2015 Conscious Uncoupling

They say you are the company you keep. This is a precedent I always hold dear on the brink of a New Year. I like to reflect on the past 12 months, the peaks and the pits and the people I have surrounded myself by. In these tender moments I realize that it is time to clean up shop just in time to glide gracefully into 2015

The Frenemy – They love you, they hate you. They insist on Instagraming a collage of you on your birthday with only photos from your fat phase. They profess to be one of your closest friends yet secretly are hoping you contract an STD and may want to bang your boyfriend. Waste of space, time and energy. Bye Felicia!

The Mooch - This is the first point in my life where people have started to unauthentically pursue friendships with ulterior motives. Why the sudden out reach? These are people I call parasites or as my grandmother would say “schnoras” (Google it). You haven’t spent more then 4 minutes with the person and they instantly “love” you and are insisting they send you their new Vitamin D infused bikini line. It’s not a crime to try and surround yourself with people who can excel you. The hustle is real. But if you feel like someone’s only incentive in your relationship is to take advantage of you, send their business elsewhere.

The Yenta – Despite my insatiable need for all things Real Housewives and Vanderpump Rules, I am surprisingly not attracted to drama in my real life. I know 99% of people who profess to “hate drama” are usually the nucleus of it, but I can promise and provide references that in my case it’s just not true. I’m shallow and depthless; I like small talk and outsider approval. So sue me. Gossip is boring, I’d rather talk about myself. If they are talking shit TO YOU, they are undoubtedly talking shit ABOUT YOU. People who find satisfaction in others demise and private details need to get a life and/or a Lexapro prescription.

The Ex – We are never, ever, ever spending 2015 together. Staying friends was cute in 2014, but it’s a new year. It’s really idealistic to pull a Ross and Rachel and expect it all to be smooth sailing. When someone has broke your heart, staying friends warrants an un-platonic agenda. You can’t set sail with an anchor planted so cut that bitch off and tread forward Admiral. ( <– The worst metaphor of my barely professional life)

The Downer – Maybe it’s a coworker, a childhood friend or just a bitter cousin with self diagnosed Celiac disease. The food is never good, the temperature never comfortable or the conversation never stimulating enough. For the record, the only downers I have around me are prescribed by a shady doctor. Surround yourself with happy people who sparely complain about overhead lighting and weight fluctuation #wetblanket.




First, I must address the anorexic elephant in the room. I am not talking about the homage to my favorite Nickelodeon show in the title of this post (bonus bitch points if you understand this reference… Emma Roberts in her prime).

For everyone that watched the Victoria’s Secret Fashion Show last night (shamefully I did, but only to see if they aired Ariana Grande getting bitch slapped by an angel wing), Karlie Kloss’ strange ballet dream sequence was the most awkward thing I’d ever experienced, out-awking when my second cousin told me I had nice boobs. Bitch wasn’t even in pointe shoes… It was painful and awesome all at the same time. She kept referencing her “background in ballet” but didn’t showcase any actual ballet skills. To clarify, watching Center Stage and not eating doesn’t make you a prima ballerina. She is still very gorgeous so I will forgive her… also if I’m ever famous, I’d like to be in her clique. I’d fit right in as the bitchy, funny friend who likes carbs. She rolls with T Swizzle so I would get them both into liquid calories and make jokes about hating all of Taylor’s cats. At first Tay would take it personally, but then she would realize I have a hidden heart of gold and thank me in her next album for teaching her how to lighten up and not take life so seriously. We would also work with her awkward “dance moves” which is more or less just her whipping her noodly limbs around dramatically. Sounds refreshing right? Watch me.

I am in this really weird headspace lately where I totally don’t give a shit about anything except my dog, my boyfriend, work and hand sanitizer. Maybe it’s the holiday spirit or just a quarter life crisis but I’ve been feeling especially detached from the real world. When I decide to strap on my hottest new Tom wedges, put on my signature Tiffany charm bracelet and fave Bebe tracksuit (I am fucking joking) I find myself incredibly turned off by the strangers I meet.

