None For You Glenn Coco.

I’m usually someone who always takes the high road (not) and keeps to myself #meek. With the leaves falling and smell of dry turkey in the air I decided it was time to get my dick out and confront a special predicament head on.

Last night I received an email from one bitter bitch named Glenn after he awkwardly asked me out for a date via email a few months back. I received Glenn’s first email while I was half asleep at 3am. The timing seemed rapey and insensitive to my rem cycle. The message read:

“Hi Jackie. Love your blog and you seem like a really chill girl. Not sure if you are taken or not but would really love to take you out ;)”

Much to my dismay, he also attached a heavily filtered selfie complete with indoor sunglasses and fucking puka shells. Legally, I am unable to post his picture (believe me I asked…) He looked like someone you would find in an Ed Hardy sweatshirt driving a Toyota with a spoiler, racing stripes and red rims. I didn’t respond because I am busy and try not to communicate with people in puka shells at all costs. Even small children on vacation in Hawaii… Legit don’t give a fuck if you are 7 years old and just being “festive” puka shells are tragic.

I had long forgotten over my little cyber suitor. Seasons changed, food babies delivered, weaves reinstated. It had felt like eons. That was until I received this follow-up email last night as I sipped my dirty martini and got ready to watch Real Housewives.


Firstly, I have no problem with having people value my “looks” over my brain. Your attempt at an insult was actually a huge compliment. I would assume the only thing your going to be popular for is having recognition on my blog so… You’re welcome. Please forward me your Paypal information as my 2014 Mitzvah Project I would like to pay for a year’s membership to for you. I am relatively sure that would just cover the tip of your romantically disabled iceberg. This sucky writing you speak of has allotted me some expendable income to help the less fortunate. What can I say? Philanthropy is my life.

Please do not find this essay to portray any offense taken from your letter. I can say with complete authenticity that I was more offended by your photo than your attempt at harsh words. The truth is I was low on material and this proved to be a real jewel of inspiration. The only real takeaway is that you think I am pretty… and you probably own denim with white stitching like all real shmucks.

Merriam Webster defines the word “glen” as a small, narrow, secluded valley. Coincidentally the culprit of this email is named Glenn who I am assuming has a small penis, narrow mind and secluded studio apartment in the valley with a roommate. NONE FOR YOU GLENN COCO, must suck to suck.

These Hoes Ain’t Loyal

During my first year of college, I experienced the brunt of young female relationships. After being dumped, I secluded myself to the confines of my student apartment with my lesbian roommate and her cage-less chinchilla… and the occasional Food 4 Less outing. I wish I was joking about the latter. I spent more time at Food 4 Less on a daily basis than any of my classes combined. Bagel Bites for a buck fifty? You had me at bagel. Once I had wallowed in my self pity, I decided it was time to start socializing but only in the pursuit of an accidental run-in with my ex boyfriend where I looked BLISSFULLY HAPPY.

I began spending time with a girl I had gone to high school with. She was the type of girl who ALWAYS brought baked goods to class during the holidays and wore knee length dresses to homecoming. A real Pollyanna Purebred.

I found her to be stable and nurturing during my transition period. We would go on hikes, enjoy the pasta buffet at the dining hall, and watch Gossip Girl together. We would joke that I was Serena and she was Blair, and then consequently head to the local disappointment of a shopping center and find low budget outfits to embrace our fictitious lives. It was all so simple and sad.

(Side note: Serena and Blair were a global travesty to female relationships everywhere. They were terrible friends and should never be admired as a duo… they fucked each other’s boyfriends, spoke horribly of one another, and constantly were one-upping each other’s accessory game.)

Soon my Blair started losing her wholesome charm and spreading her legs to anyone with a handle of Popov vodka and an unlimited meal plan. I should be clear the devolution of our friendship had nothing to do with her promiscuity. I live for a slutty friend and envy their free spiritedness. She became awkwardly competitive with me and soon all of our outings became a mission for her to out-dress, out-drink, out-slut, and out-smart me. She always came out 2 for 4 which I thought was a healthy balance. It was only after a classy night at a local frat party where she proclaimed across the room that it must suck to be friends with her because that would make me the token ugly friend. Without sounding like an asshole, I must once again clarify this is not fucking true. I am sure all of my close friends are rolling their eyes and guffawing, given that I will tell the extended version of this story any chance I can (not that any of them really read my blog). Because I am a HUGE pussy, I never confronted her on her questionable character and thus had my very first frenemy. I would cancel plans, screen her calls, and slowly downgrade her from my Myspace Top 8 all while insisting we should “totally get lunch soon.”

