Goop Gift Guide 2015

There are times when I really start to question humanity and spiritual justice in this world. But just when my faith has almost dissipated the universe throws me a bone and I can see the light once again. Normally these spiritual awakenings come to me in the form of a Goop Gift Guide. Nothing and I repeat NOTHING gets my blood boiling, my heart bursting and my palms sweating like the release of a super Goopy curated list of things that nobody could or should have.

Like not that I am some fucking humanitarian but there are kids starving and carrying bowls of rice on their head somewhere, I am pretty sure we should throw some cash their way before spending $6,000 on a fucking caviar set. Ladies and gentleman, I am proud to present you the 2015 Goop Holiday Gift Guide (this is NOT a drill, this is 100% real).

ROLEX WATCH DAYTONA BLUE $14,968.94Because there is nothing radder than a custom, neon-blue watch” I can think of something radder Gwyneth, it’s called social awareness and likeability. Also thank you for being so accurate with the pricing. God forbid you round up the number six cents. Every penny counts!

THE ROSEWOOD HANDLE TRUFFLE SLICER $40If you own a truffle slicer…” I applaud Gwyneth for suggesting a gift under $12,000. However, I am not sure this is an a appropriate stocking stuffer.

CEDES MILANO TOOTHPASTE SQUEEZER $244Better than a chip clip!” Okay now I am starting to get angry. A mother fucking toothpaste squeezer? I am pretty sure it makes more sense to buy an economy sized supply of Crest at Costco then invest in a machine to squeeze out every last morsel of toothpaste. I would put my life on it that this bitch doesn’t own a fucking chip clip.

HERMES MAH-JONG SET ABOUT $46,000There’s a waiting list” I would like a copy of that waiting list. This is actually revolting. I adore the casual price estimates, Gwenyth is just like at the office slicing truffles and all “It’s about $46,000 not entirely sure. Whatevs. Brb gotta go get Apple her new gold-plated mechanical pencils #singlemother.”

SENNHEISER ORPHEUS HEADPHONES $55,000 “Because some audiophiles really do need $55,000 headphones” Like a recording of people gagging while reading this list? Even the way she spells “audiophiles” makes me want to die. I want to take the truffle slicer from above and slice my retinas at this point because it is all too much to handle.

18K GOLD DUMBELLS $125,000Speechless” Go fuck yourself.

WORLD VIEW EXPLORATION AT THE EDGE OF SPACE $90,000We want it.” Ironically this is still a teacher’s salary less than the fucking solid gold dumbells. “Happy Hanukkah Aunt Jodie! This year instead of the usual Target giftcard I am sending you to the edge of space. Have fun! XO, Jackie”

ULYSSES TIER STANDARD SURVIVAL KIT $12,500Give life, everything you need for a full two weeks.” How woodsy of you Gwyneth. What the hell is in the kit? Tracy Anderson? Hermes china? Preserved Foie Gras? I’d prefer the cash k thanks.

Tis the season to be Goopy. Fa la la la la, la la la VOM.

Dear Brooks Ayers

Dear Brooks Ayers,

Firstly, I must thank you for blocking me on Twitter. There is no way I could truly illustrate all the ways you disgust me in 140 characters so a public letter is really the only way to go. I have always said you should never trust a man in light wash denim and I want to thank you for proving this theory true. Also Brooks, you look like you shouldn’t be permitted within 650 feet of any elementary school so congratulations on that.

It is one thing to fake a relative’s death to avoid dinner plans. I do that shit ALL the time, my great Aunt Esther has already died 8 times conveniently when a Nancy Meyers movie is on and I have an open bottle of Vueve. It’s a whole other level of vile to lie about having fucking CANCER. To even concoct such a story you have to be the sickest of fucks.

What makes you a real scumbag is that you not only LIED about a diagnosis, you then solidified your corruptness by doctoring fake medical records. What a fucking moron. This is 2015; we have cars that drive themselves. You think no one is going to disprove your faux illness because you give your side bitch Vicki daily affirmations? You are a pussy. I hope a stray cow roaming outside the low income duplex where you live in Montana shoves it’s hoof up your ass and knocks a veneer out.