I really don’t like people who let their stuff validate them. I realize I may sound like a huge hypocrite considering I have nearly sold an ovary for a fresh pair of Louboutins, but I work hard and can buy whatever the fuck I want. Working hard and treating yourself is different then letting these stupid “things” validate you. Maybe it’s just an LA thing (although I hate to sound like an anti-Angeleno because LA is my home and I love it here) I am just so over pretentious people. Air kissing, entitled, name dropping bullshit. I would rather sit in an Outback Steakhouse with a gaggle of sequined visor wearing hillbillies then listen to one more hoe-bag talk about the travesty of Isabel Marant for H&M or fuckin’ SoulCycle. I don’t want to be fabulous or fancy. I want to be funny and smart. Is that so strangely simple to say?

As I’ve grown and met new people, I’ve realized I naturally gravitate towards people who are extremely talented, extremely humble and extremely self-deprecating. I no longer care if your dad can get us N’Sync tickets or if your slutty mom allows boys to sleepover. Priorities have shifted, acquaintances drifted and sugar sifted. I don’t know what that last rhyme means but let it marinade… I am positive it could read super deep.

We live in a world where people, places and things play as attributes to who we are. I am so guilty of this. I will geotag myself anywhere that has 4 stars and above on Yelp. I’m not proud. I’m going to Hakkasan tonight and you best believe I will Instagram the shit out of it… Fingers crossed I make it to the Explore page.

Designer shoes don’t make your steps more important, Balenciaga bags don’t make your baggage lighter and a Mercedes doesn’t make your road any smoother… Although I drive a Mercedes and that shit really glides. If your identifiers are things a bitch should reprioritize and reroute. If that doesn’t work… Go lose yourself through the art of dance like Karlie Kloss.


There are three things in this big beautiful world I love unconditionally; triple crème brie cheese, my dog (son) Leo and Vanderpump Rules. If you are reading this and don’t know what my third treasure of the heart is, just fucking leave this blog and never come back. I am sure all you “intellects” (my target audience) are rolling your eyes GUFFAWING at me, a seemingly uneducated blonde proclaiming my unwithering and at times challenging love for reality television. Sure the housewives are like family at this point, Patti Stanger similar to a loud cousin I try to sit away from at Yom Kippur, but these kids at Sur have captivated me in a way I am afraid I can’t put into words.

If you ever want to see me come ALIVE in a social setting just ask me about “Style by Stassi” aka the home of sub par statement necklaces and unfortunate layering #goatcheeseballs. Between bringing her own wine to dry restaurants, visits to her mom’s tri-level cabin in Big Bear with uneven drywall or just cruising down Melrose in her Toyota convertible, Princess Stassi never lets me down. True story: my housekeeper Jazmine was over yesterday, she only comes like once every 4 years but I am kind of obsessed with her in an unnatural way. I give her all my old clothes and she feels obligated to wear them when she comes over and it’s both highly unpractical and adorable… Something about sequins and Clorox warms my heart. As I was 3 hours deep into a Vanderpump Rules marathon, Jazmine politely asked “What crazy show are you watching chica?” Has she been living under a tortilla for the past 3 years. “Jazmine… you have never seen Vanderpump Rules? It’s always on Bravo!” Long pause. “What’s Bravo?” I fired her immediately. Not actually but our relationship will never be the same again.


I watch every episode about 34 times. I may not know what the Civil war was about (although I am glad to hear it was civil #recycledjoke), thought Benghazi was a new kabob place in Glendale and am only 64% certain on my lefts and rights … I can tell you anything and everything about those puffy-painted wine glass swigging millennial DISASTERS working at fucking Sur. I figured what better way to bond us bitches than with a really lame yet gratifying quiz to see how well YOU know the rules a la Vanderpump.


And always remember… people may try and bring you down for being obsessed with Vanderpump Rules, but you are good as gold.