Six months later she had defriended me on Facebook (burn), tried to punch and simultaneously bang my ex-boyfriend, rotated through about 63 new best friends and never returned my favorite sequined sweater which is the most tragic of all.

It’s one thing to dislike a person. It’s another thing to dislike a person and then continuing to sustain a façade of a friendship. If life is a game of poker, I find it best to know your players before you reveal your cards. I really am not sure what that means but it sounds deep as shit. Whether or not I reveal my hand, I am acutely aware of who loves me, who needs me, who’s kissing my ass or who’s secretly hoping I gain 47 pounds and end up working the take out window at The Olive Garden in a pair of orthopedic loafers with Type 2 diabetes.

Now that I have matured (slightly), I have learned that it would have been much better for Serena and Blair to have a civil parting of ways before their first semester at Constance. They could have designated separate hang out areas on the Met steps; Blair could have collected any headbands she may have left at the Vanderwoodsen Plaza penthouse and Serena could retrieve the keratin hair mask she kept at B’s.

Keeping friends is best, losing them is sad, but the worst is holding on to a friendship you never really had.

Rhyme so hard, mothafuckers wanna fine me.

A Bitch’s Right to “Research”

I have widely acknowledged that I am one sketchy bitch. Google is the spunky and highly educated Asian sidekick I’ve always wanted. You know, someone who lets you cheat off her homework, collects Hello Kitty memorabilia, and whose mom makes a mean mushu. Google has helped me find many nearby sexual predators, hot new sushi spots, and almost everything you could ever know about a potential suitor. I feel there are many blurred lines between using the Internet for research or restitution. I have no fucking clue what the word restitution means.

I don’t like going into any situation blind. I haven’t been into a restaurant without aggressively reading their menu beforehand since 2006. It has become a game for my friends to quiz me on side dishes and specialty appetizers since they already know I have most likely memorized the bill of fare.

Drive bys are so 2009. Now instead of borrowing your little sister’s car with tinted windows, putting on a beanie, and a large pair of shades as you carefully drive by your new love interest’s place for a pre-visit inspection, you can just do a digital drive by via Google.

I once went out with a guy who I vigorously Googled prior to our first date. After some geo-tagging I was able to locate his residence and was very pleasantly surprised when Google Earth showed me the exteriors of his remodeled condominium.

After a few cocktails, we hopped in a cab back to his place. He began telling me a funny story from college and was clearly distracted by my shimmering cheekbones and full of shit feigned interest. The cab driver missed a turn and I casually said “Sir, you needed to make a left at the stop sign you just passed. It’s the grey building on the corner.”

At first he didn’t compute and I hurriedly tried to continue conversation. Failed mission.

“Wait… how did you know where I live?” Shit.

“Um… I am just kind of psychic. I normally don’t tell people on the first date. It’s kinda like a ‘That’s So Raven’ deal sans the closeted lesbian factor. LAWLZ!”

That joke didn’t translate and I could instantly see fear in his eyes. Suddenly what was looking to be a fun night quickly turned into him being “super tired” and needing to be at work “super early.” WAY HARSH TAI. The evening went from promising passion to pending restraining order in a matter of seconds.

I guess curiosity killed the connection. As I called my best friend and told her the critical error I made, we began dissecting my habits. Am I insanely creepy or just adamantly curious? Are these two synonymous? Do I need a hobby? Probably. One may draw the conclusion I am insecure, batshit crazy or severely unstable. I prefer to think I am proactively curious and adorable.

