Manginas and You: A Pressing Issue

I was going to write my standard Monday morning Real Housewives recap but felt on this particular Monday a much stronger urge to express my opinions on an epidemic sweeping the nation: The Mangina.

Last night as I sipped my champagne and watched the swampland shit show that IS the Real Housewives of New Jersey, I sat in disbelief at a certain househusband. There he sat, sipping a mimosa like a little Polly Pocket, clad in light wash denim and interjecting in the women’s conversation. His commentary was unsolicited, unfiltered and un-amusing. I watched with my cousin and fellow super-fan Shelby trying to diagnose him.

Is he an asshole? Yes. Little man syndrome? Duh. Desperate for camera time? Obvi. But what was the real issue? He simply has a Mangina.

Sure, we have seen surges of this misdiagnosed genitalia in the past but I personally have never felt the relevance as much as I do now. Manginas are taking over the universe. You may be stroking your chin, checking your tampon inventory and wondering “What exactly IS a Mangina?”

But worry no more, I am here to ease your musings.

When a man unnecessarily interjects himself in female quarrels without an intent to resolve their issues, he has a Mangina.

When a man feels the need to control what you wear, where you go, what you say and whom you associate with, he has a Mangina.

When a man has an issue with all of your male friends and insinuates misconduct due to his own insecurities, he has a Mangina.

When a man breaks up with you quarterly and carelessly to evoke shock and in hopes of gaining control in your relationship, he has a Mangina.

When a man is afraid to be affectionate towards you in front of his guy friends in fear of appearing “whipped”, he has a Mangina.

When a man holds monetary chivalries as leverage for power, he has a fucking HUGE Mangina.

There are a myriad of Mangina prototypes. Doing the dishes doesn’t give you a Mangina. Opening doors doesn’t give you a Mangina. Putting your hoe before your bro doesn’t give you a Mangina. Despite the XY chromosome, natural hand eye coordination and groin bulge – your man may still be packing a serial Mangina. The good thing is if you catch it early (and before he gets his menstrual cycle) you can grab your stash of Tampax, Nicholas Sparks movie collection, and that slutty tube top he won’t let you wear in public and run for the fucking hills.

Handicap Stall Horror

I don’t embarrass easily. In fact, I can only remember three instances of being legitimately embarrassed. The first time was when I blacked out in college and did an interpretive dance at a fraternity formal. The gentlemen were intrigued by my white girl rhythm. The second time was when I did an encore performance of the same interpretive dance at my little cousin’s Bat Mitzvah except that time I had brought props (a ribbon wand #duh). They were similarly impressed. And thirdly, there was the time I FaceTimed a coworker in the loo. I have said this once and I will say it again… Siri is a fucking bitch. I am not sure if this is her fault or not, but for the sake of maintaining mental stability I need someone to blame and it sure as fuck isn’t me.

Three weeks ago, I was enjoying the anonymity of a very clean public restroom. I always take the handicapped stall – I rationalize that I am digestively handicapped and can’t perform in cramped spaces. I laid down my four toilet seat covers and took a look at my new digs for the next 25 minutes As I sat down, mentally preparing myself, I began casually scanning various social media profiles on my faulty iPhone. Facebook, Twitter, Linkedin, Grindr – the usual.

Deciding I needed to focus and practice Ujjayi breathing to help activate things down under, I put said phone into my tote bag and sat praying for God to relieve me of my four day food baby, just in time for a poolside weekend. Ten minutes later without any success and four irritated knocks on the stall door, “Are you even going to the bathroom?”, my phone began making an unfamiliar tone.

Did Jonah Hill retweet our photo-shopped wedding photo I sent him? Is it my mother calling me to schedule my delayed rhinoplasty? Everyone knows 11am – 11:30am is my “private time.” Who would disrupt me? I began to frantically scramble through my bag when I heard an unfamiliar voice calling out to me. “Hello? Jackie?”