Questionable Tidbits of “Wisdom”

This week I was a guest speaker at my high school. I was supposed to give life advice, talk about building a creative brand and a bunch of other shit I am in no way qualified to be talking about. The good news is that the students were all so cute (I didn’t get booed) and I didn’t say fuck ONCE. That is what we call a victory people #lowstandards. I am pretty sure I said all the wrong things: I mean, I am a college dropout who prides myself on rather unimpressive statistics and useless knowledge. I started thinking about the very few things I have learned as a bitch out in the real world and how it has shaped me as a boss ass BITCH. I am so fucking reflective it kills me. Here are some morsels of shitty “wisdom” I have pulled out of my ass oh so delicately.

  1. I kinda hate that saying “fake it till you make it” because it implies a lack of talent but to a certain degree there is no harm in pretending you know what you’re doing. In fact, I make a conscious effort to always act like I know what I am talking about which I really only do 20% of the time. Quantum physics? Nailed it. Japanese Agriculture? Practically invented it. Stock trading? Since birth.
    It’s only deceptive if you have zero intention to actually LEARN what you are pretending to know. I have become almost professional at bluffing. When I first decided to start a blog I had to Google what a domain was. I also used to boast on my resume I spoke Spanish AND French, but in reality I can barely speak proper English (it’s called spell check and a fab copy editor … bless you Yimu). This is 2014. There is an app for almost everything… think about it.
  2. Only listen to yourself or those who know more than you. I pride myself on not being an authority on ANYTHING. Sure, I am a good cook but Ina Garten is better. I think I am a phenomenal dancer but I’d never get cast as Nomi in my all time favorite movie Showgirls. Personal intuition is a strong guiding force. I was told I couldn’t write, would probably marry some rich guy and never be taken seriously due to my affinity for daytime sequins and my ample bosom. Thank God I am a terrible listener. I always say only listen to your own best judgment or people who REALLY know what they are talking about (preferably with accolades and the savings account to prove it.) Some power hungry corporate asshole with a Ford Fusion and a general distaste for life doesn’t get to tell you what your limitations are in life (I am talking to you Carlos… sorry I won;t make it to your birthday party. You are an arrogant asshole).
  3. Don’t be a slob. Fashion is the best way to say who you are without using words. Luckily, my words are my business but there is a certain appeal to aesthetics that draws people in. You don’t want to buy a house that looks like crap on the outside. Some would say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and although that is heart warming ideal – life isn’t a PBS Special. Looks matter. I have worked in offices where whipping out your tits would get you a promotion and in contrast an office where shapeless Hillary Clinton inspired skirt suits were admired like a crocodile Birkin. Brush your fucking hair, smell good and put a little effort in. You’ll thank me.
  4. Check your ego at the door. Nothing pisses me off more than people who take themselves too seriously. If you ever find yourself quoting lines from your resume you need to get your shit together. Some of the smartest people I know graduated from an Ivy League school called LIFE. Education, social class and bullshit credentials shouldn’t define you.
  5. Cry on the inside like a winner. I hope this doesn’t make me seem like a total chick with a dick but save your emotional fragility for a private showing of Steel Magnolias in your living room. Breaking down at work blurs lines and bitches need to separate business from boo-hoo fests. If you need to cry find a bathroom stall and don’t make a scene. It’s just annoying and dramatic.
  6. Don’t be annoying. Persistence is great. Ass kissing is transparent. Don’t be the annoying intern ostracized from the rest. The mentality of “not being here to make friends” is all too overplayed and fucking stupid. I am not saying you need to be braiding a co-worker’s hair and sharing froyo but if everyone has a problem with you… YOU’RE the asshole. No one wants to hire someone that doesn’t get along well with others. Being likable may be the most underrated characteristic of all time. Nobody wants to help, hire, or happy hour with a fuck-head.

So smile, bite your tongue, bust your ass, feign interest in your cubicle mates dying cat and when all else fails remember that salvation is just a dirty martini away. Feel enlightened? Probably not. You’re welcome.

