Wednesday, February 28, 2007

12 oz.

There’s a bald man sitting in front of me on the train right now.

It’s taking every ounce of self-restraint (which isn’t saying much – on any given day I’ve got 12 oz. tops) to keep from reaching out and giving his fuzzy little melon a fast and furious rub for good luck.
Imagine a world sans self-control.

Chubby, excitable chicks grabbing bald guys on mass transit.

Are we that far away from it?

Obesity. Alcohol and drug addiction. Caffeine. Cigarettes. Credit card debt.

We’re accustomed to getting what we want when we want it. We’re accustomed to self-medicating with whatever convenient legal or illegal substances are available.

Do you know one person who doesn’t rely on something to keep it together?
Tip: The new Sharpie retractable markers ROCK. I don’t know why I had to say that.

Lack of self-control I guess.
“Hedy, for the rest of your life you cannot drink alcohol.”

“Okay. Cool. I’m good with that.”

“Also, you can’t have Crunchy Cheetos, dark chocolate, or Skippy peanut butter from a big round spoon.”

“Fuck YOU and your stupid rules.”
I am listening to: Feel Better Songs for Scott II
I am reading: Crain's Chicago Bidness
And I am: Keeping it together

Tuesday, February 27, 2007

Kicking the dog

From: Heather
Sent: Friday, February 13, 2007 4:38 PM
To: Samantha, Paul
Subject: March 6th Event

Hi Samantha – Here’s the invite that went out today. If possible, please send us e-mail addresses for the folks you’d like to invite. Otherwise, please be sure to forward this to your reps. Thanks so much for your support.

From: Samantha
Sent: Friday, February 13, 2007 4:56 PM
To: Heather, Paul
Subject: March 6th Event


You have all email ids that we have for the contacts I've you to call from. I'd like your team to send the evite and invite all of those customers. I'll pass this on to reps, but don't count on them to invite anyone, unless they have someone who's been asking for something like this.


If you read between the lines (and the typos) in Samantha’s response, she’s basically telling us we’re on our own for this event.

It pissed me off just a little because we’re hosting this half-day seminar in her office and were promised/expecting just a little more support from our partner on this.

But I let it go because I knew we’d make the event successful with or without her help.
From: Samantha
Sent: Friday, February 23, 2007 6:33 PM
To: Heather’s boss, Heather and others in both organizations
Subject: March 6th Event

Can you guys forward an evite, or a detailed agenda that reps can use to pass on to clients for the March 6th event? We never saw the final.

From: Louis (Hedy’s Boss)
Sent: Monday, February 26, 2007 9:01 AM
To: Heather

See below and stop by to discuss.


-----Original Message-----
From: Samantha
Sent: Monday, February 26, 2007 9:01 AM
To: Louis
Subject: Re: March 6th Oracle Event

Louis can you get is evite and agenda? I asked for it on Friday night but haven't seen it yet.

Did ya notice the timeline on that?

This silly, spastic, spelling-impaired twat sends an e-mail at 6:33 PM on Friday requesting something she received two weeks ago. Then, she asks my boss for it again Monday morning at 9:03 AM.

That’s how yesterday went.

Not just for me, but for practically everyone I know.

It was Kick the Dog Monday.
And today, it’s C U Next Tuesday!

The Hillary Camp released four pages of talking points to help her supporters Get It Right when they’re explaining how she can win in spite of being polarizing, tiresome, and married to someone who’s kind of a drag on her campaign.

Those aren’t my words, FYI. They're taken directly from questions found in her own talking points.

Way to go, Hillary! The first step to recovery is admitting you have a problem.
FYI: All the names in this story (save mine) have been changed to protect the guilty.
Here’s what happened: My boss contacted a rep in Samatha’s office to confirm his participation in our event on March 6.

It was the first he’d heard of it.

So Samantha claimed that she’d never received the invite from me – her excuse for why she never forwarded to the reps like she was supposed to do.

In case you’re confused, I’m the dog in this scenario.
Why is it so difficult for people to take responsibility for their screw-ups?

You messed up. Make it right. Don’t try to push it off on someone else.

Because now I’m crabby and the last thing I’m gonna do is kick Gromit.

Jim maybe. Gromit never.
I am listening to: The Calling - Wherever You Will Go
I am reading: Nothing, no time
And I am: Frustrated

Monday, February 26, 2007

Leaders, doers, yappers

It’s Friday morning and I’m on the 7:07 train.

I’ll be a little late for the bi-weekly sales meeting at eight but when I explain it was due to an Emergency Cookie Stop on the way to the station all will be forgiven. It is Cookie Friday after all.

Meetings. They’re the bane of my work life.

Take a peek at my Outlook calendar and you’ll see No Meeting Wednesdays. Wednesdays are blocked off as a lovely little meeting-free oasis for accomplishing a few of the things I only get to talk about doing all the other days of the week.
Speaking of meetings, I am attending the inaugural gathering of the local Obama for President group on Saturday.

Yep. I’m doing it.

Good For You, Hedy. Way to Support Your Cause.

Eh. Not so much.

I am more cynical than excited. I am more anxious than eager.


Because I’m not a joiner. Never have been. Never will be.

But I believe in Barack Obama. He’s the only reason I’m doing this.

