Princess and the Pee

I have recently considered transitioning into rewriting classic children’s fiction for adults and think this may be a solid start to my nonexistent literary career. Some other pieces I am working on include Racuntzel, James and The Giant Testicle, Beauty and The Yeast (Infection). I think I am seriously on to something… moving on. As much as I would love to say this story was a work of fiction much to our dismay it’s not. A few nights ago I headed to drinks with an old friend I haven’t seen in eons, I resorted to my usual catch up conversation (current digestive issues, gluten free aversions and male brain analysis) when she told me she had just gone through a semi-break up.

“I’m so sorry what happened?” She nervously explained that they had only dated for a month and things ended very suddenly. Immediately intrigued, I slowly began coaxing alcohol down her throat so she would give me the dirt. I never knew her to be coy so her withholding details was a major red flag. With each sip of her vodka cranberry (amateur hour) she began to give small hints as to the desolution of their fling. Clearly, I need to get more of a social life because I had the urge to figure out what this stranger’s freak flag was whether it cost me a small fortune of a bar tab. “I just found out how kinky he was and it got weird.” HUH? Didn’t this bitch remember I am only a semi functioning neurotic? I am always one increased heartbeat away from a full on anxiety attack… it’s how I keep my figure. That shit burns mad calories.

“What do you mean kinky? Like addicted to porn kinky or shit on your face kinky?” She took a big gulp of her drink … this was going to be good. “Well one night, I slept over and when I woke up before him I went through his phone”  #standard  “So everything was totally non suspect which was a relief because I was really into him but then…” This is the point in the conversation when I started lusting for a sedative… my seratonin levels can’t handle this kind of suspense. I started clawing into the leather barstools and foaming at the mouth “AND? SPILL BITCH.” Oy. “Well… I looked through his pictures and I found a bunch of pics of different pornstars peeing” I spit my drink out. Um…pardon? “And you broke up with a guy who owns real estate just cause he gets a half chub for a natural bodily function? God you’re so picky.” As soon as he woke up she immediately confronted him and he got incredibly defensive. As females we need to make a pact right here and now to wait at least 48 hours before we go all Lorena Bobbit on their ass. I have always said it is better to know your players then reveal your hand. That’s a little poker reference for ya, fuck I can be so relatable. In the end Piss Lovin Piper felt incredibly violated by having her go through his personal things and asked her to leave his apartment immediately. He explained that although he found it sexy to watch girls pee he has never required anyone he was with to do so for his sexual gain. Chivalry ain’t dead ya’ll! She began apologizing profusely and insisting they just forget about the whole situation and go for breakfast. He kicked her out cold and firmly told her it was over. I suggested we go have a photo shoot in the restroom and send him some titillating toilet selfies tp patch things up but she promised there was zero chance of reconciliation.

The moral of this story is don’t look for things unless you are fully prepared to find something less than fantastic. Scanning through his personal photo’s may delight you with glee or you could find something else entirely like a fetish for pee. Because if you… urine trouble.

Conscious Uncoupling – Friend Edition

Breaking up with a friend is signicantly more difficult then dumping some shmuck who is in his 6th year of community college, thinks Crossfit is a legitimate excuse for a real job and doesn’t know what fucking burrata cheese is. I have only dumped one friend (reference: here) and approached the situation like a drug addict slowly weening off crystal meth. I would love to say we just drifted apart and outgrew eachother but that was not the case… she just kind of sucked. I should mention I may not be a sensational human being, but I am an amazing friend. Said ex freidn used to be this wholesome and sweet Catholic girl who wore Ann Taylor sweater sets and watch Golden Girls with you on a lonely Friday night. As soon as that bitch hit month 2 of college she started penetrating anything with a scrotum and a pulse… she pounded Franzia out of the bag and spent hours at a fraternity telling people how she always gets mistaken for Keri Russell. After porking her 147th guy of the semester she lovingly told me that I was the “ugly friend” and was lucky to be friends with her so I could meet guys. Delusion is a precious gift.

In hindsight, I wish I had taken up a small drug addiction in lieu of our friendship… something chic like cocaine. It could give me such an edge, not to mention a protruding clavicle bone and maybe even a deviated septum so I could have an insurance paid rhinoplasty. Maybe in my next lifetime…Anyone who knows me knows confrontation gives me severe anxiety. I am a coward I prefer hiding behind the security of my computer and passive aggressively blogging about my issues rather than meeting for drinks at The Brass Monkey and address them face to face a la Kelly Bensimon and Bethenny Frankel (does anybody get this reference?). So how do you know when you should break up with a friend? Well for one, if a name immediately popped into your head upon reading this post … that’s probably a clear indicator. I have people in my life I have simply grown apart from, feel are inauthentic or I simply can’t fucking stand. It’s like friendship Darwinism. I am not even entirely sure what Darwinism is but I am going with it and you should to. So you have found yourself in a platonic friendship that drives you to the pharmacist for a Xanax refill, what should you do?