Manic & Menstrual

I was trying to keep my posts semi inspirational and heart warming since I am going to speak at my high school tomorrow and want to give off the appeal that I am a well adjusted young professional but …. It’s raining and I am menstrual. Sorry kids! I figured I would spare the sappy shit and stay true to myself and discuss some things really grinding my gears (I am positive that saying has just aged me 30 years #maturity).

YONCE– I ain’t tryna get stung by the Beyhive but I miss the days when Beyoncé would sing good ol pop music with a professionally made music video and a fan blowing through her hair while she dances. Stop trying to get all HOVA-fied and just fucking sing. OR call those wet blankets Kelly and Michelle and get Tina to crank out some coordinating sequined outfits and kick it old school. I’m over this low budge shit. I blame Blue Ivy…

INSTA-DOUCHE – If 65% of a guy’s Instagram pics are in black and white, captioned by urban song lyrics OR harbor the hashtag #riseandgrind they should be put down. We get it… you drive a super tight Mitsubishi with black rims, have a SICK faux leather jacket and are on your way to that #jetsetlyfe taking over your father’s kabob chain. LEAVE ME AND MY INNOCENT HEART ALONE.

UNMEDICATED CHILDREN – Some kids just need to be put on a leash. Calm down.

GLUTEN FREE – I literally could not care less about anything. Celiac disease is 75% trendy and 100% a waste of my time. If I have to listen to some Fox News correspondent discuss the DANGER OF GLUTEN while prancing around in a size 0 Ann Taylor Loft shift dress I am going to stab myself in the eye balls with uncooked spaghetti.

CHRISTMAS MUSIC – I don’t want to seem like a scrooge BUT all this Christmas music is expediting my impending Lexapro prescription. Between the hymns, the rancid Cinnamon Sugar candles, poinsettias and Mall Santa’s (hand selected from the Megan’s Law roster) a bitch is one jingle bell away from snapping.

TURKEY – I know this may seem a bit irrelevant now that Turkey day has passed but … Turkey is the redheaded stepchild of festive proteins. The best a turkey can be is “not dry” and anything you need to soak in flavored water for 2 days before cooking seems disappointing.

PUMP RULES – For those of you not watching this show, you are missing out on a whole life-altering world of sub-par accessorizing, cottage cheese ceiling studio apartments, failed acting careers and Sauvignon Blanc out of puffy painted wine glasses. It is a beautiful nightmare that consumes me and last week someone asked me for a picture that I nearly shit myself out of excitement; only to find out they thought I was Stassi fucking Schroeder.

Deep breaths.

None For You Glenn Coco.

I’m usually someone who always takes the high road (not) and keeps to myself #meek. With the leaves falling and smell of dry turkey in the air I decided it was time to get my dick out and confront a special predicament head on.

Last night I received an email from one bitter bitch named Glenn after he awkwardly asked me out for a date via email a few months back. I received Glenn’s first email while I was half asleep at 3am. The timing seemed rapey and insensitive to my rem cycle. The message read:

“Hi Jackie. Love your blog and you seem like a really chill girl. Not sure if you are taken or not but would really love to take you out ;)”

Much to my dismay, he also attached a heavily filtered selfie complete with indoor sunglasses and fucking puka shells. Legally, I am unable to post his picture (believe me I asked…) He looked like someone you would find in an Ed Hardy sweatshirt driving a Toyota with a spoiler, racing stripes and red rims. I didn’t respond because I am busy and try not to communicate with people in puka shells at all costs. Even small children on vacation in Hawaii… Legit don’t give a fuck if you are 7 years old and just being “festive” puka shells are tragic.

I had long forgotten over my little cyber suitor. Seasons changed, food babies delivered, weaves reinstated. It had felt like eons. That was until I received this follow-up email last night as I sipped my dirty martini and got ready to watch Real Housewives.