And it feels like a damn good reason. For now.
“I’m going to this Main Street meeting Tuesday night,” I told Jim shortly after we moved to the next town over nearly four years ago.

I had good intentions. I wanted to be involved in the community where we plan on spending (almost) the rest of our lives. I wanted to make a difference.

I’d seen what Main Street initiatives could do for blighted downtown areas in Michigan and Illinois – I’d even written a couple stories about it for the local paper – so the thought of participating in that group was very appealing to me.

Arriving at the new library, I found the meeting room crammed with more than 50 people. The current board members stood up front to explain the goals and initiatives for the year.

It is still a mystery how I was singled out in that room chock-a-block with volunteers, but immediately following the meeting two of the four board members cornered me.

“HI! HOW are YOU? It’s so GREAT having you HERE! WHAT do you DO?”

Desperation is never attractive. I could smell it on them. Instinct told me to run and hide.

By the end of a 15-minute conversation I was told a) They had an unexpected vacancy on the board, b) I would be elected as a board member at the very next meeting, and c) “HERE’S WHAT WE’D LIKE YOU TO DO.”

I felt like Jesus at a tent revival meeting.

Of course I did exactly what he wouldn’t do: I got the hell outta there and never went back.
The same thing always happened in college, too.

I’d dread group projects knowing that I’d be the one not only leading the charge but staying up ‘til 3 a.m. to do most of the work, too.

(Lisa: I know what you’re thinking. Very funny. Not THAT kind of group project.)
I know. I’m a coward. I should’ve stayed and helped out that Main Street group.

But I was extremely uncomfortable taking on a leadership role when I hadn’t put in my time.

I told them that the people who’ve been on the committee – I don’t know, longer than an hour – might be a little miffed at a rookie like me walking into a board position.

They were insistent. I stopped returning their phone calls. They gave up after a month.
It comes down to this: There are leaders, doers, and yappers.

I am a leader/doer. I have the unfortunate ability to see what needs to be done in a given situation and then I do it, or, in the best case scenario I work alongside other capable, enthusiastic doers to do it.

The doers are my favorites. They show up on time. They do what needs to be done. And they’re quiet.

From my very limited experience, volunteer groups tend to attract a lotta yappers. People who like saying, “I’m a Community Activist on the Committee to Eradicate Poop Stains.”

They put it on their resume. They’ll even have business cards made. They’re the first to arrive at a meeting and the last to leave. They bring donuts. They talk a lot because they think that’s what you’re supposed to do at meetings.

But when it comes down to actually eradicating poop stains, they don’t do shit.
Jeez, Hedy. If that’s how you feel, why bother with the Obama thing?

Because I like him. A lot. And I like this strange new feeling of wanting to help a candidate get elected.

So I’ll be there for sure. Hell, I might even do something. We’ll see.

Twelve of us showed up for the Obama meeting. The irony wasn’t lost on me.

Ten women. Two men. All of us, overwhelmingly white with the only obvious minorities being an African American woman and an Hispanic woman. I’m not sure what that means and it’s too soon to speculate.

I’ve been sitting here for 20 minutes trying to figure out how to put this delicately.

FUCK. The group leader is a YAPPER.

“Politics of inclusion rather than exclusion…don’t want my views to dictate the direction of the group…I’m open to suggestions…whatever the group wants to do…”

Not a leader. A yapper.

And so painfully egalitarian, so pitifully politically correct, he was the poster child for what’s wrong with the Democratic Party.

We listened. For 45 minutes. As this white dude rambled. On and on and on. With no apparent plan or agenda.

Can I say it again? Sorry, Mom. FUCK.

If I’m gonna listen to anyone speak without interruption for almost an hour, it’s gonna be Barack Obama.

But I won’t get the opportunity to listen to him much if he’s not elected.
I am listening to: The Academy Award blah-blah
I am re-reading: The Stand - Stephen King
And I am: Busy

Friday, February 23, 2007

Dead at my age

Years ago right after we got married, Jim went outta town for work.

This was pre-Gromit and, in no hurry to get home to an empty house, I worked late. It was dark by the time I finally made it home and nearly there, I was shocked to find my street blocked off.

Police cars. Flashing lights. An ambulance. A grim-faced police officer waving me off.

What the hell is this? An accident?

Determined to get home, I went the long way around thinking I could circumvent the madness at the corner.

Denied. Again. Another cop waving me off.

Now I was more than a little alarmed. What happened must be pretty close to my house. Like thisclose.

Freaked me right out.
Jeez Louise I sure hope all y’all weren’t judging me yesterday.

“But Hedy, you said Anna Nicole Smith was a money-grabbing bimbo. Given your past proclivities, shouldn’t you have just a little more compassion for her?”


It’s one thing to screw around a little in college. It’s another thing to screw away your whole life.
Turns out my neighbor’s dog had found a woman. Dead in her underwear less than 100 hundred yards from my house.

She was a prostitute. A junkie.

And she was my age. 32.
Can people change?

I asked the 7:42 Crew yesterday.

To a person, they agreed that people can change.

They weren’t so sure about pedophiles. But they said that recovering alcoholics and drugs addicts are good examples of people who change.