What the fuck?

I finally found my phone swimming in a pool of ranch sunflower seeds when I picked up my phone and saw a former coworker staring back at me. HOLY SHIT BALLS. My phone had somehow fucking FaceTimed him while I was ON THE TOILET. What does one do in a situation like that? Can you make that not awkward? The second I saw him staring back at me in my shameful stall of defeat, I immediately screamed and threw my phone against the wall. Unfortunately the impact of the throw did not hang up the call and Kevin was left looking sideways and trying to figure out what he was seeing.

“Jackie is this a joke?”

I can only assume he was now squinting at the base of the toilet with my coated jeans down and sequined Converse at a 90 degree angle. I tried throwing my bag to cover the camera lens and due to my shitty hand-eye coordination, I fucked that up as well. All the while, Kevin is trying to figure out if this is a joke or not, and HASN’T HUNG UP THE CALL.

To be clear, I worked on a television pilot with him for three weeks. We were situationally close but hadn’t actually seen each other in over four years. We have kept up on social media and an inside joke text here and there, but no actual relationship exists which makes this situation even more difficult. I began to hysterically laugh and then hysterically cry. Kevin had to think I was re-enacting a scene from Girl Interrupted or was in an actual psych ward.

Ultimately I had to swiftly pull up my pants, lunged to my phone and hang up without making eye contact or giving him any more aerial shots of the public restroom. I said nothing, covered the camera with my finger and ended the call, the relationship and the food baby expulsion. I gave no follow up information, “Hey sorry, I accidentally FaceTimed you while I was on the toilet…LAWLZ!” and will never speak to Kevin again on principle.

I left my stall with a cracked screen, a deteriorated friendship, and a serious food baby, still in place. I have not taken the handicapped stall since and have deleted Facetime as it has proven to be detrimental both emotionally and digestively.


These past couple episodes have been such a cock tease. I have lost at least 3 pounds anticipating Jacqueline’s return and waiting for this Santa ménage à trois shit to hit the fan. The twins, Dina and Melissa head to Boca Raton to hang out with Jewish geriatrics, cook for themselves and drink in excess. They call that a vacation? I call that Rosh Hashanah.

Back in the swampland, Tre and Gia go house hunting in the hopes of downsizing. I personally live for Teresa Giudice, circa 2008: table flipping, pre-owned house shkeeving, and all “onyx, marble and granite”.

Oh yay… Amber and Jim. I have been trying to mentally block them out for the past month and a half and I nearly spiral into a panic attack every time Amber comes onto my television screen with her vakakta contour and silver eyeliner. I realize that is probably in poor taste to say, given that she is going to get tested for cancer but…

Next we see Kathy and Jacqueline yet ALL I can think about is Ashlee Holmes. I have trouble sleeping every night knowing that she has more twitter followers then yours truly. I wonder what color her hair is, or whether she has gotten any new tattoos. Does she still wear her slumpy knit beanie and legging combo? Love and light bitch. But much to my dismay – no Ashlee cameos.


In Boca, the bitches lay poolside while Melissa does her best white swan leaping around the pool and putting her bod #OnDisplay.

Back at the Lauritas, Jacqueline has only been back for 4 minutes and is already reading texts and crying per usual. Honey, I love you like a distant reality star, but why must you interject yourself in her situation? Ladies, don’t you think Tre has bigger fish to fry than to console YOU during HER time of chaos? Get it together and cry on the inside like a winner.

Back in Boca, Dina gives a Meryl Streep worthy performance faking excitement for Amber and Jim the troll’s arrival. I give the same performance every time someone asks me if I like their new Coach bag… “Yaaaah. That is great!”

I want Melissa to be drunk all the time.

Dina Manzo states that she watches porn for the décor… come again? Pun unintended. Does Dina have a liking for busted sofas, shit drywall and un-chic Lucite? Now I am sweating balls waiting for Dina to drop the Reno-Santa lovers tryst rumor.