Firstly, I have no problem with having people value my “looks” over my brain. Your attempt at an insult was actually a huge compliment. I would assume the only thing your going to be popular for is having recognition on my blog so… You’re welcome. Please forward me your Paypal information as my 2014 Mitzvah Project I would like to pay for a year’s membership to Match.com for you. I am relatively sure that would just cover the tip of your romantically disabled iceberg. This sucky writing you speak of has allotted me some expendable income to help the less fortunate. What can I say? Philanthropy is my life.

Please do not find this essay to portray any offense taken from your letter. I can say with complete authenticity that I was more offended by your photo than your attempt at harsh words. The truth is I was low on material and this proved to be a real jewel of inspiration. The only real takeaway is that you think I am pretty… and you probably own denim with white stitching like all real shmucks.

Merriam Webster defines the word “glen” as a small, narrow, secluded valley. Coincidentally the culprit of this email is named Glenn who I am assuming has a small penis, narrow mind and secluded studio apartment in the valley with a roommate. NONE FOR YOU GLENN COCO, must suck to suck.

These Hoes Ain’t Loyal

During my first year of college, I experienced the brunt of young female relationships. After being dumped, I secluded myself to the confines of my student apartment with my lesbian roommate and her cage-less chinchilla… and the occasional Food 4 Less outing. I wish I was joking about the latter. I spent more time at Food 4 Less on a daily basis than any of my classes combined. Bagel Bites for a buck fifty? You had me at bagel. Once I had wallowed in my self pity, I decided it was time to start socializing but only in the pursuit of an accidental run-in with my ex boyfriend where I looked BLISSFULLY HAPPY.

I began spending time with a girl I had gone to high school with. She was the type of girl who ALWAYS brought baked goods to class during the holidays and wore knee length dresses to homecoming. A real Pollyanna Purebred.

I found her to be stable and nurturing during my transition period. We would go on hikes, enjoy the pasta buffet at the dining hall, and watch Gossip Girl together. We would joke that I was Serena and she was Blair, and then consequently head to the local disappointment of a shopping center and find low budget outfits to embrace our fictitious lives. It was all so simple and sad.

(Side note: Serena and Blair were a global travesty to female relationships everywhere. They were terrible friends and should never be admired as a duo… they fucked each other’s boyfriends, spoke horribly of one another, and constantly were one-upping each other’s accessory game.)

Soon my Blair started losing her wholesome charm and spreading her legs to anyone with a handle of Popov vodka and an unlimited meal plan. I should be clear the devolution of our friendship had nothing to do with her promiscuity. I live for a slutty friend and envy their free spiritedness. She became awkwardly competitive with me and soon all of our outings became a mission for her to out-dress, out-drink, out-slut, and out-smart me. She always came out 2 for 4 which I thought was a healthy balance. It was only after a classy night at a local frat party where she proclaimed across the room that it must suck to be friends with her because that would make me the token ugly friend. Without sounding like an asshole, I must once again clarify this is not fucking true. I am sure all of my close friends are rolling their eyes and guffawing, given that I will tell the extended version of this story any chance I can (not that any of them really read my blog). Because I am a HUGE pussy, I never confronted her on her questionable character and thus had my very first frenemy. I would cancel plans, screen her calls, and slowly downgrade her from my Myspace Top 8 all while insisting we should “totally get lunch soon.”

Six months later she had defriended me on Facebook (burn), tried to punch and simultaneously bang my ex-boyfriend, rotated through about 63 new best friends and never returned my favorite sequined sweater which is the most tragic of all.

It’s one thing to dislike a person. It’s another thing to dislike a person and then continuing to sustain a façade of a friendship. If life is a game of poker, I find it best to know your players before you reveal your cards. I really am not sure what that means but it sounds deep as shit. Whether or not I reveal my hand, I am acutely aware of who loves me, who needs me, who’s kissing my ass or who’s secretly hoping I gain 47 pounds and end up working the take out window at The Olive Garden in a pair of orthopedic loafers with Type 2 diabetes.