They said that no one can force you to change, though. You have to do it yourself. You have to want to make a difference. You have to start making better decisions.
Apparently the dead woman at the corner over-dosed somewhere in town and the highly compassionate and thoughtful men she was with took her for a drive and then dumped her in a ditch near the little patch of woods by my house.

Dead in a ditch at 32. I couldn’t stop thinking about it.

We were born the same year, but like branches on a tree our lives grew in very different directions.

I thought about the decisions I’d made and if I hadn’t started making some really good ones after college, she coulda been me. Maybe.
Now let’s flash forward to 2007. I’m 39. Anna Nicole Smith is 39. And she’s dead.

I’m hard on people like her because she could’ve made better decisions. She could’ve learned. She could've changed.

I believe that.

I believe that just like branches on the same tree, we have an obligation to keep growing.
I am listening to: The Fray – How to Save a Life
I am reading: Not much
And I am: So alive

Thursday, February 22, 2007

Intro to Human Sexuality

The crowd on the 7:42 into Chicago is expanding.

Susan and Cindy are the veterans. I was the rookie until Josh joined us three weeks ago. This week we added Vince who designs networks for healthcare organizations.

It’s a good group. We talk politics, religion, pop culture, work, and relationships. And we laugh.

Josh attends law school in the city and I’m pretty sure that’s how the topic of having too much fun in college came up.

“Well it mightta been around the time I slept with my college professor,” says a half-joking Josh yesterday morning.

“You DID? ME TOO!” I say, delighted to find someone else who got more than their money’s worth outta costly college tuition.
If you haven’t figured it out by now, I had a certain, shall we say, Zest for Life in college.

“I’m moving to Illinois,” I told my Mom one summer day in 1989.

“Well, that’s good because you’ve dated everyone in Michigan.”

She might’ve used a more colorful word than ‘dated’ but I don’t remember. Really.
“Why did you do it?” asked Susan yesterday morning.

Josh and I agreed it was more for the glory and the story than anything else.

I won’t share the details of Josh’s encounter because that would be a Level Three Violation of HedyBlog Policy, but his scenario was fairly similar to mine.

Mine is better, though.
“HEDY! You SLEPT with your HUMAN SEXUALITY professor?” screamed Susie, my college roommate and good friend.


Although technically he wasn’t my professor.

It happened more than a year after I’d received an A in his class.

Perhaps that’s why he asked me out. Perhaps.
Ask anyone who went away to college and they’ll say it with more than a hint of wistful remembrance: They were some of the best years of my life.

You’ve got all the freedom of adulthood with practically no responsibility.

And you’re there with thousands of other people like you. What could be more fun?

It’s the right time for making bad decisions and learning from them and possibly waking up on the other side of campus in someone else’s puke-stained shirt. Or something.

The rest of your life is for making good decisions and being responsible and doing what you’re supposed to do. Right?

Do you have stories? What’s your best story from that best time in your life?
I am listening to: Bobby Brown – Don’t Be Cruel (album)
I am reading: Microsoft Convergence docs
And I am: Reminisce-ish

Wednesday, February 21, 2007

Feels like home

The Chicago River froze, then broke apart so right now it looks like a giant hopeless jigsaw puzzle.

Sometimes steam rolls across the surface like a ghost.

It’s amazing how the river cuts through the city, changing your mood.
The Opera House was buzzing around 7 p.m. last night when I left the office after a monthly management meeting.

There’s this smiling and expectant, yet reserved air among the ladies and gentleman (because that’s what they are, after all) waiting for friends and family in their finery and fur under the giant portico.

One time I watched an elderly couple holding hands walking gingerly to the entrance.

It made me cry.
I want to know when it happened.

When the city stopped being scary. When it became comforting and comfortable.

Like home.
I am listening to: The Calling – Wherever You Will Go
I am reading: Microsoft Convergence docs
And I am: Sleepy

Tuesday, February 20, 2007


Mitt Romney.

I knew practically nothing about the Republican presidential candidate from Massachusetts – aside from the Mormon thing – up ‘til recently.

So I was riveted to the recumbent bike watching him on This Week with George Stephanopoulos Sunday morning.

As you might expect, he’s extremely conservative on social issues like abortion and gay rights.

It’s very interesting. He doesn’t want women to have the right to choose, but he believes homosexuals choose their ‘sexual preference.’

Question: Who the HELL names their kid Mitt?
Romney really needs to work on his messaging around abortion.

He says he doesn’t want to impose his view on the lives of women but he believes abortion is murder.


If you believe abortion is murder, aren’t you morally obligated to impose that view on others?
But here’s the money quote from a guy who pretty much has zero chance of winning the presidency:

“I'm a strong proponent of Second Amendment rights. I believe people, under our Constitution, have the right to bear arms. We have a gun in one of our homes.”

Yes. We have a gun in one of our homes.

If he has a fluffer – a PR flack who helps him prep for interviews – her tiny Republican head spun off and went kersplody after that delicious little quote.

One of our homes. Great. Spoken like a true Republican, Mitt.

Now sit the fuck down.
C U Next Tuesday

When HedyBlog’s Agent and Manager suggested this fun little feature, I thought it would be a challenge finding good Hillary quotes each week.

Turns out it is way easier than expected.