I believe all bitches have the right to utilize our God given resources. I have learned during my personal pursuit of information the following is crucial:

  1. Establish a motive. Like in any high profile business establishments, background checks are not only mandatory but justified. What exactly are you looking for? Financial stability? Relationship history? Federal offenses? Find your motive and stay organized. I am well aware that these are my golden years; I ain’t wasting a weekend going out for fucking teppanyaki with a guy who was president of the Scientology Club in high school.
  2. Clear your browser history. When a guy comes over and asks to use your laptop and you have his name and yearly income in the search bar, things WILL get awky. Trust me, I have learned this the hard way… twice.
  3. Play dumb. Sure, you know what every person in his family looks like already, where he went to college, what his GPA was and his unique blood type. But never reveal your knowledge. Quite frankly it’s none of their fucking business. And always remember when it comes to constitutional research, honesty is the WORST policy.


Struggles of an Extroverted Introvert

Every once in a while I am hit with a midnight martini epiphany. Last month I came to the conclusion I don’t really think the show ‘Friends’ is funny. The month before I made a short-lived vow to only buy local produce. Last week I convinced myself all this Amanda Bynes drama is a genius hoax on the public for a majorly well-concealed documentary premiering at Sundance a la Joaquin Phoenix.

Last night, I finally got a grasp on the complexities of my personality. I like to dramatically categorize all things in my life especially types of people. Optimists and pessimists. Bitches who make nail appointments and those who only do walk-ins. Team LC or Team Kristin. People who caption photos with song lyrics and those who would sooner eat a deep fried puppy. The pimps and the hoes. Bitches that like Michael Kors accessories and those who think it says “I’m settling for mediocrity”. Life is so much easier to navigate when you can put things in a clear container with a label.

At the end of the day there are really only two kinds of people: introverts and extroverts. In life, I tend to live in black and white so it has been a constant struggle to identify with such a strong shade of gray. What gray you may ask? Because I’m an extroverted introvert. It wasn’t until recently (last night) that I realized I am the ultimate union of both. Attention gives me fuel. Not in a daddy issues, lady of the pole way. I hate when people ASSUME that people who love attention are insecure. Some flowers just require more water to bloom.

Growing up, I participated in every fucking activity I could weasel or bribe myself into. Plays, lip-sync competitions, talent shows, pep rallies – you name it, I was there, front and fucking center. Obnoxious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My first week of middle school I did a painful rendition of “Hey Mickey” during a lunchtime assembly. People threw their lunch at me (I will never look at Domino’s breadsticks the same again) but I held my final pose with my pom poms in a high V, grinning like a winner #nailedit. Sure, I had enough marinara sauce in my hair to feed the Giudice’s for the entirety of Tre’s sentencing, but I was working my shit and it would make for an amazing tale for my E! True Hollywood Story: ‘Bitches, They Are Just Like Us’.

So one could easily assume I am the most extroverted of extroverts. But much to many’s surprise, I am colossally private. I will discuss my digestive system to anyone with a pulse and ear canal but would rather shoot myself in the asshole than discuss anything emotional.

Ever since I was young, I have had this inner dialogue in my head where I am able to sort my inner struggles solo. WebMD may diagnose this as bipolar, but I would just call it having a great sense of self.

I have literally never cried in public. Not sad tears at least. It’s a real shame because crying is a good look for me. My eyes turn this really pretty shade of teal and the tears sitting on my cheekbones give my complexion an unreplicable dewy look. It’s fucking fantastic. Now, in the privacy of my own home or with selected group of bitches I will cry at a Sylvan commercial… dumb kids who need homework help really tug on my heartstrings.

I also have total social anxiety. My hypnosis therapist has assured me this is a control issue and I am uncomfortable in any situation I haven’t carefully crafted. I won’t even go to a restaurant without reading the menu and RAPING the place’s Yelp page.

One could over analyze this and try to associate my introversion to some childhood trauma but that just isn’t the case. To put it very simply, I have always enjoyed being alone. I am the most entertaining person I know. Does that make me an asshole or a complete psychopath? Probably both, but I will discuss that with myself over sushi later.

Sometimes I am an extrovert, sometimes I am an introvert. There is a huge likelihood that I am bipolar. There’s no question that I am neurotic. I wear sequins while home alone and can be found in bed by 9:00PM 87% of the week.

Spontaneity is a personal myth and I have about 8 fully choreographed dance numbers ready to go at any given second. I don’t cry in public but will let a homeless person cry on my shoulder as long as I am not wearing something that’s dry clean only. I own my shade of gray. And am proud of it. And to all my extroverted introverts HAYYYYYYY!