Now that I have matured (slightly), I have learned that it would have been much better for Serena and Blair to have a civil parting of ways before their first semester at Constance. They could have designated separate hang out areas on the Met steps; Blair could have collected any headbands she may have left at the Vanderwoodsen Plaza penthouse and Serena could retrieve the keratin hair mask she kept at B’s.

Keeping friends is best, losing them is sad, but the worst is holding on to a friendship you never really had.

Rhyme so hard, mothafuckers wanna fine me.

A Bitch’s Right to “Research”

I have widely acknowledged that I am one sketchy bitch. Google is the spunky and highly educated Asian sidekick I’ve always wanted. You know, someone who lets you cheat off her homework, collects Hello Kitty memorabilia, and whose mom makes a mean mushu. Google has helped me find many nearby sexual predators, hot new sushi spots, and almost everything you could ever know about a potential suitor. I feel there are many blurred lines between using the Internet for research or restitution. I have no fucking clue what the word restitution means.

I don’t like going into any situation blind. I haven’t been into a restaurant without aggressively reading their menu beforehand since 2006. It has become a game for my friends to quiz me on side dishes and specialty appetizers since they already know I have most likely memorized the bill of fare.

Drive bys are so 2009. Now instead of borrowing your little sister’s car with tinted windows, putting on a beanie, and a large pair of shades as you carefully drive by your new love interest’s place for a pre-visit inspection, you can just do a digital drive by via Google.

I once went out with a guy who I vigorously Googled prior to our first date. After some geo-tagging I was able to locate his residence and was very pleasantly surprised when Google Earth showed me the exteriors of his remodeled condominium.

After a few cocktails, we hopped in a cab back to his place. He began telling me a funny story from college and was clearly distracted by my shimmering cheekbones and full of shit feigned interest. The cab driver missed a turn and I casually said “Sir, you needed to make a left at the stop sign you just passed. It’s the grey building on the corner.”

At first he didn’t compute and I hurriedly tried to continue conversation. Failed mission.

“Wait… how did you know where I live?” Shit.

“Um… I am just kind of psychic. I normally don’t tell people on the first date. It’s kinda like a ‘That’s So Raven’ deal sans the closeted lesbian factor. LAWLZ!”

That joke didn’t translate and I could instantly see fear in his eyes. Suddenly what was looking to be a fun night quickly turned into him being “super tired” and needing to be at work “super early.” WAY HARSH TAI. The evening went from promising passion to pending restraining order in a matter of seconds.

I guess curiosity killed the connection. As I called my best friend and told her the critical error I made, we began dissecting my habits. Am I insanely creepy or just adamantly curious? Are these two synonymous? Do I need a hobby? Probably. One may draw the conclusion I am insecure, batshit crazy or severely unstable. I prefer to think I am proactively curious and adorable.

I believe all bitches have the right to utilize our God given resources. I have learned during my personal pursuit of information the following is crucial:

  1. Establish a motive. Like in any high profile business establishments, background checks are not only mandatory but justified. What exactly are you looking for? Financial stability? Relationship history? Federal offenses? Find your motive and stay organized. I am well aware that these are my golden years; I ain’t wasting a weekend going out for fucking teppanyaki with a guy who was president of the Scientology Club in high school.
  2. Clear your browser history. When a guy comes over and asks to use your laptop and you have his name and yearly income in the search bar, things WILL get awky. Trust me, I have learned this the hard way… twice.
  3. Play dumb. Sure, you know what every person in his family looks like already, where he went to college, what his GPA was and his unique blood type. But never reveal your knowledge. Quite frankly it’s none of their fucking business. And always remember when it comes to constitutional research, honesty is the WORST policy.


Struggles of an Extroverted Introvert

Every once in a while I am hit with a midnight martini epiphany. Last month I came to the conclusion I don’t really think the show ‘Friends’ is funny. The month before I made a short-lived vow to only buy local produce. Last week I convinced myself all this Amanda Bynes drama is a genius hoax on the public for a majorly well-concealed documentary premiering at Sundance a la Joaquin Phoenix.