According to The Caucus blog at the New York Times, this stellar quote won her a standing ovation at Allen University in South Carolina:

“I believe one of the great things about America is, anyone can be president, and what it depends upon is the individual. I’m proud to be a woman.”

First of all, she’s wrong. Not anyone can be president. Up to this point, only white, privileged and (mostly) old men have made it that far.

And she’s proud to be a woman? How about being proud of something you had a little more control over, honey?
I am listening to: Feel Better Songs for Scott
I am reading: Draft of Microsoft Dynamics offerings
And I am: Getting there

Monday, February 19, 2007

President's Day

HedyBlog is taking an unscheduled break today.

Here's something to make you laugh in the mean time:

A husband and wife who hadn't been getting along but were trying to
patch things up were out for a Valentine's dinner when the husband said:

"I bet you can't tell me something which will make me happy and sad
at the same time".

The wife thought for a few moments, then said, "Your dick is bigger
than your brother's".
I am listening to: L7 - Shitlist
I am reading: Neil in the Sun-Times
And I am: Trying

Friday, February 16, 2007

To love a person

Lisa to Hedy
Subject: To love a person

To love a person
Is to learn the song
That is in their heart,
And to sing it to them
When they have forgotten
Hedy to Lisa
Subject: To love a person

Lisa to Hedy
Subject: To love a person

I hear that song....I start to laugh EVERY kids look at me like I'm crazy.....or sometimes it's other people in the store that are lookin' at me.....probably on my Top 20 list of all time favorite laughs.

Thank You.

Bonus question: Do you remember where we were when that happened??
Hedy to Lisa
Subject: To love a person

We were in your car either going to or coming from Miller Brothers barn for ice cream. Right? I think I had a date with Stacey Arscheene that night.
Lisa to Hedy
Subject: To love a person

See--that's why we're friends. I didn't remember where we were coming from--only that I was speeding along down the road, and about drove up a tree or telephone pole or something, I was laughing so hard.

I really shouldn't think about such good times, when I'm in a pissy mood.
Hedy to Lisa
Subject: To love a person

We sat out front of Miller Bros. I had a chocolate ice cream cone and you (of course) had Blue Moon. Right? Or is it blue something else. Superman? Something? God I'm old.

And for the record, I'm in a pissy mood, too. But this helps.
What song is it for you?

Not the song in your heart. But the song that takes you back to an unforgettable moment in your life.

An otherwise ordinary moment, but that song – that silly poppy song – made it pee-your-pants hilarious.
The All My Lovin’ incident won’t be funny to you.

It’s a classic You Had to Be There moment.

But 20 years later, that silly song pulls two life-long friends out of pissy moods more than a thousand miles apart.
I am listening to: The Beatles – All My Lovin’
I am reading: Nothing, my brain is full
And I am: Pissy+

Thursday, February 15, 2007


Do you know when you’re in the bathroom and Someone Who Shall Remain Nameless changes the toilet paper roll but doesn’t lock the thingy that holds the roll into the thingies that hold the roll holder so when you go to grab some, the spring-loaded roll holder thingy flies out, flinging the roll across the floor?

That’s the kind of day I was having.

It seemed like I was arguing with everyone I know.
Technology was being a Snotty Little Uncooperative Bitch.
And everything just felt wrong, wrong, wrong.
About 11 a.m., it dawned on me: This feels like a Mercury Retrograde.

So I looked it up and sure enough, February 14 was the start of a Mercury Retrograde. Have I mentioned this?

It’s silly little planetary crap that I mostly don’t believe in except on days like yesterday.

There was no good explanation for everything that went wrong so I blame it on the retrograde thing.
I know what you’re thinking.

Hormones, Hedy. Hormones.

Nope. That would be a much more logical, rational explanation. Not this week, dear friends.

And Hey You Know Who: Of course you knew it wasn't hormones. Stop congratulating yourself for keeping track of something that I don't even bother with and shaddap.
Of course it’s completely irrational to think that planets far away would have any impact at all on what happens here on Earth.

But whether you believe it or not is not the point. Hell, whether I believe it or not is not the point.

The point is, once I had an explanation for why things were so screwed up, it made it easier to manage.
I am listening to: Acceptance – Take Cover
I am reading: Case studies
And I am: Not doing anything Really Important

Wednesday, February 14, 2007

What love really does

Did you do it?

Did you do what you're supposed to do and buybuybuy the requisite card/jewelry/flowers/chocolate that retailers say you needneedneed for a successful St. Valentine’s Day?

All those sappy, crappy cards. All those fuzzy, manic stuffed animals piled up on end-caps. All that pink and red and fuchsia.

Makes me wanna puke.
“I don’t like him. He’s kind of a jerk. But he’s got a YACHT!”

That was the gist of a conversation overheard in the ladies’ room at the Conch Republic restaurant in Key West earlier this month.

After that particular woman and her friends left, my friend Wanda repeated sarcastically, “But he’s got a YACHT.”

“Yep. Sad.” I replied.

Neither of us realized that another woman from the sex-for-yachts support group was still, as they say, on the pot. All of a sudden, we hear a snippy little voice from the other side: “Life is all about trade-offs, girls!”

Hedy, Hedy, Hedy. There ya go. Judging again. What kind of trade-offs have YOU made?

Everyone, in every relationship makes trade-offs.