High & Triple Distilled Spirits

I am a very routine bitch. I wake up, check my Instagram followers and make a to do list for the day. I tend to do my marketing around 11am post breakfast after a failed attempt at delivering my food baby, an average of 4 hours watching Bravo and cloaked in both shame and water retention. The parking lot is open, the cheese selection hasn’t been picked over and the staff seems in a chipper mood. For the first time ever I braved the carpool mom cluster fuck that IS Trader HOES at 5pm. The whole market just smelt of baby formula, cheese puffs and regret.

Within 34 seconds of entering the market, a kid spit on me. It wasn’t like he hacked a loogie on me, it was more of an aggressive drool. Thank god I have a serious gravitation towards Asian children or I may have cut a bitch. I am not an ageist … babies can be real assholes.

As I headed towards my happy place aka the liquor aisle I was hit with an immediate wave of social anxiety. All of these medicated carpool moms were clearly 20 minutes away from getting the shakes and running rampant. Children were left abandoned as their mothers grabbed crates of Two Buck Chuck. The sight alone was the best birth control I have ever experienced. I needed to get the fuck out of there. As I went to grab my routine bottle of Goose on the top shelf I found myself perplexed as the bottle in my hand started to crackle… because it was made of fucking plastic.

It read “Vodka of The Gods” and was $9.99 for a handle. The description boasted it was “perfect for mixed drinks” which is like when someone describes a bitch as looking “healthy” after she has gained a few lbs. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I would sooner ferment my own potatoes or find a Russian sugar daddy with great Vodka inventory before I bought this shit. I practically dropkicked the nearest employee and demanded they check the back for some decent vodka.

College wasn’t my shtick but I can imagine how those 4 minutes of waiting for Salvador to return and determine the fate of my evening has to be eerily similar to waiting for a University acceptance letter. As I saw my little chalupa emerge from the back without any happy juice in tow my heart sank. “So sorry ma’am. It’s been a very busy afternoon. Have you ever tried Vodka of The Gods?” “Fuck you Salvador.”

I had spent 40 minutes navigating this infested market, helped an elderly pick out a new orchid and swapped germs with enough children to cast a United Colors of Benetton ad. It was time to get sketchy.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a yoga pant-wearing woman chatting away on her Bluetooth. She had abandoned her little boy in the shopping cart and was perusing various meatless products. I quickly scanned the contents of her cart: 1) Her mediocre child 2) No animal byproducts 3) A bottle of fucking Grey Goose. Clearly this bitch was a vegan. Can they even DRINK vodka? “Seriously tempeh tastes better than steak Cheryl, you MUST try it” … Now all bets were off. Her kid was playing on his iPad, she was gabbing away about her philanthropic dietary restrictions (side note: if everyone was a fucking vegan the ecosystem would CRASH #teamfoodchain) and I was getting thirstier by the minute. I knew if I could just position myself about 45 degrees to the left of her malnourished child I could grab the bottle of Goose and make a bolt for the cashier. It really seemed like I would be doing her a favor… I mean drinking something that possibly could have come from a Goose seems conflicting with her lifestyle choices.

I inched closer pretending to red the nutritional info on a nearby box of Snap Pea Crisps and ever so delicately let my left arm fall into Vegan Victoria’s shopping cart. Without breaking eye contact from the Snap Peas, I located the bottleneck and slowly started to lift it out of the cart. With merely centimeters to go … “MOM MY IPAD DIED!” what a little shithead. The mother whipped around and caught me awkwardly holding the bottle of vodka behind my back while I clutched the snap peas. “Oh… UM. I am so sorry I thought this was my cart? Haha!”  #LAWLZ Yeah fucking right. I am pretty sure I didn’t also have an overindulged little asshole riding shotgun in MY cart. She looked over at my nearby basket filled with ground lamb, 46 kinds of cheese and enough frozen fish to subsidize for Fukushima and things only got more awky.