  1. Determine their role in the motion picture of your life. Is this your quirky office friend? The fun girl you bring out to the bars? The bitch that makes you laugh and take your mind off things? Or the person you call when you get dumped to bring you raw cookie dough and vodka? There are a million types of friends ranging from convenient acquaintances to borderline lesbionic life partners and then everything in between. Ditching a bitch you get teppanyaki with once a year and ditching your childhood friend who spoke at your Bat Mitzvah is a totally different animal.
  2. Evaluate the situation. Have you been spending to much time together? Is this a temporary annoyance? What are they really bringing to the table? Do you have fun with this person? Do you feel supported and supportive of this person? Are you mestrual? Breaking up with a friend is a serious life move and should not be taken lightly. Like Lauren Conrad once icily stated to her ex-bff Heidi Montag “I want to forgive you and I want to forget you.” A bitch just can’t come back from that.
  3. Really think: is the split worth it? Unless you tried to kill my dog or have become a vegan, I probably wouldn’t find any other reason to end a friendship abruptly. I may screen your calls and casually unfollow you on Instagram but that would be the extent of my pursuits. I have always said it is easier to keep it kosher and get along with people then have to worry about going out and having “beef”.
  4. Consider it may not be them, it could be you. This is a harsh reality every bitch needs to deal with. I call this the Tamra Barney factor – if it’s “everybody else” it’s probably you. They say the definition of insanity is doing the same thing over and over and expecting different results (or something like that #collegedropout). How many old friends are still in your life? If the answer is none, your probably an asshole and need to cling on to any chum you have in a 5 mile radius.

Girlfriends are like a bag of jelly belly’s… some are sweet, some are sour, some our your faves, some are there just to fill the bag and some just ain’t your flavor. But before you impulsively ditch a bitch because she bought you a pair of Sketcher Shape-Ups for your birthday, think about what you’re leaving behind and if your figure is prepared for yet another breakup.

Skinny Bitch Piña Colada

I was going to do a VMA recap but… I don’t fucking feel like it. Recaps are so annoying. I will say Ariana Grande is too talented to keep dressing like the spokesperson for Wet Seal lingerie, Taylor Swift moves like a limp green bean with a minor case of cerebral palsy (although Shake it Off is my jam) and Yonce is STILL on my mouth like liquor…. Every female in the music industry should be EMBARASSED #queenbey.

If you don’t follow me on Instagram you are really missing out… I am like the Martin Scorcese of fucky 15 second instavids (@jackieschimmel #plug). Yesterday, continuing my pain in the ass world tour – vacation edition, I was lusting for a poolside pina colada in a big way. It is rare I have these fruity cocktail cravings since the only thing I drink is dirty martinis. Until yesterday I had been convinced a “Phil Collins” was just a super popular gin drink… awkward. Now I eat like a diabetic truck driver but I WILL turn down for liquid calories. 500 calories for one fucking drink? No thanks, I would rather have a burger. I have to keep my shit together, I have my television debut in a few weeks (I will be on Watch What Happens Live on Bravo 9/14 #doubleplug) and have no intention of doing any type of exercise. One of my cocktail making tricks is the importance of a good shaker. I make ALL my drinks in a shaker, it’s like an irresponsible arm work out. Another trick is swapping out ice cubes (which tend to dilute the happy juice) for fresh fruit popsicle chunks. I don’t mean loading up your drink with some syrupy bullshit – I am talking either real frozen fruit or some 100% juice popsicles. My faves are a watermelon mint popsicle (48 mutha fuckin calories) found at specialty markets and coconut water fruit floes from Trader Joes (perfect for this recipe). Here is my super easy Skinny Bitch Pina Colada recipe that will not result in a muffin top or a hangover.

This is hands down the most awkward video of all time. Bottoms up bitches.

Gorgonzola In My Gucci

I realize the title of this post sounds like a sick sexual innuendo but calm your boners… I am not even sure what this article is about but it seemed super funny last night. Shut up. Yesterday I hit a new low point. I don’t offer up these morsels of truth lightly and was forced into the realization that I’m slowly but surely becoming my grandmother. For the record she is next level fabulous and my favorite human being ever. She also requires that even standard t-shirts be steamed and travel in garment bags and averages 3 send backs per restaurant visit all while lovingly stroking the waiters arm and referring to them as “babe”. She can get away with just about anything and I admire that.