There are the big ugly I’ll screw you on your yacht type trade-offs.

And there are the small, I’ll put up with your farting if you’ll put up with my $100 trips to Target type trade-offs.

The difference is that in the good trade-offs, both parties get screwed. In a good way.
A single friend of mine is big into on-line dating.

He’s pretty much an expert on working these sites designed to quickly and easily find the one person who could be the Love of Your Life or the Fuck of the Night, depending on what you’re into that week.

How do they do that, Hedy?

You plug in your age, sex, location and any quirky requirements (“Must have a 10 inch cock and play banjo”) and voilĂ , your Blessed-by-Jesus Soul Mate magically appears.

Well, not exactly.

It’s disturbing, but apparently you also can provide information about your annual income.

So my smart friend – who’d been on the site for a while and was getting some decent hits – decided to conduct a little experiment.

He went into his profile and doubled his salary.

What happened, Hedy? Did he get the girl? Did he find the love of his life?

No, but his hit ratio quadrupled.

Now that’s depressing.
Who writes these greeting cards, anyway?

From what I’ve seen, it’s someone who has a rather tenuous grasp on what relationships are really all about.

I spent 15 minutes at Walgreens and then another 20 at Target trying to find a card that wouldn’t plunge both of us into a diabetic coma, leaving Gromit homeless and wandering the streets looking for someone kind enough to give him his standard night-night drink of water from a glass.
I guess I hate Valentine’s Day because it’s all about what everyone thinks love is supposed to do and not at all about what love really does.

Love sits on the bed, farts, and then tells you it’s like Magic Fingers.
Love drives you to the train station when it’s crappy outside.
Love patiently listens while you explain exactly how to drive you to the train station when it’s crappy outside.
Love makes dinner while you sit on the couch and work on your blog.
Love tells you your ass is making those jeans look big.
Love lets the dog out at 5:30 a.m. so you can sleep.
Love tells you you're skinny and cute when you're bloated and hormonal.
Love knows you don't care about silly Hallmark holidays.
I am listening to: KT Tunstall - Universe and U
I am reading: Nothing
And I am: Love-a-licious

Tuesday, February 13, 2007

Barack O Baby!

Something Truly Profound happened Saturday morning while Barack Obama was telling the world that he’s joining the race for president.

Sitting on the couch in my pajamas with two warm dogs cuddled up around me, I experienced a small miracle.

For the first time in nearly 30 years of listening to political speeches, I actually believed what I was hearing.

It gave me chills. It made me cry.
Have you seen The American President? It’s Michael Douglas (the president) and Annette Bening (an environmental lobbyist) in a funny little love story wrapped around an intriguing peek at West Wing politics.

Here’s part of a speech that Douglas’ character gives near the end of the movie:

America isn't easy. America is advanced citizenship. You gotta want it bad, 'cause it's gonna put up a fight. It's gonna say "You want free speech? Let's see you acknowledge a man whose words make your blood boil, who's standing center stage and advocating at the top of his lungs that which you would spend a lifetime opposing at the top of yours. You want to claim this land as the land of the free? Then the symbol of your country can't just be a flag; the symbol also has to be one of its citizens exercising his right to burn that flag in protest. Show me that, defend that, celebrate that in your classrooms. Then, you can stand up and sing about the "land of the free".

It was inspirational and pathetic all at once.

The first time I heard it, I thought, “Why can’t we find a president like that? One who won’t pull punches? Someone who is more of a passionate public servant rather than an oily politician?”

I know it’s a movie. But why not?

I’m telling you Obama is that kind of candidate.
You haven’t been inspired listening to a candidate, Hedy? Maybe you haven’t been listening to the right candidates.

Trust me, I’ve been listening.

And what I hear always sounds the same – like that droning wa-WA-wa-WA-wa of the teacher from the Peanuts cartoons.

We’ve endured too many years of too many politicians who were too much about the power and ego and not so much about the service and sacrifice.
  • Bill Clinton using his office to prey on chubby interns – parsing words and making it painfully necessary for parents to explain oral sex to their young children – while Osama Bin Laden and the Taliban took over Afghanistan and plotted 9/11.
  • George Bush taking his weak-ass second term ‘mandate’ out for a spin in a war that we can’t win and killing off more U.S. citizens than the 9/11 terrorists.
  • And let’s not forget that shrew Hillary Clinton saying she’s ‘In It to Win’ rather than in it to make a difference.
I want a leader I can believe in, dammit. Don’t you?
What was so different about Obama’s speech?

He was genuine and refreshingly candid. He didn’t have that shrill, salesy air of schlock and desperation that clings to most Major Candidates like dog shit on a shoe.

I believed Obama when he said that his campaign couldn’t be just about him, but about all of us working together for change. Working together to make a difference.

I believed him when he said we have an opportunity to undo the damage that’s been done to our country’s reputation in the global community.

I believed him when he said that beneath all the differences of race and region, faith and station, we are one people.

His message was positive, heartfelt, and practical.

Almost like something out of a movie, but unbelievably . . . believable.
This week we’re introducing an exciting new HedyBlog Feature: It’s C U Next Tuesday!

Ta-da! Clapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclapclap!

Every Tuesday, HedyBlog will provide quotes, commentary and hypocrisy from that whacky, tyrannical twat, Hillary Clinton.