She looked at me in total disgust. Back off me bitch, things could be worse. It wasn’t like I was trying to kidnap your child. Some may call this occurrence a personal low point… I prefer to think I had great initiative and high spirits. I headed to the checkout sans Vodka and many of my maternal instincts. Since this incident I have been popping birth control pills like wintergreen Tic Tacs. I have made a vow never to come face to face with these vicious Trader Hoes ever again and to forever more buy all alcohol at Costco where the dilfs and samples are plentiful.

How To Tell Your Friend They Are Dating an Asshole

Surprisingly I initially like most people. Especially if they really like me. If Vladimir Putin told me I had high cheekbones and a protruding clavicle I would probably invite him over for Shabbat dinner and set him up with one of my slutty girlfriends to tickle his Russian pickle. As a Leo, I am incredibly protective over the people I love and have unfortunately run into the situation of hating a few of my friends significant others. My cousin (who is more like a sister) was dating this guy who I lovingly referred to as Fuckface for a couple years. The first time I met him in his college apartment I knew I wanted to bury him alive and dance to Daft Punk on his grave with a bottle of Vueve Cliquot and a bendy straw. He was arrogant, condescending and spoke like a closeted homosexual Subway Sandwich artist supporting his way through school to become a Planetary Scientist. Fucking asshole. Naturally upon my first impression he was wearing a gold chain (red flag #1) and made me split a Gatorade when I asked for something to drink cause he “only had a few left”. I tried my hardest to swallow my pride and pretend to like him. Three hours in I had hit my limit.

He insisted we go to a local Teppanyaki restaurant for their “super dank half off lunch specials” (red flag #2). He started verbally harassing my cousin when she insisted on ordering from the full price menu (red flag #3). It wasn’t just one comment… the fucker went on and on, he was relentlessly rude. She brushed this off and excused herself to the bathroom. As soon as she was out of sight I leaned over the cook top table, grabbed Fuckface’s wrist and looked him dead in the eye and said, “If you ever speak to her like that again I will get all of my goliath family members and the sketchy Cholo custodian at my office to drive down here and beat the shit out of you… Also are you done with your fried rice?” I was dead serious and I am almost positive he shit his pants.

My smidge of a death threat was a huge wake up call. My cousin finally saw what a total dick the guy was and they split shortly after. Unfortunately, these confrontations usually don’t turn out as ideally. So what is a bitch to do? The upside of sharing your reservations about said asshole is honest communication and you may be saving your friend from a crazy breakup and possible restraining order. The downside is that your friend will most likely not listen and it will cause a strain in your friendship. The first step in dealing with a situation like this is addressing WHY he is an asshole and the LEVEL of harm he may be causing your friend. Is this a Justin Bobby short-term tryst or a Spencer Pratt long-term holy matrimony… it makes a huge difference.

The rule to interjecting in a friend’s relationship is that you can never take it back and you have to expect that your girl will side with the shmuck. Also know the guy WILL be told you dislike him and then it’s game on. Ultimatums are dramatic and prompt early menstrual cycles. Calm your ovaries and think like a rational bitch. Is it worth the drama? Side note: Jealousy is transparent. If you are a needy Nancy and only dislike your friends new love interest because it conflicts with your Bachelor and wine nights – you are the asshole. The truth is if you are in a serious and happy relationship, your partner usually becomes your best friend and that is totally fine.

So you have assessed the damage and you are positive the asshole has surpassed Spencer Pratt and is verging on Tiger Woods. You know he is penetrating her sister, embezzling money from her checking account and may have dabbled in drug dealing. How do you tell her? “Hey love can I come by and borrow that sequined sweater of yours? We still down for Soul Cycle tonight? Oh and one last thing, your boyfriend is an asshole, everyone hates him and yesterday I threw a penny in a fountain and wished he would contract a immune system crushing disease. Love ya!”

Honestly, that’s probably how I would do it. As easy as that seems it is not the best way to go unless you’re prepared to move forward without a sequin sweater to borrow, an unfollow on Instagram (the harshest of all) and a fractured friendship. Last side note: I have said this a million times, I track everyone who unfollows me. Once you make that decision you are dead to me. Don’t conveniently pretend we are cool. To put it in song: “We are never ever ever going for drinks together. You go talk to your friends take your selfies and unfollow me (bitch) but weeee will never ever ever ever have martinis together.” That’s my Taylor Swift bad bitch remix. Sorry for the passive aggressive tangent.