I don’t know if it happened all at once or after slowly testing the waters and having it come so naturally went balls deep. The key to being a high maintenance bitch is doing it all in a really overly nice self-deprecating manner and with enough persistence that people will eventually succumb just to get rid of you.  So my boo and I headed to Palm Springs to celebrate my birthday, drink a shit ton of blended drinks, get a tan and hang out with the gays poolside. Heaven.

After moving rooms 3 times (the first didn’t have enough natural light, the second had bad energy and the third was the last available) we settled in and I did my standard post check-in run through. Robes? Check. View? Check. Small children adjacent? Check. FUCK. I don’t want to sound like a she-devil but small children can be such a buzzkill. I would love to say I am someone who finds all children precious… I don’t. I headed to the pool and was welcomed by a tidal wave from some little screaming bastard who was at least 11 years old with water wings, a scuba mask and a fucking cast (unsanitary) cannon-balling into the pool #birthcontrol. His mother looked on in her trucker hat and Coors Light, “Tim don’t forget the bathroom is just over there.” Basically proclaiming her meatball shit of a son was not only infecting the waters with his open flesh but also had an inclining to pee in the pool. Something feels wrong about putting a water wing on a casted arm right? Put little Timmy back in his cage.

I called the waiter over and ordered an adult beverage asap “light on the mix, heavy on the pour *wink”. This has a 50/50 success rate. After chugging my drink, asking the waiter if they could turn up the music to drone out the shrill sound of children, had any hypoallergenic sunscreen I could borrow and if they had an adult only pool (am I an adult?) I knew it was time to vacate. I have never had a near death experience but I was pretty sure my waiter was one request away of shanking me. Feeling his hate vibes I decided I had wreaked enough havoc and retreated back to my room to get ready for dinner. I got in my robe and realized I was having a wild craving for a blue cheese martini. What like you haven’t had that craving? Instantly I started dialing local restaurants “Hi! Sorry I know this seems strange but do you guys have blue cheese stuffed olives?” After 3 disappointing phone calls, I decided to take matters into my own hands like a boss ass bitch. “Babe I’ll be right back!” “Where are you going?” “Um… just going to check out the fire exit routes. Be back in a jiffer!!”

I headed to the on site restaurant at my hotel with a clear mission. As I approached the hostess, I tried to evoke my best girl next door with a warm heart and friendly smile essence. “Hi Jessica, I know this sounds absurd. Is there anyway I could just get a small side of blue cheese crumbles to go? It’s part of my paleo diet…” I don’t even know where that came from #noshame. “Sure! One sec.” I fucking love Jessica. It was then that I returned to my hotel room and began stuffing my own olives. I wrapped them in a salvaged piece of plastic wrap and hid my gorgonzola garnish in my Gucci bag. Because that’s so fucking normal…

We headed to an Italian restaurant, I radiated the scent of cheese and no matter how I tried to mask it I was one pungent pain in the ass princess. I immediately ordered my cocktail and swapped out my pimento stuffed with my homemade garnish with the finesse of a true bitch. My boyfriend looked at me horrified. I am a boundary pusher by default but this was a new low. What’s more bizarre is I found this in no way strange. “What? I wanted blue cheese stuffed olives in my drink. Fuck off.” It was then that the waiter came over and looked down at my drink like he just birthed a transgender. He was so confused, I awkwardly laughed and told him I had brought my own blue cheese olives. “Haha! My manager told me someone had called about that earlier. You’re nuts!” Excuse me? Shit he was totally right. Am I a desperate control freak or just a complete pain in the ass? How long have I been getting away with this? This may have been my high maintence breaking point but the beauty of this downward spiral is my inherent resourcefulness and will to meet my high expectations. Right? Well fuck. No shame in my game….  This is what we call a glass half full approach to life, my glass just happened to be filled with vodka (and blue cheese stuffed olives).

Not ready for this jelly.

Not ready for this jelly.

Bitch Bible Lesson: When life hands you regular martini olives, bring your own Gorgonzola and stuff them yourself. #deepthoughts


My First Dick Pic

This morning I headed to my local health food store in pursuit of the perfect organic laxatives. As I browsed the aisles I found a “healthy” looking woman milling around the same section, we immediately were kindred constipated spirits… I could just see it in her eyes. I flashed her a knowing smile that said “We will get through this, the prune juice is on aisle 3” non-verbally obvs. She smiled back and said “You know you look exactly like that celebrity… oh goodness what’s her name!” As she reached for the name I offered a few suggestions “Beyonce? Gisele? Blake?” “Oh I know who!!!! Julia Stiles” How is anybody supposed to act like that is a fucking compliment, I could have killed that backed up bitch. JULIA STILES?! I would rather she said I looked like Chaz Bono mid sex-change. Needless to say, my day wasn’t off to a great start. Then I got home and this happened….

