Spice Girls photographed backstage at the Brit Awards in February 1997 .;  (Photo by Ray Burmiston/Photoshot/Getty Images)

Faux Feminism

I am over faux feminism even more than gluten free baked goods. Maybe I am ignorant, delusional or as Kylie Jenner called me “the downfall to our gender”. I consider myself a very strong, successful-ish, proud woman. Granted, I capitalize on glorifying the term bitch and wear the label loud and proud. I try not to get political or speak on social issues mostly because I am a college dropout and don’t spend enough time researching my stance. One thing I cannot seem to hide from is the oh so trendy cause of the moment; Faux Feminism. Before you start throwing tampons at me, let me be clear, I am an authentic feminist. I owned 15 collectors edition Spice Girl dolls for fucks sake. What I can’t get down with, is the bullshit faux-femme crusade raping my content state of womanhood.

Before we call anyone a true feminist we should question whether they are victimizing or glorifying us as the fabulous bitches we are. If we want to truly be equals constantly separating ourselves seems pretty fucking stupid. When we make things about gender, race, age or social status we detract from the solutions and actually create more of a divide.

As far as in concerned women are vessels for human life, aren’t expected to pay for their own drinks AND have way stronger chances of surviving any cruise ship that hits an iceberg #neverletgoJack. Women are fucking superheroes. Civilization literally depends on us. Besides being able to pee in public with more finesse, I don’t see why being a man is necessarily easier than being a women.

I am not an idiot, I know the statistics (kinda) but also know that bashing men is not productive. Do all feminists hate the male population, get offended by basic chivalry and want the term semester to be called the ovester? No. Do those particular feminists deviate from the basic principles of equality? Fuck yes.

I feel like the major problem here is quite a few “feminists” are actually detrimental to basic Girl Power #bitchyspice. Women posting pictures of themselves scantily clad all for feminism? Bitch please. You just had a tape worm and are feeling yourself. It’s not a crime, own it. Don’t make you taking photos of your 4 finger thigh gap a social issue. Especially if you are going to later complain about being “objectified”. You have a hott body and you want to show it off before you hit 30 and shit starts to sag, trust me I get it.

Having a man want to wine and dine you also doesn’t label you as an inferior. Um hello? Being treated like a lady should empower us and show respect. I don’t want to pay for my fucking filet on a first date so sue me. If anything being personally chauffered, fed and fawned over gives us a very obvious advantage. Hot tip: you don’t have to put out just because he let you order your own entree. For the record, assholes come in all shapes and genders. Men can be mistreated, underpaid and sexually harassed also. So if we are using men as a benchmark how does that really guarantee us equality? Ever heard of a Masculinist March? Samesies.

It’s these and so many more contradicting factors that make the trendy ideals of “feminism” so counter productive. Obviously there are far more important issues with unfair wages and other disadvantages. All I am saying is let’s focus on solutions and positive momentum instead of furthering a divide.

I fucking love being a woman. I have great boobs, can wear sequins without judgement and haven’t opened a door since 2002.  Rome wasn’t built in a day, it took years for Britney’s hair to grow back and I am still waiting for Spice Girl the Musical to come to the states. The beauty of a glass ceiling is that if properly Windex-ed you can see right through it #girlpower.


Bro You Basic

As a society and a generation, the past year has been dedicated to ridiculing the yoga-pant wearing, frappucino sucking, Marilyn Monroe quote posting Viking that IS the basic bitch. We chastise her for loving Yankee Candles and thinking red roses are tasteful. Being on the frontline of feminism (not) I decided it was my civil duty to shed light to an equally offensive group of millennials roaming the earth; the basic bro. GASP. Are you worried you are dating a basic bro? Here are some tried and true characteristics of the BB.

Flip-flops When I think of flip-flops, I think of guys in Quicksilver swim trunks holding a neon beach towel with a fucking dolphin on it and the whole visual makes me really upset. I understand that whilst poolside a mandal is convenient but if you’re a bro that’s consistently wearing flip-flops your mom bought you at Tilly’s you are basic and probably not getting laid.

Car Accessories If you are driving a fucking Mitsubishi with custom rims, racing stripes and a spoiler not only are you basic you are also everything that is wrong with society. I DON’T CARE IF YOU PIMPED YOUR YARIS OUT, YOU ARE AN ASSHOLE. I dare you to take one more picture of your Hyundai and post it on Instagram, seriously I fucking dare you.