Last night, I finally got a grasp on the complexities of my personality. I like to dramatically categorize all things in my life especially types of people. Optimists and pessimists. Bitches who make nail appointments and those who only do walk-ins. Team LC or Team Kristin. People who caption photos with song lyrics and those who would sooner eat a deep fried puppy. The pimps and the hoes. Bitches that like Michael Kors accessories and those who think it says “I’m settling for mediocrity”. Life is so much easier to navigate when you can put things in a clear container with a label.

At the end of the day there are really only two kinds of people: introverts and extroverts. In life, I tend to live in black and white so it has been a constant struggle to identify with such a strong shade of gray. What gray you may ask? Because I’m an extroverted introvert. It wasn’t until recently (last night) that I realized I am the ultimate union of both. Attention gives me fuel. Not in a daddy issues, lady of the pole way. I hate when people ASSUME that people who love attention are insecure. Some flowers just require more water to bloom.

Growing up, I participated in every fucking activity I could weasel or bribe myself into. Plays, lip-sync competitions, talent shows, pep rallies – you name it, I was there, front and fucking center. Obnoxious doesn’t even begin to cover it.

My first week of middle school I did a painful rendition of “Hey Mickey” during a lunchtime assembly. People threw their lunch at me (I will never look at Domino’s breadsticks the same again) but I held my final pose with my pom poms in a high V, grinning like a winner #nailedit. Sure, I had enough marinara sauce in my hair to feed the Giudice’s for the entirety of Tre’s sentencing, but I was working my shit and it would make for an amazing tale for my E! True Hollywood Story: ‘Bitches, They Are Just Like Us’.

So one could easily assume I am the most extroverted of extroverts. But much to many’s surprise, I am colossally private. I will discuss my digestive system to anyone with a pulse and ear canal but would rather shoot myself in the asshole than discuss anything emotional.

Ever since I was young, I have had this inner dialogue in my head where I am able to sort my inner struggles solo. WebMD may diagnose this as bipolar, but I would just call it having a great sense of self.

I have literally never cried in public. Not sad tears at least. It’s a real shame because crying is a good look for me. My eyes turn this really pretty shade of teal and the tears sitting on my cheekbones give my complexion an unreplicable dewy look. It’s fucking fantastic. Now, in the privacy of my own home or with selected group of bitches I will cry at a Sylvan commercial… dumb kids who need homework help really tug on my heartstrings.

I also have total social anxiety. My hypnosis therapist has assured me this is a control issue and I am uncomfortable in any situation I haven’t carefully crafted. I won’t even go to a restaurant without reading the menu and RAPING the place’s Yelp page.

One could over analyze this and try to associate my introversion to some childhood trauma but that just isn’t the case. To put it very simply, I have always enjoyed being alone. I am the most entertaining person I know. Does that make me an asshole or a complete psychopath? Probably both, but I will discuss that with myself over sushi later.

Sometimes I am an extrovert, sometimes I am an introvert. There is a huge likelihood that I am bipolar. There’s no question that I am neurotic. I wear sequins while home alone and can be found in bed by 9:00PM 87% of the week.

Spontaneity is a personal myth and I have about 8 fully choreographed dance numbers ready to go at any given second. I don’t cry in public but will let a homeless person cry on my shoulder as long as I am not wearing something that’s dry clean only. I own my shade of gray. And am proud of it. And to all my extroverted introverts HAYYYYYYY!

High & Triple Distilled Spirits

I am a very routine bitch. I wake up, check my Instagram followers and make a to do list for the day. I tend to do my marketing around 11am post breakfast after a failed attempt at delivering my food baby, an average of 4 hours watching Bravo and cloaked in both shame and water retention. The parking lot is open, the cheese selection hasn’t been picked over and the staff seems in a chipper mood. For the first time ever I braved the carpool mom cluster fuck that IS Trader HOES at 5pm. The whole market just smelt of baby formula, cheese puffs and regret.