I desperately hope Vicki was not in on this hoax, as I have loved Vicki passionately ever since she assaulted that poor Asian man for the “family van” incident of 2008. I have loved her age-inappropriate party dresses, her chin and her heinous kitchen rooster forever. Love is blind, but not that fucking blind.

People die from cancer. You have not just insulted people who are battling this life threatening disease but also the families suffering and undermining the hard work of physicians everywhere. I am not “going to pray for you” Brooks because you are an asshole and you need more than a bedside prayer. Jesus may forgive you but I sure as fuck don’t. Go fuck yourself Brooks, because probably no one else will you evil hillbilly.

Love always (not),



My Cuntry Tis of Thee.

I have learned a lot about myself whilst living in London. I have learned that drinking everyday does in fact NOT make you an alcoholic, just a much happier person with more regular bowel movements (I’m serious – instant vacation constipation solution). Also, white strips clearly have not made their way across the pond… tea stains people. But I would have to say that the true takeaway from my time abroad is that I have absolutely no shrivel of elegance, manners or social graces.

I have always considered my nonchalant cursing, harmless rape jokes and mild racism very charming and ironically hilarious in the homeland. God knows my main way of bonding with strangers is giving unsolicited updates on my current digestive state and I will admit, it totally works. People find me odd, unfiltered and 83% of them even applaud me for being so “real”. Today I came to the harsh realization that although I am in a country where I speak the language, I may not be translating.

My day started with a quick trip to the pub aka my living room. The great thing about traveling for an extended period of time is that you are still technically on “vacation” so drinking during the day is acceptable. I have convinced myself that drinking with almost every meal is helping me avoid any type of food poisoning or airborne germ ingestion because alcohol kills germs therefore keeping me healthy. I love myself for this logic. After a cheeky pint and Scotch egg, I got my bloated ass on a fucking bike to pedal off the fleshy side carriages growing around my waist. Let it be known that I have almost died 38 times since I have been here on fucking foot. I ride a bike like someone who has cerebral palsy, a glass eye and a small case of the downs. Flailing limbs, gasping for breath, rosaceous red face. No one is safe.

17 minutes in I decided it was time for a break and I moseyed into a place for high tea a friend had recommended. Walking into any London restaurant in Lulu Lemon leggings is almost the same as announcing over a PA system that you are a stock-girl at Wal-Mart and go on lots of cruises… not chic. Luckily, I don’t give two fucks and have taken my love for ironic work out attire to the United Kingdom. I asked the cunty hostess for a table for one and she gave me an up down that made me feel like Vivian not being allowed to shop on Rodeo Drive. She told me she was unable to seat me because I was violating dress code…. She pointed to a sign that read “No Trainers”. I immediately responded “Oh honey, this ain’t a training bra. I need serious underwire for these d-cups or it would look like I am hiding extra large scotch eggs in my waist band if you catch my drift” while I made a super inappropriate hand gesture miming my low hanging boobs. I thought and still think this is HILARIOUS. Cunty McCuntingham, Duchess of Cuntville did not think so.

I told her that technically my “trainers” (translation: sneakers) were Miu Miu and probably worth more than all her fucking pretentious internal organs and I wasn’t leaving until I spoke with a manager. Begrudgingly I was seated at a corner table by the dirty dishes, moved from said table twice and then finally ordered myself a high tea spread. Soon they brought out a variation of utensils, dishware, condiments and glassware that overwhelmed me. So many fucking spoons. I blame my parents for pretty much everything, but I especially blame them for never enrolling me in cotillion. I was served my tea with some weird strainer mechanism that looked like something I would find at my gynecologists office… here are the following Google searches from my 3 hour high tea.

“Is it rude to be on your phone at high tea?”

“How many calories are in a scone?”

“Do people in London take food home from restaurants”

“How do you know if you have a tapeworm?”

“Where does Emma Bunton live?”

“Tazer guns in London”

“Miu Miu sneakers”

“Jackie Schimmel”

“Easy diuretic recipes for one”

“Is hair tinsel still in?”

“Justin Bieber penis pictures”

“In what countries do people eat dogs”

“Perks of kale enemas”

“Jackie Schimmel” (yes, again)

After a pot of Earl Grey, 5 finger sandwiches, some lemon mousse, a glass of champagne, a macaron and enough death glares to make me self implode I started to feel like Shrek’s slutty sister. One thing you should know about me is that I do not leave food on my plate. I would like to say it’s for some political reasons, like starving kids in Africa, but it’s really just cause I am Jewy as fuck. Baby leaves no finger sandwich behind.