Meddling in your friend’s relationship is a very slippery slope. A good friend always wants to protect their bitches from the pitfalls of dating an asshole but unless they are headed for a seriously life and heart threatening future it is always best to let a bitch come to these conclusions by herself. Unless the fucker is in a gold chain, makes you go halfsies on an orange flavored Gatorade AND thinks daytime Teppanyaki is socially acceptable.


Vanderpump Rules Rundown

If you don’t follow my neurotic ass on twitter… you are really missing out. Some of you may notice that I have opted out of the standard post-reality show recaps I once relied on to fill this blog. This is because I have taken to the twitter-verse for a dirty martini fueled impulsive play by play. In honor of the disastrous masterpiece that IS Vanderpump Rules, I have decided to compile my tweet thoughts from the live premiere to give you all an insider look whilst watching this shitshow of 30-something failed model slash actors living in apartments with cottage cheese ceilings and drinking out of puffy painted wine glasses like community college sorority girls.

The episode starts and immediately we check back in with one protein powder snorting, chunky sweater wearing wannabe “sex addict” Jax Taylor. He is still living in his super chic Hollywood studio so he can bang, make mac and cheese AND shit in the same radius of 500 square feet #pantydropper. Side note: as a Jew from the San Fernando Valley, I ain’t buying the ol “deviated septum” nosejob excuse.

Then we check in with my personal fave (not) Kristen. Her ex boyfriend Tom has evicted her and subsequently dropped her from his Verizon Wireless family plan and now she is banging a 22 year old busboy. Adorable. The good news for her is that if this whole server career doesn’t play out she is a SHOE-IN for the perfect Lexapro spokeperson. Get it gurl.

Scheana has gone for the low budge Kardashian ombre and has ruined “Almost Famous” by tattooing a Penny Lane quote on her forearm “it’s all happening”. The only thing happening for me at this point is a libation refill and a note to self to burn any gold polyester I have convinced myself looks “chic”. #GoodAsGold

Oh yay! It’s Katie! The good news is that Katie is no longer is a fire crotch – the bad news is that she now has the hairdo of a Midwest soccer mom who is trying to revive her marriage with a box of Franzia and a weekly date night at the bowling alley. HONEY – please get it together. Kisses.

The bitch is back. Nothing warms the heart like Princess Stassi riding dirty in her fucking Toyota convertible in a Claire’s “Couture” statement necklace. If life is treating her so well why is she squatting in Katie and Tom Schwarts fluorescent lighting apartment? And if her family is so wealthy why the fuck does her mother live in Lake Arrowhead? I am over this Princess Stassi charade. Is Pump hiring any new hostesses?

Krazy Kristen has done some casual cyber stalking and has “evidence” Tom is cheating on Ariana. She brings this news to pop icon Sheana Marie and naturally she starts crying. She decides it is an AMAZING time to discuss the situation at her own birthday party and holds the tears back to avoid an eyelash malfunction. The only thing I was able to take away from this party is how happy I was that Scheana wasn’t wearing another fucking tutu #growth. Also Kristens new twink boyfriend needs to stop pretending he is fuckin Afrojack. Super tight stickers on your 2009 Macbook DJ no one gives a fuck – you are a busboy shut up. Until next week bitches…

The Selfie Project

I like to consider myself both a pioneer woman and a philanthropist. I will attend almost any charity event if there is an open bar and/or a waitstaff distributing appetizers. Eight out of ten times I will even throw a Benjamin into the optional donation box (and by Benjamin I mean George…Maybe Abraham). But hey, ballin’ ain’t easy.

My preferred contribution to society is my gift of written word, consistent updates re: my digestive system and modeling daytime sequins. My latest philanthropic work is The Selfie Project. In the past year, selfies have taken over my heart, my newsfeed and my serotonin levels. No street corner, social gathering or public bathroom is safe. Nothing says low point like waiting patiently to wash your hands in an El Pollo Loco bathroom while the Chiquita in front of you is waiting for her cheek piercing to twinkle in the fluorescent lighting for the perfect post tacos al carbon selfie. Because I am a narcissist, I was convinced she was trying to snap a picture of me but oh no … this was a definite solo shoot. Who doesn’t feel sexy after low budget fast food made by someone featured on Megan’s Law? #nofilter #nomz

There are 2 types of selfies.