Here goes.

"If I had been president in October of 2002, I would not have started this war."

She said that last Friday.


Do a Google search on “hillary vote on iraq war” and you’ll get this curious little Hillary quote from CNN in April of 2004:

Sen. Hillary Rodham Clinton said she is not sorry she voted for a resolution authorizing President Bush to take military action in Iraq despite the recent problems there but she does regret "the way the president used the authority."
I guess it’s one thing to say someone is inspirational.

It’s another thing to act on it.

So I signed up to volunteer at

I also created a profile, joined two local grassroots groups, and registered to attend my first meeting.

This is interesting, from David Plouffe the Obama Campaign Director:

“Here's an astonishing fact, unmatched by any presidential campaign in history: in the first 48 hours, supporters founded over 1,500 unique local and national grassroots groups in support of Barack's campaign.”

Cool, eh?
“I think he’s like Kennedy,” I said to Mom on yesterday’s drive to the station. “You should hear him. He’s someone we can believe in.”

“I listened to every one of Kennedy’s speeches,” she replied. “Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say. Now, if Bush is on, I change the channel.”

This, from a pro-life, Midwestern Christian conservative.

Talk about the audacity of hope.
I am listening to: U2 – If God Will Send His Angels
I am reading: Columbia University case study
And I am: Hopeful

Monday, February 12, 2007

Anna & the Continuum of Untimely Death

First of all: Here’s a great, big sincere thank you to everyone for contributing comments on Friday.

I was taken aback at the response to what I considered a rather benign and mostly accurate statement.

At the time I wrote it I actually thought, “Who doesn’t think Anna Nicole Smith is a money-grabbing bimbo?”

I stand corrected. Thanks.
“Maybe they loved each other,” said my Mom on Friday during a somewhat heated discussion about Anna’s untimely demise.

“MOM!” I yell, nearly driving off the Eisenhower expressway. “She met him WORKING in a STRIP CLUB. She was 26 years old and he was in his eighties.”

“Well maybe she really loved him,” Mom insisted. “That’s no reason to call her a money-grabbing bimbo.”

“Fuck bunny. How about fuck bunny? Is that better?”

Maybe if she’d met her 89-year-old billionaire husband while wiping his ass volunteering in a nursing home, I’d have cut her a little more slack.
Introducing HedyBlog's Continuum of Untimely Death (CUD).


Did you die trying to make the world a better place?

Did you die because of a tragic accident?

Did you die doing something stupid?

Did you kill yourself?

Did you die because you made the world a worse place?

On HedyBlog’s Continuum of Untimely Death, Anna Nicole Smith ranks somewhere between Darth Vader and Marilyn Monroe.

It’s a shame she died so young. But tragic? I don’t know.
I didn’t mean to say that Anna Nicole Smith deserved to die because she was a money-grabbing bimbo.

I meant that given the regrettable karmic choices she made, she was fortunate to have lived as long as she did.

She’s dead. And maybe I took a cheap shot by disrespecting her life.

Would it have been nearly as offensive if I'd called her a money-grabbing bimbo while she was alive? Why does that matter?

What are we calling the three (count ‘em!) men claiming to be the father of her baby? Scum?

So it’s not alright for me to call Anna out on her bad behavior, but it’s okay to say the various men she slept with were scum?

Why does death instantly lend an air of respectability to people who otherwise don't deserve it?
Here’s the deal. I was the Queen of Bad Decisions up until more recently than I’d care to admit.

So keep your ‘let she who is without sin’ and ‘judge not lest ye be’ in your pants for just a minute.

In spite of some truly bimbotic moments, I like to think that I’ve learned from my mistakes and that by trying to make good decisions (and maybe a smallish difference in the world), I can somehow make up for them.

I don’t think that it’s wrong for me to expect the same from my fellow human beings. Especially those who are in a position to make an even bigger difference than us average folks.

We’re all in this together.

And if you’re not trying to make the world a better place by learning and growing and maybe even helping those who can’t help themselves – if you’re, say, a selfish, money-grabbing bimbo – then I’m sorry, but I’m not mourning the loss if you go.
Your Mom called you a bimbo, Hedy. Doesn’t that suck just a little?

Hell, no. If it’s not true, why should I be offended? On the other hand, if it is true and I am self aware enough to acknowledge it, again, why should I be offended?

And if you remember, Mom also called me a flag-burning slut.

I haven’t burned the flag. Yet.
But what about Anna’s baby daughter? Isn’t it sad that she’ll never know her mom?

Yes. It is very sad for that little girl who will only be able to imagine what having a mother is like.

Hopefully the mom that she imagines will be more like mine and not like hers.
I am listening to: Thunderclap Newman – Something in the Air
I am reading: An article about Barack Obama on
And I am: Ready for a new topic

Friday, February 09, 2007


What an exciting week, eh?

It started with the Bears losing the Super Bowl and ended with the tragic pop culture loss of Anna Nicole Smith.

I’m not depressed.

The Bears weren’t going to win. And like Anna Nicole – a vacuous, money-grabbing bimbo – they were extremely fortunate to have gone as far as they did.