And I am blue balled AGAIN… until next week bitches. Bye! Is bye a threat?

Burdens of a Basic Bitch

I have always been super into discreet plagiarism, so I get really excited when I find an article online I can not only rip off but also write way more accurately. You can imagine my delight when I found a splendid article titled “5 Things Basic Bitches Can’t Get Enough Of” I am still colossally unsure the definition of a basic bitch but have gathered it is not complimentary. From my analysis a basic bitch is someone who loves Lauren Conrad unconditionally, has tried bringing her Juicy Couture sweat-suits to a consignment store (she thinks they still hold value), boasts an inspirational quote in her email signature and gets really excited about a fucking pumpkin spice latte. That shit has 21 GRAMS OF FAT. I live for liquid calories but unless that latte comes with a buzz, blue cheese stuffed olives and/or a tapeworm, I am not down. I should clarify I am not overly enthused about this whole epidemic about categorizing bitches… it seems very anti-girl power and basic isn’t always a bad thing… unless you resonate with the list below.

  1. The Bandage Dress – Expect to see her in Vegas, with her hair curled in a middle part, drinking a yardstick margarita with acrylic nails, a fucked crossover bag, head tilted and a pursed lip. MAYFAIR FILTER! She will ALWAYS be in a bandage dress because it is the partying uniform of the basic bitch.
  2. The Eulogy Status – Her cat has a yeast infection, she CAN’T EVEN FUNCTION since Paul Walker died or her grandmother went into cardiac arrest – you have heard it all via social media. I preserve these media portals to track my weight fluctuation, cyber stalk ex boyfriends and self promote. Nothing screams BASIC BUZZKILL then announcing your neighbor is suffering from Cerebral Palsy on Instagram. Get a journal, join a volunteer group and keep the pity party in your private dining room. And cut it out with the dancing baby videos also.
  3. The Frozen Yogurt Affliction – Besides quinoa, pressed juices, vodka sodas, orbit gum and salmon… basic bitches let their gluttonous desires run rampant for fucking FROZEN YOGURT. It is fat free, low-cal and a sad excuse for ice cream but she goes wild and sometimes even splurges for non-fruit toppings. OMG – #fatgirlprobz. I can go balls deep on a Pinkberry yogurt on a hot summer day but it doesn’t define me.
  4. The DIY Craft Obsession – If you ever want to see me enter a full throttle panic attack subscribe me to your arts and crafts Pinterest board. As much as do it yourself wall decals, recipes for homemade laundry detergent and tricks of turning old t-shirts into kitschy throw pillows BLOWS MY MIND the only use I will ever have for a glue gun would be to seal my eyes shut to avoid watching a basic bitch glitter mason jars or apply felt hearts to a busted pillow.
  5. Abbrevs – Like the Israelites spoke Hebrew, every Beverly Hills High graduate spoke Farsi and Helen Keller “spoke” Braille – the language of the basic bitch is as timeless as it is obvious: Abbrevs. “LITERALLY – he is so gorg.” “Let’s def do din!” “Totes perf!” “Sush and champs?” all with the finishing touch of an emoji. Let’s be practical here. Why would anyone type out amazing when you cut a whole 2 characters out by just typing amaze?

I personally don’t find the basic bitch a true threat to society. Sure, they Instagram pictures of their side braid, think Victoria’s Secret PINK makes the best yoga pants and probably think mixing metals is a fashion death wish but being basic isn’t the worst thing in the world. So drink your iced coffee, start preparing for your #TBT post and remember you can be basic and still be one fierce bitch.




Hi bitches. Sorry for going radio silent on you. I am in NYC relishing in my 4 seconds of fame, sampling local fare one hot dog cart at a time and plotting how to pull a Winona at Bergdorfs. Stars they are just like us. For a more intimate and often obnoxious look into my world please follow me on Instagram & twitter @jackieschimmel