The first is obvious; a photo you take of yourself. Fucking duh.

The second type of selfie is a posed photo you have your fat friend take so it seems “candid.” I recently left the safety of my apartment and decided to venture out for a night on the town. It was that night where I was exposed to the “semi-selfie.”

Lipgloss is applied, hair is fluffed and the setting assigned. Then, the culprit finds a willing soul to assume the role of Mario Testino and capture your free spirited (yet perfectly posed) arms up dancing that you have been practicing for in the mirror for months #justdance. Here is an example of the semi-selfie for those who are a few chromosomes short (a video of people posing for semi-selfies while unknowingly being filmed #indie) …


My blatant humanitarianism has manifested into The Selfie Project “Capturing others, capturing themselves.” This movement was birthed after my friend Charlotte and I discussed the emotional turmoil this has caused within us and so many others. When will this selfie brigade stop? Enough is enough.

I blame Kim Kardashian… for pretty much everything in life. She obviously brought Ebola over to the states. Or maybe it was Kylie? I don’t know I can’t deal with semantics. In fact, I don’t even know what the word semantics means and I can live with that.

So whether you extend that arm and capture your own duck face or recruit a lone ranger at the bar to snap a pic of your head tilt, popped clavicle while you pretend to drink straight from the bottle cause you’re so WiLd aNd FrEe with your besties– just know that I am watching and judging you. And photographing you. Please use #theselfieproject to spread awareness and bring light to this embarrassing and violating habit sweeping the nation.

#blurredlines #whiskey #saturdaze #moonchild #tinydancer #glam #redlips #welivefortheweekend #livefreedieyoung #redbottoms #vivaluxe #vino #LAnights #cantstopwontstop #STOPIT.

Honesty is The Best Policy

I would like to say I was on a luxurious weekender or am slammed writing my first novel for Simon & Schuster but that would be a convenient lie. The truth is, my brain has gone totally fried. I have spent hours trying to come up with something quippy and entertaining to post for my bitches and I am in a cerebral drought. Some lines I have jotted down in my ratchet bedside composition book the past few days include;

“Blame The Bro Not the Hoe!”

“There are a lot of things females do to make us look bad as a breed.                                                 Acrylic nails, poolside heels, Bebe tracksuits and white sunglasses to name a few.”

“I just bought the Taylor Swift CD and it immediately prompted an early menstrual cycle.                        SO MUCH ESTROGEN.”

“I hate when people try and over intellectualize really basic shit…                                                           even though that is huge premise of this fucking blog.”

“I can’t wait for Blue Ivy to kick North West’s ass.”

“Last night I was caught in a BAHHHHHD romance. Ra ra ah ah ah.” (this was about having some bad Lamb last week on date night… yes I realize a lamb doesn’t bah… #lowonmaterial)

“If he wears an anklet, he probably likes to tickle the pickle!”

As you can probably tell… things aren’t going great over here in the Bitch Thinking Factory. Tonight  I vouch to have a stiff libation, put on my good luck terry robe and let the creative juices flow (ew). In the interim, please send suggestions or articles I can plagiarize.




HI BITCHES. Friday we are resuming the Bitch Bible podcast series. My cohost is the incomparable Grandma Gloria who will dazzle you with her knowledge of show tunes, love of expensive champagne, Real Housewife insight and more opinions than candles on her next birthday cake (84 years young). Nothing is off limits. Send all questions, comments, concerns, song requests to


She has been planning her ensemble for 4 weeks and has settled on a Balenciaga letterman jacket, “boyfriend jeans” and gold flats. She insists this look will be “contemporary yet chic” and convey her to be approachable, youthful and down to earth.


Shady Hipster Encounters Pt. 1

As a worldly bitch well versed in international affairs, I have often feared the world being taken over. Would it be the North Koreans? Aliens? Teen moms? The fucking Kardashians?