I flagged down my waitress and asked her if she had a to-go box so I could take the rest of my pastries home. She looked at me like I asked her to give insert a rectal syringe up my ass. Repulsed. “Um… I will go ask.” Okay… I watched her first go to Cuntella Deville (the hostess) whisper to her then motion in my direction. Then the hostess went to what looked like a manager and started laughing repeating whatever tragic suggestion she had just heard and cocked her head towards my table.

The manager came to my table and alerted that they do not provide take-away materials. “Do you just have like some saran wrap or something?” Too far. “No ma’am.” “Foil? A paper towel? A spare hairnet?” “Sorry ma’am we don’t do take away, most restaurants in London don’t.” Seriously?

I was instantly catapulted into a defining paradox. I had two options, two destinies, two kinds of bitch. I could either eloquently gather my things, reapply my lip-gloss, leave minimal gratuity and part with the beautiful untouched finger sandwich (singular), raisin scone and pistachio meringue OR shoplift the clothed napkin, wrap up the food as quickly impossible, shove it in my purse, tell the hostess she is a Super Cunt and jump on my getaway bike. I couldn’t let social decency change me. I propped my purse open in my lap and very discreetly managed to fit all the food in various compartments over a 20-minute span. I would take a bite, patrol surveillance and shove. With the drop of my final meringue, I darted out the door and felt elated.

By the time I got home most of my souvenirs were wet, smooshed and ruining the lining of my purse. But it didn’t matter. Justice had prevailed. I was emulating the land of the free and the home of the brave. I am a fucking American. I did it for my country. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, insults her jewel encrusted sneakers and then doesn’t let her take her extra food home. Live free or die hard.

Manners are like assholes. Wait, that doesn’t work. Social graces are like assholes. That doesn’t work either. People are assholes. Miu Miu sneakers are not the same as fucking Reeboks and if you pay for it, you should be able to take it home in a proper styrofoam container.


I have been on a very spiritual journey lately. One that includes excess fromage, disguising my Ashkenazi hair in this fog (#isis) and learning how to cope with aggressive pigeons sans sedatives. It’s all been very Eat, Pray, Love. Or more like, Eat, Overpay (currency rate probs), Shove. For those of you not stalking me or interested in my whereabouts, I have been in London for the past month.

Since my arrival there have been no shortage of fabulous group activities so during the week I am rewarded with my much needed alone time. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how socially uncultivated I am. I can go HOURS without any human interaction and feel incredibly mentally stimulated, more so than after a lengthy dinner with friends. At first I thought this may make me bipolar and it’s the voices in my head that keep me entertained. I have since realized that I must be a complete narcissist because I really fucking love hanging out with myself.

I think people assume that when you uproot your life and move (temporarily) to a foreign country it is polite to try and include said import in social plans and activities. Being that we have a very present social group here in London I have come to the harsh realization that my antisocial nature has followed me internationally.

According to the internet we are the FOMO generation. Honestly, fuck off. I hate FOMO and anyone who uses that term seriously. Fear of missing out? Did you not get hugged as a child? Why do people rely so heavily on social outings and being in the know? I would like to propose a new way of living… JOMO. Joy of missing out. I have been the poster child for JOMO since I crawled from the flaming pits of hell as a small adorable baby. I hate being invited places. The truth is if I want to go anywhere, I will just show up. I find that it has a very high success rate and I always bring a bottle of something.

When someone initiates social plans one of two things happen. Depending on my level of comfortability I will either immediately decline (my closest friends can attest) with a curt “NO” or consider the outing with a tepid “Do I have to? Will there be valet and/or snacks provided?” My other less desirable option is coming up with a very elaborate excuse. I normally lean towards a family death involving a very distant relative (less questions) which can be a real nightmare. I have accidentally had my Great Aunt Shirley die twice during a desperate scheduling conflict. With every cash bar invitation, conveniently my 98-year-old Aunt Shirley bites the big one. Time after time.