Bottle Décor If you walk into a guys house and see an arrangement of 10+ empty bottles of alcohol displayed as home décor, first steal something from his medicine cabinet and then promptly leave. Let me be clear, having 2 empty bottles of Barefoot Pinot Grigio, 3 empty bottles of Andre and an empty handle of Svedka is not something to be proud of. What is the psychology behind this? Is it in attempt to let people know that you are DoWn To RagE hard aNy dAy ThAt ends iN y? Go fuck yourself.

Crossfit I’ll say it once, I’ll say it again. I don’t give a fuck and a half about crossfit. It’s really cool that you can do a 20 minute head stand and pull a car or whatever but like, I think it’s a misdirected use of discipline. If you are doing competitions and walking around with cinderblocks tied to your ankles but can’t afford HBO, it is time to reprioritize.

Gatorade The male equivalent of the Pumpkin Spice Latte. Duh.

Vegas Vegas is the holy land for basic bros and bitches alike, it’s basically Jerusalem. Bitches put on their polyblend bandage dresses, guys put on their Armani Exchange button downs and gross “dress shoes”, spritz themselves with Acqua di Gio and then think it’s cool to rent a white Hummer limo. Side note: Hummer limos are for Midwest proms and people who’s favorite food is Chicken Parmesan. The basic bro knows promoters, loves DJ’s and sweatily sips on a vodka redbull until he finds an equally basic counterpart to take back to his shared suite and then one day procreate with to make basic babies.



This is a new weekly post where things that are irritating me come to die. They may be resurrected a la Jesus Christ at a latter time, but in this very instance I wholeheartedly stand by my personal decision to pull the metaphorical plug if you will.

Rosé I fucking love rosé. Not some gross shit from a bag, box or bottle of 2 Buck Chuck #sulfites. I am talking REAL rosé. Without emulating Gwyneth Paltrow, real rosé is from Provence and doesn’t leave you with red rashy rosacea face like other cheap shit. As much as it pains me to say, rosé season is over. The good news is that once rosé season is over, so is bikini season so it’s time to let yourself go again. Insulate for the winter, eat a pizza, have a beer.

The Bing Bang Theory Okay. Does anyone ACTUALLY think this shit is funny? Jimmy Nuetron called and wants his graphic designer back. Watching actors in mock turtlenecks playing “nerds” while being paid a million dollars an episode seems exploitive to my intelligence. LAUGH TRACKS MAKE ME SO UNCOMFORTABLE. I can’t, I haven’t, I won’t. Ever. (But I really love Kaley Cuoco.. be friends with me?)

Yeezy x Adidas  If Jodie Sawyer from Center Stage gained 100 lbs and ended up being severely depressed and admitted to a mental institution, then whilst in solitary confinement found a stray pencil and started sketching fat binding androgynous dancewear as a solemn creative outlet – you would have Kanye’s fall collection. It’s sad, it’s manic, it’s fat binding and it’s a camel toe nightmare. These are not clothes, these are mesh full body condoms.

Paris Shit Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. I love the rude people, I love the food, I love almost everything about it… except the memorabilia. If you walk into a bitches house and she has 3 or more home décor items with a Parisian theme… grab your shit and head for the hills. When I see someone with a black and white picture of an Eiffel Tower I instantly think #daddydrama and/or Lexapro. I also hate people who caption their Instagram posts with things like “j’adore” or “je’taime”… because it’s “je’stupid”. Makes me want to punch myself in the trachea and drown myself in the Seine after engorging myself with a wheel of local brie.

Faux Senior-Citizen Hair Maybe I am just jealous that my mane doesn’t have the flexibility to change colors without deep reconstructive treatments. My hair is the blend of a pipe cleaner and a dead weed. There is not enough frizz serum and moisture masks in the world to allow me to casually die my hair grey. I will admit, I had some pink extensions put in after a run-in with Lisa Vanderpump, but shortly realized I was not pulling that shit off. So essentially I drank the kool-aid and then dipped my head in it. Why the fuck would anyone want to voluntarily look geriatric? Jamie Lee Curtis called and wants her look back.

Rest in peace.


The Sangria Stakeout

I live my life by the following guiding principles:

  1. Slow and steady only wins a Special Olympics race.
  2. Never trust anyone who wears heels and white sunglasses poolside.
  3. It’s not creepy if it’s legal.

I have discussed in major detail my recreational stalking habits. Some girls like yoga, some girls like hacking emails. Apples to apples. I have heard many a cynic tell me that bitches who patrol others personal information are insecure. Untrue, I am inherently a curious human being and take on life with an investigative approach. I wonder about tons of things. Like why is the sky blue? What hairspray did Jon Benet Ramsey use? What is my neighbor’s social security number?