It’ll be interesting to see if taking TrimSpa had anything to do with her death. Talk about an endorsement nightmare.
Endorsement #1: Please read Neil Steinberg. His book Complete & Utter Failure is brilliant and it’s a goddamn shame more people haven’t read it.

Steinberg is my hero, my idol, and the star of many hot, wet fantasies that I’ll never share with anyone.

Wait. Not that last part.

Although if I could have a seriously passionate make-out session with his brain I’d die happy.
Endorsement #2: I tried Garrett’s cheese popcorn for the first time on Thursday. If you find me homeless in a gutter somewhere with yellow-stained fingers and a smile on my face it is because of Garrett’s. I’m addicted.
Endorsement #3: I’m not a big fan of Starbuck’s. I don’t drink coffee. And I had an ill-fated weeklong relationship with their iced cafĂ© mochas that left me broke and near death. However, their dark chocolate covered graham crackers are excellent. Go get 'em.
Endorsement #4: Jim’s homemade chicken noodle soup. If you find me homeless in a gutter somewhere it’s because I divorced him for not making it any more.
I am listening to: Picture – Sheryl Crow/Kid Rock
I am reading: The yummy-brained Mr. Neil Steinberg
And I am: Eh, so-so

Thursday, February 08, 2007

WELL? We're waiting

“HEDY! Do NOT put your TITS on the INTERNET!”

That was my Mom this morning. She’s known me for almost 40 years. Yet she doesn’t know if I’ll do it or not.

Well, she acts like it anyway.

No matter how old you get, moms always have to remind you to do (or not do) things.

It’s a good thing.
Tap tap tap tap tap. Tap tap tap tap tap.

That’s me, waiting rather impatiently for photos of all my loyal HedyBlog fans to start rolling in.

What the hell happened? Camera broke? Stage fright?
I should’ve known when Monday came and first thing outta the shoot, I got the “sorry if we crossed the line” thing.


The same guy who’ll yell “SHOW YER TITS!” at a NASCAR race will go home and grovel to his wife for whatever.

It's very cute.
I actually received a photo from one brave soul last night.

And all I have to say is: Now I understand why they call you Spike.
I am listening to: The best of Sugar Ray
I am reading: PeopleSoft 9.0 invite draft
And I am: Perky

Wednesday, February 07, 2007

WOW boobs

Let me take a moment to explain the WOW boobs thing from last week.

As usual, it’s not what you think.

Key West was the first time I’d experienced hot weather since the surgery in November. And it was the first time I can remember actually being comfortable in humid, hot heat.

The old boobs were really heavy – if you recall, the surgeon unloaded a whopping five lbs. from those suckers – so I was always much warmer than most people my size.

And let’s just say that boob sweat is pretty goddamn gross.
“LOOK! No BOOBS!” I shout gleefully to the group, floating on my back in the pool at the Lighthouse Court Inn in Key West.

“Um, Heather?” says Jim, pointing behind me to an old man sporting a huge grin sitting in a lounge chair not 10 feet away.

“Sorry,” I say somewhat insincerely to no one in particular because nothing can diminish the exuberance I'm feeling at finally being able to float in a pool and see beyond what used to be the mountainous skyline that was my chest.
No question about it: Perky is good when it comes to boobs.

But it also can be a problem.

With the old ones, I was hyper self-conscious.

Are they sticking out too far? Are they hanging too low? Is there too much cleavage showing? Is this sad, tired bra gonna finally give out from the pressure and make that unmistakable woo-WOO-woosh sound as it snaps away like a load-bearing cable on the Bay Bridge getting smashed up by Godzilla in that one movie?

These are the things you think about when you have freakishly huge boobs.
Now I think about nothing.

Well, I think about other things besides my boobs because they’re perky and -- I'm happy to report -- somewhat self-sufficient.

The downside is that I forget about them.

This is very bad if I happen to be wearing, say, a baggy old v-neck t-shirt that doesn’t quite fit anymore. It’s particularly bad if I’m leaning forward in a conversation with a good friend (as I am wont to do) and all of a sudden she says:

“Can we take a picture of your new girls? They’re remarkable.”
Blah blah blah blah blah, Hedy. C’mon! We, your loyal HedyBlog fans, want to see HedyBoobs!

Right. Here’s the deal with that.

You show me your stuff (including your face as proof) – and let me share it here on HedyBlog – and I’ll show you mine.


I am listening to: Dido – White Flag
I am reading: Complete & Utter Failure by Neil Steinberg
And I am: Still pretty crabby for some reason

Tuesday, February 06, 2007

For snoring

Goddamn my penchant for alternative rock.

Shawn Colvin couldn’t cut it. The Cure had no chance.

Peter Gabriel? The Police? R.E.M.? Train?

Pussies. The lot of ‘em.

And certainly no match for the 250 lb. snoring man squeezed in the center seat next to me on the flight to Miami last Thursday.
It really wasn’t the snoring that bothered me so much at first.

For the better part of ten years I’ve slept with a man whose sonorous slumberings can range from a soft Shemp-ish whistle to a wild-boars-fucking-on-a-drum-kit cacophony, depending on the quality and quantity of Scotch he’s been drinking.

So I’m a veteran at ignoring the snoring.

It was the deep, laborious breathing – his body literally battling its own fat to stay alive – that was causing me to hyperventilate.