I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I wont. Every time you find yourself hungrily trying to confirm “where and when and what time and who?” with the perseverance of starved hyena, take a long hard look in the mirror and ask yourself this; why am I acting like such dependently needy asshole? Has anyone suffering from this “disease” ever considered that the reason they aren’t being invited places is because they are annoying as fuck. Brew on that for a second.

You know why an aged cheese is more expensive? Because it’s fully developed into the delectable version of it’s best self. It’s not afraid to showcase its mold or pungent smell. The cheese has spent time alone and matured. IT DOESN’T NEED CRACKERS OR A FIG SPREAD. I apologize for this cheese tangent… I have been in a sexual relationship with blue stilton for the past week. Sorry, back to the point.

The harsh truth is that if the mere thought of being alone sends you into a Lexapro prescription, FOMO is just the band-aid on the actual wound of a much bigger ailment. Go to dinner, take a trip, see a movie, go shopping, go for a bike ride ALONE. Jomo is the new Fomo.

Vanderpump Rules Recap

Without sounding overly dramatic, Vanderpump Rules is kinda the only reason I wake up every morning. It gives me faith, it gives me hope, and it gives me self-esteem. I would give all internal organs to attend every single fucking staff meeting. Obviously I would never wear that heinous shirtdress required because it looks like a sad wet seal clearance shmata BUT I would be happy to sit in a dark corner sipping LVP Sangria and observing all the shenanigans. There are reality stars, there are actual celebrities and then there is the cast of Pump Rules. As I am currently living in London, I had to wait an entire day before I had access to the premiere episode. I don’t want to seem too egotistical, but I have never loved or respected myself more for executing such patience and self-control during those wretched 24 hours. Andy Cohen you owe me $2.99.

Naturally the season starts off in a staff meeting (#dreams). I love that the girls have invested their tip money/minimum wage pay and gotten extensions. Right out of the gate we learn that James is making his mark in the music business. I love that he thinks he is fucking Steve Aoki because he has a “residency” at fucking Pump. He is amazing and I would probably date him if I were single if he upped his 3 series BMW to a 7 series and like got me screeners for the show…

I will say Scheana has finally found her look. The make-up has gone from bad YouTube tutorial to a more natural and fresh look and I am proud of her. Katie’s bull nose ring is giving me anxiety. Jax looks like he joined a Fight Club fan group at a community college. How old is he? And who the fuck is his plastic surgeon? Helen Keller? As a Jew with extensive rhinoplasty knowledge I have never heard of using skin from your ear to patch into your nose.

Next we see James lingering in the infamous back alley at Sur where the cast rolls up in their budget sedans and smoke their cigarettes. James and Kristen have a heated exchange about Carmen or Jax or Tom or fuck I don’t even know. I was more focused on the discreet sneaky cinematography. Can somebody say Golden Globe nomination?

Finally, Kristen rolls up. She has been focusing on her t-shirt line and not acting like a psycho. Samesies. She is really screwing up James Guetta’s DJ vibes, which is fucked cause he has like 50 people who pre-booked on Open Table to impress.

James says he would rather lose his relationship with Kristen than hurt his dj “career”. Then he imparts us with this morsel of wisdom “Girls come and go… Dreams are with you forever”. These are moments that give me more joy than the cry of a newborn or the news of a tax return being deposited into my overdrawn checking account #hustle.

In the next scene we are once again welcomed into Jax’s humble 250 square foot studio and greeted by his censored penis. He then gives him mom his 12 second MTV cribs tour. “Here’s my closet. Here’s my microwave. Here’s my twin bed. Here’s my futon I bought on Craigslist.” God I love this show.

Just a day at the salon with the 2 Toms… cute? Tom (not a Jew) Schwartz decides to get a fucking perm. Mid curl, he decides he is ready to propose to Katie. Nothing sparks a desire for marital bliss like a day at the salon with the boyz.

Scheana is turning 30 so the gang is dressed in garb spanning a decade. Kristen shows up uninvited with nipples and labia in tow. I just want everyone to know that Scheana’s party is in the same venue as Kendall Jenners Sweet 16. You are welcome for that information.

Ariana and her bob have a come to Jesus moment when she doubts the authenticity of her and Scheana’s friendship. It’s really hard to take anybody seriously because of the plethora of synthetic mushroom cuts. James looks like name is Peggy and he buys all his produce at a Wal-Mart circa 1973. Then he starts chugging fireball. I guess that’s what rock stars do… Oh wait.