Many assume that my stalking tendencies only target a prospective romantic partner. Wrong again. I stalk anything, anyone ,and anywhere with free fucking wifi. One of my fave traditions is the tried and true “Sangria Stakeout.” The “Sangria Stakeout” is a super fun and celebratory way to confirm your boo’s whereabouts.

For instance, if a guy you are dating claims to be working late, have strep throat or be volunteering for Habitat for Humanity on a Saturday night – a bitch has the right to follow up. A casual drive by is so 2009 and quite frankly, an amateur move. After discussing this on my podcast, I felt I owed my bitches a more detailed explanation of how to execute such a manic milestone of your own.

First things first, you will need a borrowed car with tinted windows (preferably sans license plate) or a classic rape van (preferably with curtained windows and electrical hook ups). Once you have secured a stakeout vessel, you need the right company. Leave your shit stirring buzzkill friend at home. Gays really thrive in this type of social setting. Also invite anybody that knows how to put together a chic charcuterie platter. Atmosphere is crucial during a Sangria Stakeout so make a themed playlist to set the mood.

Here are some suggestions:

  1. “Every Breath You Take” by The Police
  2. “Creep” by TLC
  3. “I Drove All Night” by Celine Dion

In the common chance you find your love interest NOT at home with a yeast infection but instead, pregaming a night on the town with some hussy in a polyblend Bebe dress… you are going to need a cocktail. Sangria is the perfect beverage because it’s lower in alcohol content, travels well, could be mistaken for spa water by the police and just seems festive as fuck. A bitch keeps it simple: White wine, Sprite Zero/Club Soda, peaches, strawberries, lemon slices and mint. VOILÀ.

If you are at all hesitant to round up your bitches, rent a rape van and invest in a good manchego, just remember that knowing a disappointing truth is better than forever wondering… Information is power, people are shady and Sangria Stakeout’s are legal. Think about it.

High Hopes, Low Expectations

For my gentile readers who may not have known, we are amidst the Jewish New Year formally known as Rosh Hashanah. It is one of the only days where frizzy haired Jews head to the nearest synagogue to husband hunt, swap rhinoplasty stories and judge each other’s temple ensembles. It is also the beginning of a 10 day period of reflection and repentance.

It has always been my favorite holiday because it gives me a January 1st redo and this bitch LIVES for a good list, this being the faux-intentioned resolution list I get to make for myself and others not once, but TWICE a year. Naturally I have zero intention of following any of these but those who can’t reflect, deflect. So….

  1. Ban the following articles from my wardrobe; maxi dresses, peplum, crochet monokinis, any embellished headbands, moccasins, wedge sneakers, mesh insert dresses, vests and anything made of vegan fabric… ew.
  2. Stop body shaming my boyfriend. One amazing trick to a happy and healthy relationship is to keep your better half humble. I like to slowly but surely create completely false insecurities to keep people I love appreciative and indebted to me for my brutal honesty and understanding. I often refer to my significant as “pear shaped” when in reality is eggplant shaped and hott as fuck. I still find this to be hilarious but also really want him to put the money he may invest in thigh gap lipo towards an engagement ring so I guess I will stop.
  3. Learn the difference between a city, state and country. I was too busy trying to reconstruct the texture of my jew-fro and cultivating charisma in middle school to pay attention in Geography. It’s called Google Maps bitch. HOWEVER, I thought Hawaii was it’s own country up until 7 weeks ago which is not ideal. I also thought Isis was a new upscale snow cone shop.
  4. Instill a lifelong Kardashian Kleanse. I will no longer be discussing them. I am trying to be a fucking intellect over here and they no longer fit into my new cerebral life #growth.
  5. Incorporate some form of physical activity in my day to day life. I hate people who say they “love to exercise” I think anyone who says that is a dirty liar. I personally love eating whatever I want without consequences a fuck lot more then busting my ass on a treadmill. I don’t drink water because I am being respectful of the drought and I avoid anything gluten free because I have a fucking SOUL. Regardless, it would be nice to be able to make it up a flight of stairs without a side cramp.
  6. Stop cussing so fucking much.
  7. No longer use my digestive system as a go-to topic of conversation at social gatherings. As much as the bartender making my dirty martini is wildly riveted by my state of constipation, I think it is time for me to be more selective and mysterious in regards to my bowel movements. I like to think acknowledging my food baby is a great way to bond with a stranger but apparently some people think it’s uncomfortable.

Wish me luck and Shana Tova bitches.


Dear Gwyneth,

It’s been awhile since we spoke. I have sent a few nudes to Noah in efforts to pull a Mary Kay Letourneau situation (like only when he is legal) but haven’t heard from him either. Whatevs. I hope everything is going great for you, I imagine you are somewhere in Côte d’Azur calling your house staff by the wrong names and muddling organic tarragon and Apple’s tears for a new signature Goop cocktail. I hope to one day sit next to you on the porch of one of your many vacation homes and laugh at poor people together, but until then being pen pals will just have to do.