The hyperventilation situation was exacerbated by a skinny little chooch in the seat ahead of me who kept popping up to glare at us like a Jack in the box on Viagra.

Realizing that his red-faced stare was completely wasted on the snoring dude, 16C (being an obvious Man of Action) called the flight attendant.

“Can you do something about the snoring?” he asked, jerking his thumb backwards, as if the flight attendant needed help identifying the source of the racket that could be heard more than five rows ahead.

“Ear plugs,” she replied glibly. “I never go anywhere without them. If you think it’s bad now, wait ‘til people are allowed to talk on their cell phones on planes. You’ll wish for snoring.”

Her answer sure didn’t seem all that satisfying to me, but 16C finally stopped with the popping – a sure sign of satiation.
In spite of all the nasal noise, I actually preferred it when the guy was sleeping. Why?

Oh, let’s see.

“Key West? I hear there’s an awful lotta queers there.”

“How much are the drinks back here? Seven bucks, heh heh heh? B'cause I usually fly first class.”

“If it weren’t for the A-rabs, the gas prices wouldn’t be so goddamn outrageous.”

And that’s just a wee sampling of the charm fairly oozing from this heaving buffoon.
Towards the end of the flight, the snoring dude’s eyes snapped open and he yelled “BATHROOM!” as if a commode would magically appear before him at the command.

I was moving to close my laptop and stand up to let him out, when this surprisingly nimble nitwit leaped up, spun around and flopped one ginormous leg over me into the aisle.

I had to close my eyes at that point and thank sweet Jesus for bestowing an exit row seat on me because if it weren’t for that, I’d have suffocated in this man’s belly for sure.
"So was I snoring?"

What I wanted to say: "YES you fat-ass homophobic FUCK. Thanks so much for making this flight only slightly less miserable than being screwed in the ear by a drunken wild boar."
So tell us, Hedy, did you ever find a tune to cover up the snoring?


Sammy Hagar’s Mas Tequila worked best.
I am reading: Complete & Utter Failure by Neil Steinberg
I am listening to: For Snoring mix on iTunes
And I am: Surprisingly crabby

Monday, February 05, 2007

A favor for today

Between a very happy hour on Wednesday with my dear friend Scott, followed by one of the Best Weekends Ever in Key West, and the Bears game last night -- there's been no time for writing.

But like an old mainframe, it's all processing.

In the mean time, here's your project for today: Thank someone.

Not because they did something nice for you.

Just thank them for being.

Because sometimes that's all they have to do to make a difference in your life.
I am listening to: Leaving on a Jet Plane by JOHN DENVER
I am reading: Complete & Utter Failure by Neil Steinberg
And I am: Fabulous

Friday, February 02, 2007

Black velvet if you please

I am in Key West. A guy was snoring on the plane. More on that later.

I haven't been in a good mood since November so this feels pretty goddamn good.

And my boobs? WOW!
I am listening to: Alannah Miles - Black Velvet (by request)
I am reading: Complete & Utter Failure -- A Celebration of Also-Rans, Runners-Up, Never-Weres & Total Flops by MY HERO Neil Steinberg (clapclapclapclapclap)
And I am: Very, very happy

Thursday, February 01, 2007


“Why does it seem like every TV show has to have a gay person?”

I’ve heard this more than a few times over the past few years. Have you?

It got noticeably worse when the ill fated Vito Spatafore came out, then flamed out during the last season of the ultimate I’m-a-white-heterosexual-man show, The Sopranos.
Who was the first openly gay character on tv?

Wikipedia seems to have it all figured out. But the 90’s appears to have been the breakthrough period for homosexuals when it comes to television.
Speaking of breakthroughs -- just for kicks -- let’s try something, shall we?

“Why does every TV show hafta have an African American person?”


I’m sure scads of Archie Bunker acolytes muttered that sentence throughout the 70’s as African Americans at long last took their rightful place in mainstream America.

Well, I’m sure those scads used far less politically correct terms, but you get the picture.
At this point, can I just say SHUT THE FUCK UP if you think that being gay isn't the same as being African American.

It’s 2007.

And I’m talkin’ to you, Mr. Smaller-Than-Average-Penis.

Would you CHOOSE to be PERSECUTED?

I didn’t think so. So shaddap.
Unless you’re a hermit or living in a Kansas cornfield, you know someone who’s gay.

C’mon, admit it.

He might not be your best friend, but he’s your neighbor or co-worker or brother or son. You know him well enough to have had a beer with him at least once or twice.

And if he’s your friend or neighbor, you might even love him a little, but only in that Dude-I’m-so-not-giving-you-a-reach-around sorta way.

Am I right?

So if TV shows are just creative reflections of people living their lives and doing stupid things, and we all know at least one gay person, why isn't there at least one gay person on every show?
But, Hedy. It’s one thing to be Rob Halford from Judas Priest gay.

It’s another thing to be flaming, in your face gay like Jack from Will & Grace.

Hello? TV is entertainment.

It’s never going to be an exact reflection of our lives – it’s always going to take the most interesting, most controversial parts and put ‘em out there.

And whether you’re comfortable admitting it or not, it’s what you want.
I am listening to: INXS - The One Thing
I am reading: Nothing and it's great
And I am: Warm