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.



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.


  • 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

A Plea of Desperation

To Whom it May Concern:

Hello, my name is Jackie Schimmel. I am a whipper snapper in my mid-twenties with an affinity for daytime sequins and a very sexual relationship with a good dry-aged gouda. I spend many nights home alone with my precious purebred pooch Leo sipping an ice chip clad dirty martini whilst in a plush robe. I often find myself snuggled by the fireplace watching some vintage Real Housewife episodes and throwing things at the television when Gretchen Rossi comes on the screen in one of her heinous outfits. It is in these blissful moments where I appreciate life and find solace in my alone time.

In the past few weeks, these moments I used to hold near and dear have become seriously fucked up. I hope I am not the only bitch that has recently suffered from the overflow of horror film trailers plaguing my television screen. Not only do I have to worry about fucking Ebola and running for cover whenever I hear someone out in public with a southern accent, I now have to deal with seeing the trailer for Annabelle every time I want to escape my daily disgruntles with reality television. It is wrong, terrifying and doesn’t sit well with me NOR with my Xanax prescription. I see this fucking trailer everywhere.  I love (some) children but I swear to fucking God if I had a kid that got possessed by a doll, I would not be headed to a church for an exorcism… I would be headed to the fire station #byefelicia.

So please, whoever you are, stop playing these wildly frightening trailers in the middle of Barefoot Cuntessa and Below Dick. It sends my serotonin levels on a roller coaster I am not equipped to handle, and also makes me want to personally dismember each and every one of my collector American Girl Dolls I had to hound my gentile Grandparents for.



The Mile High (Blood Pressure) Club

Howdy bitches!

I have been in Nashville past few days eating fried gator, drinking beer and hiding my Judaism. Unfortunately my hotel doesn’t have Bravo (already complained to management) and there will be no recap this week. On a lighter note, Jim Marchese tweeted me and I was able to tell him personally about my distaste for his light wash denim #troll.

True to form my pilgrimage to get here was… interesting. Anyone who knows me knows I have the shittiest luck on planes. There was the time when I was 12 and got hit by a Dutch woman for kicking her seat, the time the crypt keeper 95 year old had a heart attack in my lap on my way home from London AND MOST RECENTLY the time I sat next to Shamu’s obese fire-crotched cousin on my flight to Nashville.

I get that obesity is kind of a disease and this is politically incorrect (I can already hear the aggressive emails flooding my inbox) BUT as human beings we must be mindful of our pros and cons. For instance, I am fully aware a con of mine is my incessant need to share my digestive issues with strangers. And I probably should stop saying “fuck” so much.

Because of these truths, I try to limit my exposure to small children, Mormons and holistic practitioners. If one more fucker tries to insist exercise will help my bowel movements I am going to flip… doesn’t anyone get that I am the pioneer woman for “Say NO To Cardio”?

I should clarify I have no problem with fat people. I appreciate their lifestyle and plan to be amongst their body type one day.

As I settled into my chic economy middle seat, I was incredibly pleased with my seatmate to the left (a mid-30s New Yorker with 3 phones, a Balenciaga bag full of sleeping pills and a standoffish personality – no potential for idle chit chat). The plane was very full and mere seconds away from take off. And sweet – I am next to an open seat!

As soon as a smile of relief spread across my face, the plane shook disturbingly. I choked on the smell of bacon and diabetes as a behemoth took his first step down the aisle. I looked up hesitantly…Fuck. Sure enough, he sat right next to me. Fuck. He had worn sweatpants and was armed with a bag of McDonalds – ready to rumble.

It’s one thing to fly coach, it’s another thing to fly next to someone you could skin, inflate and live inside of. For the first time in my life, I became a victim of the armrest boundary free passenger program. I am not someone who is great sharing personal space and most definitely not a bitch who was ready to be a human pillow for a 4-hour flight. The flight attendant assured me I would have to retract my armrest so that my flight mate could fit in his (and my) seat. Pardon?  Booboo passed out after his 8th Big Mac and I was stuck watching the Main Menu and scrambling the letters to make words because he was drooling on my shoulder and blocking my armrest remote with his fucking tricep.

In reality he had 1 1/2 seats for himself and I had only half of my own seat and a near panic attack. Despite my frugality, I tried flagging the stewardess and begging her for the open seat in first class. Trying to arrange this without waking (and offending) the beast was a struggle and ultimately not an option.

I probably wouldn’t have written about this if he was a nice person I could empathize with but he was a life ruiner.

About 2 hours in, I needed a Bloody Mary or I was going to jump out of an emergency exit. To paint a picture – big boy was lounging across our seats, spread eagle, straddling both his and my leg area, and SNORING. His ham hock of a foot (shoes off by the way) was plopped down on my travel bag. I wanted to shank myself. I had to get my credit card out to pay and needed him to get his sweaty ass foot off my shit.

I gave him a gentle tap… no response. I tapped more aggressively.

“Hi sir, so sorry to bother you, just needed to grab my wallet. Again, so sorry to bother you.”

I know via written word I seem like I would be one ballsy bitch but the truth is I am a total pussy in real life.

He looked at me like I had just eaten the last petal of his Awesome Blossom. He let out an irritated sigh accompanied with an eye roll.


The stewardess handed me my beverage with an empathetic smile and I quickly sucked it down. I really had no choice, I was unable to put my tray down without chaffing Ginger Snaps’ nipple. I swallowed my pride and let Rotundra abuse my personal space. I am now a proud member of the mile high blood pressure club.

American Airlines – you owe me a free flight and at least 67 drink coupons. Kisses.