They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree… Oy vey.
They say the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree… Oy vey.
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.
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 firstname.lastname@example.org
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.
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.”
“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.