LET’S GET GILFY

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 jackie@thebitchbible.com

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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.

#bitchandbubby

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.

A Mother’s Love (& Impending Therapy Bills)

Yesterday, I had the delight of being forced into a Ladies of Leisure outing with my mother and Aunt Jodie. These outings are common and usually quite enjoyable. My mother loves about five things unconditionally: sushi, horror movies, Ronald Reagan, Chardonnay, and her American Express. When she can intersect at least three of these things in one day she really loses her shit.

She proposed the three of us go for a nice sushi lunch and then go to see a movie. Uni on someone else’s dime can pretty much guarantee my presence to anything. “Jackie, want to come to my anal bleaching appointment and then to put my dog down? I’ll take you to Matsuhisa after.” “Sounds like a blast, I am there!”

It was only after my mother baited me with overpriced yellowtail that she broke the news that her movie selection was fucking Annabelle. OH HELL NO BITCH. I am scared of EVERYTHING. As a child I was terrified of Bert & Ernie from Sesame Street for fuck’s sake – I thought they seemed sketchy and rapey. Once I matriculated to elementary school I developed a fear of invisible whales and would drop turkey in the pool to see if it disappeared – Free Willy really fucked my ass up.

I refuse to go to haunted houses, hope all black cats go extinct, and contribute 40% of my religious beliefs in Judaism to the fact that NO WEIRD SHIT GOES DOWN AT A SYNAGOGUE. Think about it… most horror films have something to do with a church, a priest and the Devil. No one ever started levitating at a Shabbat Dinner over kosher wine and Bubby’s brisket. Just saying…

Anyways, nothing about my spirit bode well with seeing an ACTUAL horror film. My mother ordered me hot sake and told me she would get me some popcorn, Raisinettes and a random Neiman Marcus gift card she found in her car.

Further catapulting this already frightening situation…. My mother thought it would be hilarious to bring this Halloween prop in her purse to bust out in the middle of the movie.

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WHAT KIND OF SICK BITCH WOULD DO THIS TO HER OWN FLESH AND BLOOD?

Midway through the movie, I had lost six pounds, was covering my eyes and plugging my ears while simultaneously bobbing my head blindly into a bucket of popcorn. I kept looking over at my mother and mouthing “I HATE YOU.” My real life Mommy Dearest was clearly enjoying my despair and decided during the height of the movie to bust out her little prop. She slyly wrapped her arm around me from behind and casually rested the prosthetic limb gently on my shoulder. I looked and immediately shot up from my seat screaming “WHAT THE FUCK!”

The only thing that kept me from going into full cardiac arrest was the fact that the hand seemed partially African-American and I down with the swirl. My mother was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. This incident has caused quite a strain in our relationship and I still have not recovered. I can’t sleep, refuse to forgive my mother and will never go within 5 miles of an American Girl Doll store. However, if there is a one-armed Milano dreamboat out in the world, hit a bitch up.

Laws of Distraction

This is my best childhood friend Dan… he actually had the audacity to post this on the internet. He has since deleted the photo after much backlash but luckily I have it saved on my hardrive and look at it whenever I feel down and out. Dan is a good guy and has a hott girlfriend despite thinking publishing this pic on the internet was socially acceptable. Let’s examine this shall we? A) The sunset picture in the backround SCREAMS homosexual. Seriously? B) He is wearing fucking sunglasses indoors and a hemp bracelet he probably bought at Whole Foods while he was picking up an Acai bowl. C) Clearly he has chosen the beautiful atmosphere of the lavatory for this glamour shot which means he either just went to the bathroom and recognized the good lighting OR he relocated to the bathroom solely for a photo op … I am not sure which is worse. D) He has skillfully unbuttoned his shirt which catapults this pic to a level of nausea that makes me want to become a lesbian AND put myself down. There are a myriad (big word) of simple mistakes men can make on a daily basis that need to be addressed and discontinued. Here are some fail proof parcels of wisdom to serve as a guiding light for all males, whether it be the douchiest of douches or the catchiest of catches.