I thought it was really blue collar of you to do the NYC Food Stamp challenge for a few hours awhile ago. You are like an imported organic Cippolini onion, so many layers yet so unattainable. I felt for a moment a less Goopy Gwyneth was coming, like a blonde truffle-infused Phoenix Rising. I was even able to find a dishtowel for sale on your website that would only set me back $175. Can you say #downtoearth? All you needed was one public drive through at a McDonalds and a Taylor Swift concert cameo away from being America’s slightly less pretentious Sweetheart again. Was the Priestess of Goop becoming more relatable?

Clearly I had spoken too soon because shortly after this possible breakthrough I received your September Goop Newsletter. Besides you breaking world news and bravely stating that “Pokē is having a moment”, featuring a super practical cotton zip-up sweatshirt for $1,198, debuting your FALL 2015 CULTURE GUIDE which almost sent me into cardiac arrest –AND you also tickled my pretentious pickle with this recipe for “Beauty Milk”. The ingredients include pumpkin seed milk, Moon Pantry tocotrienols, lucuma, schisandra berry and fucking PEARL.


I’m sorry for yelling at you, I just got a little heated about asking my Trader Joe’s sale clerk where I could find the organic tocotrienols (preferably locally sourced) for my Goop Beauty Milk. I don’t care if this milk could turn Shrek into Jennifer Lopez YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO SELL AN OVARY TO AFFORD ANY RECIPE ON FUCKING GOOP. I would rather be ugly and still have my dignity.

I hope you understand where I am coming from and we can talk this over in person soon. Please know that I will always love you and never plan on unsubscribing from the Goop newsletter but only because it enrages me so much my heart rate increases and I end up burning lots of calories. Stay goopy girl and let me know when Noah turns 18.

Love always,



I Hate Target & So Should You

I have been having a series of epiphanies for the last 3 months. First I realized and accepted the fact that I have never and WILL never think the television show “Friends” is funny. Then I realized that while I often talk about pop culture and celebrity gossip, I am capitalizing off of people who are most likely better looking and more talented than I which makes me hypocritical and also semi-stupid. But yesterday I may have experienced the harshest realization of all… one that not only sequesters myself from humanity but also seems totally unpatriotic. My name is Jackie Schimmel and I fucking HATE Target. If you have already blocked me on Instagram and put me on your hit list right above Abu Nazir, please give me a moment to explain myself.

The first thing that aroused my Target-hatred was my deep confusion with the checkout process at fucking Target. WHAT DICKHEAD DESIGNED THE DOUBLE CASHIER LANES? Am I in line for register 1 or 3? Why is there only gross Aquafina available in the drink cooler? How many chain restaurant gift cards, Eos chapsticks and travel packed Wet Wipes am I supposed to be distracted with before I realize that I have been waiting 37 minutes to buy a subpar Sonia Kashuk makeup brush?

Another thing that grinds my gears are the endless Designer collaborations. The whole reason you BUY actual designer clothing is to insure it’s not made of polyester and on a shelf next to a pair of Mossimo mom jeans. I will admit I was a consenting victim to the Missoni for Target riot of 2010. I pulled my labia after shoving an innocent housewife out of my way for the chevron coffee mugs. Now Nate Berkus gets to hawk $25 gold office staplers and people think they are fashion forward and progressive because they own something designed by Oprahs token homo. No, just no.

Sometimes you can’t just hate the game, you can also hate the players.. Targets customer demographic is one that I have tried to avoid like a Nigerian plague. It’s not that I hate white people in stretch pants with excess fat children, it’s just that I hate everything they stand for. Every time I drive up to a Target and see the surplus of mini vans and women in orthopedic footwear, a part of my soul dies and I consider leaving the country. People, if you are in Target buying economy sized barrels of Cheese Puffs which you allow your offspring to start eating in the checkout line, you need to seriously re-evaluate your life choices.

And beyond all this bullshit, nothing is that good of a deal. I can say with full confidence that all alcohol, toiletries, home decor and electronics are equal to or exceed the price of any other major retailers. Last week I spent $1.79 on fucking GREEN ONIONS at Target. Mossimo can go fuck themselves with their $29.99 cotton zip up hoodies and Merona should burn in hell for even thinking that thin brimmed fedoras are still marketable.

Target is the enemy. Target is insulting our integrity and intelligence. Target is everything that’s wrong with America in a big red box. Target even gave their own fucking mascot a black (red) eye.


Expect less, pay more.