And in cases you bitches were not privy to my little Julia Stiles joke at the end, this is what I was referring to.


Prude & Prejudice

A lady never forgets her first crush and definitely never forgets her first biracial union. This little bitch was down for the swirl in a big way. I am sure many of you are privy to my early case of jungle fever (reference here). For me, it wasn’t as much a sexual preference as a commitment to civil rights… It’s hard being a humanitarian at such a young age. His name was *Denzel (I will be protecting his real identity like a class act) and we met at summer camp. He had seductively spikey hair, a solo diamond earring and was the best basketball player in the whole camp. That’s not racist, it was the fucking truth. My Hershey heartthrob could ball so hard motha-fuckas wanna fine him #thatshitcray. In hindsight, I should have considered it a red flag to date a guy who was allowed to have his ears pierced before me. Who the fuck has that kind of accessory confidence before your balls even drop?

I was 7 years old and it was my first year at an all day summer camp. My mother packed me my store bought California roll and organic soda, I grabbed my roll-on lip gloss, strapped on my jelly sandals and was ready to tear shit up. I remember feeling that this summer was going to be my foray into adulthood. I stepped into that camp convinced I was going to immediately grow boobs and know how to do long division through osmosis. I was directed towards my counselor and what looked like a seriously disappointing group of camp mates… That’s when I spotted Denzel in all of his hazelnut frappucino glory. He had like 8 Tamagotchi’s on his back pack #pantydropper and was clad in USC gear. I was praying for a trustfund but would settle with a basketball scholarship. Our counselor led a few ice breaker games and then insisted we utilize the buddy system. I was on that shit like white on brown rice “Wanna be buddies?” Cool, calm, collected AND Caucasian. It was so meant to be! He immediately agreed and we spent the day glued at the hip. I swapped a California roll for his Doritos, we EROTICALLY shared a Capri Sun and frolicked down the waterslide drunk in love. 


Only 4 days at summer camp and I was in my first committed relationship. By Friday, Denzel was ready to take things to the next level. Anal. (IM FUCKING JOKING) As we parted ways for our gender segregated bathroom break, Denzel grabbed my arm and aggressively pecked me on the cheek. As soon as his lips left my face he sprinted to the bathroom leaving me alone cloaked in shame. I couldn’t believe how forward he was. What kind of prepubescent did he think I was? Should I have traded out my triangle top bikini for a more modest tankini like some of the inland empire campers? What kind of whore did he take me for? Should I start wearing bermuda shorts to leave a bit of mystery? Who knew I was omitting such an intense sexual energy before I was even allowed to shower unsupervised. I felt the tears start to well up and all the color drain from my face. I really couldn’t afford to lose any more melatonin, I was in a biracial union for fuck’s sake. Paralyzed with promiscuity I ran to the main office and demanded I call my mother to take me home. “Mom something really bad happened with a boy in my group, I need to come home.” My yenta mother called up the family attorney and was there within 4 minutes ready to cut a bitch.

She pulled me out of there and took me out to the parking lot so I could explain what had happened. My poor mothers mind was already planning a Megan’s Law protest outside the camp building when I finally confided in her that Denzel had kissed me. “Like a movie star kiss?” “No.” “Like on the lips?” “No.” “Like on the cheek?” “YES!” Tears of shame ran down my face, I couldn’t even look at myself. 7 years old and already a total slut. “HONEY… you are this upset over a boy kissing you on the cheek? You are such a prude!” Having my mother call me prude at 7 years old will continue to be the low point of my life. She dragged me back into camp and insisted I stay. Unfortunately, camp administration had already gotten a hold of Denzel and ridiculed him for his inappropriate behavior. My mother profusely apologized and they all shared a good laugh at my expense. I was beyond embarrassed by my blatant inexperience and desperately needed to patch things up with my life partner. I ran to Denzel with the conviction of Rosa Parks and the love of my young heart ready to reconcile. I met him at the lunch tables, our “spot”, and expressed how sorry I was for telling on him. Things were just moving so fast and I got scared. He sipped on his Capri Sun and looked at me blankly and said “I don’t like white girls anymore.” Excuse me fuckhead? We didn’t speak the rest of the summer and he was dating a new Asian hooker by the end of the day. So cliché.

I was just an open minded girl who got seriously fucked by tasting the swirl. I don’t know what became of Denzel. Whether he ever made it to USC, dated another white Jewish girl with ethnic hair or had to pawn his Tamagotchi collection to afford a second earring. Love may see no color, but Denzel certainly did.