And so it begins.


Dear Annoying Couples

I am not nearly as bitter as I make myself out to be. Granted, I self admittedly do NOT think all children or beautiful, don’t get weepy at leaves changing colors and would rather shoot myself in the asshole than watch a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. I can however, get a wee bit mushy when it comes to love. I am cringing even as I TYPE that last sentence. The beauty of dating serial egomaniacs is that when an amazing man comes around you have the right to get a little gooey (internally). This is a very slippery slope for a closeted basic bitch like myself to navigate but once you find proper footing along with your social decency, it’s fairly easy to conclude that those feelings are reserved for you and your partner. Consider this a very passionate and strongly worded letters to people (both male and female) who feel it necessary to annoyingly publish intimate photo’s and declarations of love on social media.

We all know the couple… 18 hours can’t go by without a fucking collage, song lyric, gag-worthy Facebook comment or incredibly awkward photo of your significant other sleeping. PDA on social media is like a bacon wrapped street hot dog… sporadically it can be enjoyable and joyous (especially under the influence of alcohol) but on a daily basis it makes you sick, fat and remorseful.

Here is the issue, while you think you are solely promoting your happiness I would dare to say that doth protest too much. I understand a scattered moment of weakness where you want to scream your undying love at the rooftops, I have been there. What I cannot understand or support are the couples that unconsentually rape my retinas with their ridiculously cheesy and inauthentic declarations of love on social media.

It is always the couples that have either broken up 52 times OR are on the verge that throws a fucking non-milestone Flipagram slideshow into the mix. It’s a very passive aggressive plea to publicly reminisce on better times and quite frankly makes me want to take a shower with a blow dryer. OMG HE BOUGHT YOU A TEDDY BEAR AND SENT YOU A SAD BOUQUET OF CARNATIONS? I literally don’t give a fuck and no one else does either.

If you are a bitch posting articles from Elite Daily like “Why Highschool Sweethearts Make The Best Life Partners” just kill yourself. HOW REVOLUTIONARY. So because some freelance writer suggests that being penetrated by the same person who sat next to you in Geometry before you got your braces off is the best foundation for a life of fidelity and comfort, then you should totes do it. Just know there is a flattering article for EVERYONE and just because it’s applicable doesn’t make it true or worth sharing. OmG yOu GuYs, look aT oUr HiS aNd HeR XmAs sWEaTerS! STAB ME IN THE FOREHEAD PLEASE.

No one cares. NO one cares. NOT ONE PERSON BESIDES YOU FUCKING CARES, NOT AT ALL. You are annoying the fuck out of everyone who knows you and it’s self indulgent and delusional to think anyone besides you two sappy assholes need to be privy your intimate moments.

Here’s the harsh truth… when people are TRULY enjoying themselves, finding a steady handed Asian to capture their loving embrace is the LAST THING on their brain. Love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, but daily declarations of such are disingenuous and WRONG. How’s that for a poem…

Love you. Mean it.


For those of who are not currently stalking me, you may not be privy to my recent lovers pilgrimage to London to be with my puppy daddy. While I love cold climate layering (ideal for letting myself go), day drinking and fish and chips, the downside of this beautiful city is it’s tragic pigeon infestation. When I tell you that my only true wish in life is for every bird to immediately extinct or die a brutal painful death I mean every single fucking word. I am sorry if that offends you. Actually, I am not sorry at all. Since birth, every birthday candle blown has had the intention of the entire species being eliminated.

Everytime a wing flaps, a part of my soul dies. I considered bunkering down in front of my flat with an airsoft gun or casually leaving breadcrumbs traced with arsenic through every street within a 4 mile radius of our flat (#sobritish) but that requires too much physical activity. Like I always say, a smooth sea never made for a skillfull sailor.

Needless to say, my transition amidst the wildife, weather and vacation constipation is not going to be easy. Please follow me on my journey by following me on insta, twitter (@jackieschimmel) and SUBSCRIBE to my podcast on iTunes (NEW episodes every Tuesday). Because the thirst is so very real.

Also unrelated, please watch this. Does anyone else remember when Jessica Simpson had her own fucking variety show? Poor Jewel.