Within 34 seconds of entering the market, a kid spit on me. It wasn’t like he hacked a loogie on me, it was more of an aggressive drool. Thank god I have a serious gravitation towards Asian children or I may have cut a bitch. I am not an ageist … babies can be real assholes.

As I headed towards my happy place aka the liquor aisle I was hit with an immediate wave of social anxiety. All of these medicated carpool moms were clearly 20 minutes away from getting the shakes and running rampant. Children were left abandoned as their mothers grabbed crates of Two Buck Chuck. The sight alone was the best birth control I have ever experienced. I needed to get the fuck out of there. As I went to grab my routine bottle of Goose on the top shelf I found myself perplexed as the bottle in my hand started to crackle… because it was made of fucking plastic.

It read “Vodka of The Gods” and was $9.99 for a handle. The description boasted it was “perfect for mixed drinks” which is like when someone describes a bitch as looking “healthy” after she has gained a few lbs. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I would sooner ferment my own potatoes or find a Russian sugar daddy with great Vodka inventory before I bought this shit. I practically dropkicked the nearest employee and demanded they check the back for some decent vodka.

College wasn’t my shtick but I can imagine how those 4 minutes of waiting for Salvador to return and determine the fate of my evening has to be eerily similar to waiting for a University acceptance letter. As I saw my little chalupa emerge from the back without any happy juice in tow my heart sank. “So sorry ma’am. It’s been a very busy afternoon. Have you ever tried Vodka of The Gods?” “Fuck you Salvador.”

I had spent 40 minutes navigating this infested market, helped an elderly pick out a new orchid and swapped germs with enough children to cast a United Colors of Benetton ad. It was time to get sketchy.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a yoga pant-wearing woman chatting away on her Bluetooth. She had abandoned her little boy in the shopping cart and was perusing various meatless products. I quickly scanned the contents of her cart: 1) Her mediocre child 2) No animal byproducts 3) A bottle of fucking Grey Goose. Clearly this bitch was a vegan. Can they even DRINK vodka? “Seriously tempeh tastes better than steak Cheryl, you MUST try it” … Now all bets were off. Her kid was playing on his iPad, she was gabbing away about her philanthropic dietary restrictions (side note: if everyone was a fucking vegan the ecosystem would CRASH #teamfoodchain) and I was getting thirstier by the minute. I knew if I could just position myself about 45 degrees to the left of her malnourished child I could grab the bottle of Goose and make a bolt for the cashier. It really seemed like I would be doing her a favor… I mean drinking something that possibly could have come from a Goose seems conflicting with her lifestyle choices.

I inched closer pretending to red the nutritional info on a nearby box of Snap Pea Crisps and ever so delicately let my left arm fall into Vegan Victoria’s shopping cart. Without breaking eye contact from the Snap Peas, I located the bottleneck and slowly started to lift it out of the cart. With merely centimeters to go … “MOM MY IPAD DIED!” what a little shithead. The mother whipped around and caught me awkwardly holding the bottle of vodka behind my back while I clutched the snap peas. “Oh… UM. I am so sorry I thought this was my cart? Haha!”  #LAWLZ Yeah fucking right. I am pretty sure I didn’t also have an overindulged little asshole riding shotgun in MY cart. She looked over at my nearby basket filled with ground lamb, 46 kinds of cheese and enough frozen fish to subsidize for Fukushima and things only got more awky.

She looked at me in total disgust. Back off me bitch, things could be worse. It wasn’t like I was trying to kidnap your child. Some may call this occurrence a personal low point… I prefer to think I had great initiative and high spirits. I headed to the checkout sans Vodka and many of my maternal instincts. Since this incident I have been popping birth control pills like wintergreen Tic Tacs. I have made a vow never to come face to face with these vicious Trader Hoes ever again and to forever more buy all alcohol at Costco where the dilfs and samples are plentiful.