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  • Don’t fucking poke a bitch on Facebook. Poking is like virtual rape. 2007 called and wants it’s fun new feature back.
  • Don’t share results to the Buzzfeed quiz you took on what Saved By The Bell character you are. No one gives a shit that you got AC Slater.
  • Cool it with the emojis. This goes hand and hand with the poking… It all screams Megan’s Law.
  • Humble bragging is for guys who don’t get laid. Any guy that has ever said “Work hard, play hard” or “Rise and grind” might as well just give up now and apply as a Manager at Taco Bell cause that is as good as it is going to get.
  • Don’ take a selfie EVER but most definitely NOT at the gym. If you wan’t to really impress a bitch snap a picture of your real estate portfolio. Being at the gym on a weekday at 2pm is not admirable #parttime.
  • If you are asking a bitch to dinner, call her don’t invite via text. Granted she will probably not pick up but it is the thought that counts. Also, make a reservation.
  • BUTTON UP YOUR FUCKING SHIRT. Listen Fabio, no one wants to get a chest hair in their martini so close up shop guido.
  • If you drive a fucking Mitsubushi don’t take the emblem off and put a spoiler on it in the lucky case you pick up a bitch with a stigmatism who thinks it’s a Lambo.
  • Topics of conversations to avoid: student loans, dead relatives, your fraternity, music festivals, the time you went Vegan, the weather, calories, crossfit, your mother.
  • Don’t serve a bitch a drink in a plastic cup. Also bonus points if you have snacks (I suggest a triple crème brie and proscuitto… or bagel bites)
  • Loving your mom is great. Still being breast fed at age 27 and needing her input on which tie he should wear to a work function is fucking weird.
  • If you have red sheets you need to re-evaluate your life choices.
  • Tell a girl she looks pretty, memorize her drink order and never buy carnations #fillerflowers.

You’re welcome.

In Filters We Trust

I want to delete my Facebook so fucking bad. Without sounding like an asshole, the only reason I have one is to shamelessly self promote and cyber stalk.

Instagram however, is like a slutty little sister. On one hand she drives me nuts – but at the same time makes me feel better about my life. Sure you may have to take her to planned parenthood on a weekday but she will also capture you looking your best with a protruding clavicle and a fresh blow dry #MAYFAIRFILTERBITCH. It’s an internal battle I am just not mature enough to handle. The problem with our generation is that we think what we are eating, wearing, cooking, looking at from traffic, or how we looked as babies all are both interesting and relevant to others. The truth is no one really gives a fuck – we are in this social media clusterfuck for our own benefit and publicity.

I am 100% guilty of this.

98% of photos on my Instagram have been posed, propped and assembled with perfect lighting. I will let meals get cold finding just the right angle to display my domesticity with the perfect shot of my homemade linguini and clams. Does this make me a fucking loser? Most definitely.

If I were clever enough to understand Photoshop I would let myself go and live solely through my warped reality of Instagram. I could Photoshop myself in Aruba with Adriana Lima’s body sipping a chi chi despite the fact that I am really home alone raping a baguette with butter. I would get this 5 pound weave out of my scalp and give it back to the Ukranian hooker who sold it for a pretty penny (albeit a hooker who’s been taking her fish oil because this hair is shiny as fuck #omega3).

Social media makes our daily doings seem glamorous and unintentionally pushes us to try harder. We now pay more attention to garnishing our homemade meals with basil, embellishing our outfits for a #ootd gram and have seriously upped our nail game. So in reality… it’s just making us better dressed, better housewives and better at forming relationships with the Vietnamese. “Flowa fo yo nail?” No bitch, unless I am under the age of 6 or have some type of crippling mental disability I don’t want a fucking flower.

In the real world we can’t edit, brighten, caption or add music to our moments in time. We get pimples, wear sweatpants, drink mojitos out of things other than mason jars or are only seen in a bikini after a small bout of the stomach flu. Essentially, it’s all just a curated highlights collection of our life. As much as it would be a real hoot and a half to upload a picture of an allergic reaction after a faulty bikini wax – I would much rather broadcast my new Gucci shoes I had to sell an ovary for.

So go ahead bitch, stand in front of a rustic brick wall, look out into the distance while someone “candidly” snaps a pic of the outfit you spent 4 hours putting together #fallfashion. Lose a finger in the process of julienning fresh chives to garnish your store-bought lentil soup #homemade. Awkwardly hold a kiss until you get the perfectly loving snap of you and your boyfriend of 2 weeks who has a small penis and an even smaller savings account #truelove #mcm and always remember… everything looks better with a filter.

@jackieschimmel … #iwokeuplikethis