While all of these seem very likely, I have come to the harsh reality that our country has only one true threat… hipsters. They sip their $12 organic/vegan/conflict-free coffee, read obscure literature they bought at a garage sale in Los Feliz, and collect unisex flannels all while they un-informatively judge you through their NON-prescription eyeglasses. Hipsters are a particularly dangerous breed of urban millennials that range from the Indie Cindy in a faux fur vest who uses Rachel Zoe jargon (“This quinoa is so maje!”) to the next level hipster who thinks footwear is optional, lives for a meteor shower and patchouli-scented beard braids.

When did mainstream become such a bad thing? Maybe I am ignorant and basic as shit but I am a bitch that likes to float along the lazy river of life. Preferably on an-over inflated raft with a Chi Chi and a shirtless boy spritzing me with Evian. Perhaps the hipster feels it is more admirable to go against the current? Is anyone even slightly feeling my waterpark metaphor? Shoot.

Yesterday, I had my first experience at a local consignment store. I cleaned out my closet unwillingly and figured I should cash in on the low points of my shopping addiction. I have always been really emotionally attached to my clothes. Even parting with something I couldn’t fit my right tit into is an upsetting blow to an outfits’ sentimentality.

Mustering up some emotional courage, I shoved my special little friends into a garbage bag and continued my healing to Crossroads Trading Co. I had heard about this place via Yelp and was assured this place gives you the best bang for the buck (fiscally not sexually – I wouldn’t touch a minimum wage cashier with a 10 foot pole… unless he could get me a discount).

I entered the shop and was hit with the aroma of incense and elitism. It was 85 degrees out and almost every person in the place was wearing a fucking beanie. Did I make a wrong turn and end up in an alopecia clinic?

Then I was hit with the flannels – everywhere I looked FLANNEL. Is this a lumberjack convention? Then I saw the combat boots. Fuck… I was in hipster hell. I felt like I was starting to care about gender equality and probiotics through osmosis. Ugh.

As I waited in line with the other bitches looking to capitalize on their party wear that no longer fit after the ol’ freshman 15, I started feeling super confident. One by one these basic bitches strolled up with their bags of sub par garments (think old comic book tees, crop tops, mullet skirts) and were soon after strolling out with a nice stack of cash. Surely I was going to MURDER this consignment game. I had a sequined Dolce & Gabbana sweater I practically crippled a Persian for at the Barney Warehouse sale WITH TAGS ATTACHED!

Finally it was my turn. A disgruntled gay in a disappointing flannel called me over. I plopped my bag on the counter.

“You are going to lose it for my stuff – don’t worry I would sooner cut my True Religions into dish rags before I brought them out in public haha!”

I usually find myself instantly connected to the gay community but this homo was NOT feeling me.

“Those do quite well here. You may be better off sticking to actual dish towels.”

Shady fuck.

“Wow you certainly love sequins don’t you?”

“Who doesn’t right?”

I tried to redeem our fractured fag haggery with a friendly elbow jab and playful banter. Whenever I find myself in a social pickle I immediately try to forge inside jokes with people… it has a 47% success rate.

“I find sequins to be really tacky personally.”

What had I done to piss this progressive little twink? He started aggressively going through my hard earned clothes and tossing them into a pile on the floor with a disgusted look on his face.

“No, no, nope, ew, definitely not, no, gross, sick, disgusting, NO!”

“Um, pardon Travis – is that the no pile?” He paused, dangling an amazing Alice and Olivia ostrich feather skirt like it was infected with Ebola.

He gave me an evil smirk which clearly meant yes. After the he put the cherry on top of his NOPE sundae (a sequined cashmere scarf) he told me none of my things are suitable for consignment. SERIOUSLY?

“We are looking for more hip and alternative fashions. Sorry!”

Pardon fucker? He handed me back my bag and swiftly pranced away… probably to go update his fucking photography Tumblr page and smoke an herbal cigarette. As he exited the register area I noticed he was conveniently wearing a distressed pair of True Religion jeans. Fan-fucking-tastic.

If loving sequins, having questionable recycling habits, little concern for child labor laws, artisanal foods and light hearted racism makes me a dumb conformist bitch – I can live with it. What I can’t live with is some fucker in an H&M flannel insulting my integrity and flawless eye for embellishment. So go on hipsters, keep judging me through your lense-less spectacles but nobody puts Baby (and my sequins) in the reject pile… bitch.