine are spring chickens but I’m generalizing) and time flies by and so now I’ve upped OLDER THAN DIRT to say around 85. I will have a really hard time defending anyone’s burning desire to live past that age. At that point, you’re only around to slow me down and terrorize me or make me feel sad about lost minds and loneliness and I cannot be feeling badly all the time.

Jesus, between old people and shelter dogs, my fucking heart-strings are almost broken.

So. What are the first three indicators that made you realize you’re not as young as you used to be?

Losing a bet to a douche from NY

I have to say the subject of this blog is a bit harsh, as I actually like my friend Joe from NY, but let’s be clear. I’m from New England and therefore I hate people from New York and two, anyone from New York is a douche. I’m not going to even say no offense to this because well, I mean it and I stand by it and even with a big win, you’re still a douche. Actually, you’re a bigger douche. So friend or not, oh well, suck it Joe and suck it NY.

But we all know why I’m here. I lost a fucking bet and I’m a good sport and so I spent today wearing Giants gear around my area, the city and I’ll wear it to a pub tonight. And so far, even though I about 5 more hours in this bullshit gear, I cannot tell you how much I hate it.

First of all, anyone that wears a jersey anywhere outside of a stadium where you can claim you were blacked out or peer pressures, is god-awful embarrassing. Even the Germans I encountered today had no idea why I’d be wearing this, have no connection to the game and therefore just assume I’m some white trash wearing a jersey around town like a tourist. Except I’m not a fucking tourist and I’m not white trash aka I’m not from NY. *take offense.

So. Here I am, standing on the top of the stairs, trying give Joe a nice view while I look unimpressed and he looks fucking smug. Also, note how unattractive I look while also looking like a scumbag and feeling like I need a shower.

The fucking jersey was ruining everyone's gd view

Then we have this beautiful shot where I’m forced to display whose jersey I’m actually wearing. Thumbs are not all, Look who this guy is, but more so, yeah, fucking thumbs down for the sped from NY. Awesome.

This blue is so not my blue. And I fucking hate it.

Then we have the token friend shot where Joe gets to look happy again and I insist on ruining the shot with a classic SUCK IT shot. Fuck I hate wearing a Manning jersey.

The SUCK IT motion is so much more fun when you can back it up.

Then, as if we don’t have enough shots in this particular square, Mr. H, who actually won’t walk next to me while looking like this, snaps one of me and Joe having a friendly conversation about why I hate the Giants again. And yes, I think he’s fucking mocking me. Again, for the millionth time today.

Dressing up like any other NYer is worse than...well, pretty much fucking anything.

And then at beers, having another inappropriate conversation over beers, we have this nice shot, where I’m clearly laying down the law about something. Actually, I think this was right around the time the for the third time today Joe asked, BUT SERIOUSLY, you NEVERSAWITCOMING, RIGHT???

Because he's a fucking Manning and a sped. HOW MANY MORE REASONS DO I NEED?

No, douche. I never saw the sped beating us. Not once, not twice. Don’t make me shank you.

And then lastly, I got the shot I wanted. I listen to Joe all day being all, “Heath, blue is YOUR COLOR.” And I wanted to spit on his jersey or burn it or rip it or lose it. But I figure there’s a better chance that my black soul has cursed it for all eternity. And that, my Pats fans, was well worth wearing it all day today.

So New York, all the Giants fans, anyone actually that’s ever pissed me off during a football season,


Suck a dick, NY.

More from Moh

Until I can find some time to post something of value (perhaps why I want to light my car on fire, or the fact that I JUST REALIZED I AM GOING GRAY), here is something again from the site, It’s Moh.

Man, sometimes I am SO obsessed with this site.

Panda porn on Valentine’s Day

Every night during dinner, we watch the previous day’s Jon Stewart episode. Imagine my delight today when I saw that the Valentine’s Day episode featured Ricky Gervais. Jon Stewart and one of my favorite Brits? Wooo. And EVEN BETTER? They spent the whole time discussing pandas and more importantly, panda porn, something I surely support and would watch with interest.

If you need something funny to watch, please enjoy. I laughed so hard that I think I found myself smacking my knee at one point shrieking like a mental patient.


And can today we be thankful that there will be no more ugly pink and red hearts, glitter, and ugly, overpriced flowers arrangements until next year again? I will be thankful that I got none of the above yesterday. What I did get was a Yahtzee tournament, spinach pizza and naked bubble bath time with the Mr. while drinking Ukrainian champagne.

Classy holiday, I know.

My Heart Skips a Beat and other Valentine’s Day nonsense

Heard this song on the radio this morning and it made me smile. I love me some Olly Murs. So cute.

Speaking of cute things, if you’re in the market for a non-alcoholic cocktail, say if you want to make little girls (or nostalgic older girls) happy, make them a pink and fizzy Shirley Temple. Nothing says I love you like maraschino cherries and chinese umbrellas.

For those looking for a real cocktail with a little kick, make one of these festive martinis. These will get everyone warm in the pants.

And also, since I got so many negative responses to yesterday’s Valentine’s Day menu post, I’ll swap out the most hated recipe, brussel sprout bruschetta, and trade ya for another. Sorry, I don’t even know what I was thinking. We’ll just blame the wine and move on.

Here’s your new recipe. Eat up.
Margarita Prawns,

Less than 24 hours til the most overrated holiday on the calendar. Hope you ordered your roses and chocolates on time.
And ps, roses and chocolates are for generic pricks. Don’t be a generic prick.

Valentine’s Day Menu (that should get you laid)

Isn’t that the point of Valentine’s Day? It is. We all know it is.

It will come as no surprise to anyone that I think Valentine’s Day is bullshit. I don’t subscribe to this completely commercialized holiday and it falls behind only Halloween on my, Holidays I Hate and Will Not Celebrate, list. That being said, I love to eat and Valentine’s Day is a great excuse to eat expensive, high calorie food, typically on someone else’s dime. Unless you’re married and then it’s your dime, which makes it all the more bullshit.

Regardless of the fact that I despise this holiday, I’ve set aside my feelings knowing that you all have to eat that day, and have decided to compose a, Top Things to Eat on Valentine’s Day, list, for those of you that are drawing a blank this week.

Eggs Benedict, Gordon Ramsay

Strawberry and cream cheese stuffed french toast, Paula Dean.

Lunch: You should be at work. Eat whatever the hell you want. I’d eat frozen chicken pot pie. That’s just me, though.

Maple Glazed Brussel Sprout Bruschetta,

Sausage Stuffed Mushrooms, Ina Garten

Ribeye with Onion Blue Cheese Sauce, The Pioneer Woman

Lobster Mac and Cheese, Ina Garten.

Salted Brown Butter Crispies, Smitten Kitchen

Red Velvet Sandwich Cookies, Paula Dean

There. That should give you a few ideas for cooking for the one you want to sleep with. And if these recipes don’t get you laid, I really don’t know what will. Good luck on Tuesday.

On being different…

Sometimes people meet Moxie and cock their heads, clap and say, “Awww, well isn’t she different?” Well, why yes, she is. And being different? We don’t mind that around here. That’s kind of our thing.

Be daring, be different, be impractical, be anything that will assert integrity of purpose and imaginative vision against the play-it-safers, the creatures of the commonplace, the slaves of the ordinary.–Cecil Beaton