About 3 of you have been desperately anticipating the premiere of The Bitch Bible podcast series. We have been working on this for months and finally are on the precipice of debuting for all muh bitches. This week, I drank and divulged with friend and man-bun champion Julian. In lieu of a Thirsty Thursday video, I decided to give you a sneak peek from our pod session. Enjoy!
I am sure this comes as no surprise to most of you bitches but it should be said. I live for a good cocktail. I am not the girl ralphing in my purse or flashing my vagina on the sidewalk… I drink like a fucking lady. I have always said I missed my calling as a pretentious bartender so I like to live that dream in the privacy of my own home.
I am someone who is plagued with neurosis and a routine lifestyle so it is rare that I stray from my usual vodka martini. Last weekend something truly terrible happened… I ran out of fucking martini olives. There I sat alone, watching Stepmom, sans my go-to libation and I have never felt so alone. Sure I could have gone to the market but then I would have had to move so obviously that was a no-go. Sobriety clearly was NOT an option – have you seen Stepmom? Susan Sarandon practically gutted me alive.
Being the free spirit that I am I decided to concoct a new drink that has since been blowing my fucking mind. I call it my “Basil Bitch Delight”, first you need the following…
- Lime or Lemon juice
- Simple syrup (agave nectar works too)
- Club soda.
- Vodka (Gin works too)
- Ice ice baby.
To make simple syrup boil equal parts water and sugar, to make it fancy add a lime peel and some basil. Make sure you let syrup cool before adding to your drink or you will fuck everything up.
Add ice, shot of vodka (or 2), juice of one lime, teaspoon of simple syrup (more if you like it sweet) and basil leaves to a shaker. Shake that shit like a Polaroid picture and pour into short tumbler or strain into martini glass, top with club soda and get your garnish on bitch. Drink happy.
- Travel alone. If you don’t want to travel with yourself, why would anybody else? Learn how to print your own boarding pass, swig cocktails solo and explore a city sans travel buddy. Bon voyage bitch.
- Figure out your fucking eyebrows. Whether you prefer a Selena slim brow or a Frida full bush – find the right shape and fullness for your face. Eyebrows are the best way to say who you are without words. They ARE that important.
- Clean out your clique. Like Caroline Manzo once said, “when you hang around garbage you start to stink.” Your college friend who pukes in her purse and hits on your boyfriend? Let her go.
- Put in the long hours, write the awkward emails and be ruthless to the point of obnoxious. Think “young and eager” not “old and desperate”.
- Learn the hard way. I am not suggesting you start a meth habit or dabble in wire fraud. Date the bad boy, drink the tequila with a worm in it, try deep fried orangutan testicles whatever. Being wild and promiscuous is acceptable in your 20’s so own that.
- Find your skill. My dream is to be a Korean pop star but my singing voice could bring Helen Keller to pained tears. Through extreme therapy or delusion free self reflection figure out what you excel at and perfect it.
- Cut the umbilical cord. My parents stalk me (it’s a Jewish thing) and I think they are the best. However, there is something liberating about realizing your parents aren’t always right and you don’t need their approval to make your own decisions.
- Call your grandparents. They could die soon. Too real?
- Show off your shit. This is coming from someone who is currently wearing a flannel one piece and my gold glitter retainer. Our thigh gaps probably aren’t getting any wider or our boobs perkier so I say go for it. Slut.
- Embarrass yourself. There is something totally liberating about learning how to weather really embarrassing moments. Taking yourself TOO seriously is exhausting and quite frankly a buzzkill.
- Say you’re sorry. I try to avoid apologies at all costs but when you fuck up, you have to apologize. Unless you are an asshole.
- Learn to cook. I am not saying you need to rebel against your natural disdain for domesticity and become Ina Garten but everyone should know how to cook at least ONE thing decently.
- Take care of your skin. Wash your face and get some fucking eye cream. You can’t paint a masterpiece on a busted canvas… think about it.
- Find your karaoke song. This may be the most important thing in the whole list. It should be under 3 minutes, keep the crowd engaged AND showcase your best vocal/dance moves. It can take YEARS to perfect (Mine is “All The Things She Said” by T.A.T.U).
- Take a big risk. Quit your job, invest in a Scandinavian condom company, or move to a Kibbutz. This is the time to embrace change and suffer the consequences while we still have access to our childhood bedrooms hopefully still complete with Spice Girl memorabilia.
- Break-up with your adolescent boyfriend. I am uncertain why people think “high school sweethearts” are so adorable. I think it’s kind of creepy as fuck. I am all for later reconciliation but spread your….wings? It’s refreshing to be with someone whom you didn’t have to borrow mechanical pencils from.
- Read a fucking book. It gives you something to talk about and is an amazing companion for a solo dinner date.
- Find your go-to cocktail. If you are still drinking liquor from a plastic bottle it’s time to step your game up. I am still totally confused the difference between neat/up/shaken/stirred/with a twist – but I do know I like a Ketel One vodka martini… and I like it dirtayyy.
- Fall in love. Could I be more basic?
- Don’t rely on stupid lists for inspiration (but do share with other fellow 20-somethings via social media… obviously)
You guys, I think I have officially lost it. Please watch before I am forced to take this down.
You may have noticed something different in the air lately. The New Year’s confetti has settled, holiday gifts have been returned for half their purchased value, and the passive-aggressive transition of couple profile pictures to solo selfies have been raping our newsfeeds.
Welcome to Break-up Season bitches. Many believe this relationship dissolving movement starts BEFORE Christmas but after extensive research I have found this to be untrue. I haven’t determined what exactly causes this urge to purge significant others, but can definitely attribute it to the New Year’s “fresh start” mentality, the stress of the holidays, and disappointing gift exchanges.
According to my findings, the Break-Up Season begins just after Christmas and lingers till mid-February. You usually spend Xmas together with slight strain, ring in the New Year by declaring you need to “focus on yourself,” which prompts the break up. Then you cap it off with an awky forced reconciliation Valentine’s dinner that ends in tears and a waste of an outfit.
I am a particular (yet totally endearing) breed of pain in the ass so I always get nervous around this time of year. My boyf booked a trip to Paris for my Hanukkah gift so I figured that’s anti-split insurance, but a bitch really never knows. Getting dumped under the Eiffel Tower would be super epic… and an amazing video blog. I’m kidding…
I often wonder why the supposedly “most wonderful time of the year” showcases so many break-ups? Here’s what I’ve found: The main factor is stress. Stress from family, gift-exchanging and the pressure to be “jolly” while you are gaining weight and losing money. I mean, any season that has to overcompensate that much can’t be great. My ex-boyfriend got me a Tiffany’s kidney bean necklace for Christmas… if those aren’t means for a breakup I don’t know what is. A FUCKING STERLING SILVER KIDNEY BEAN? What’s next, corn kernel drop earrings? Fucking disgusting. I hate Tiffany’s. It feels good to get that out.
So, how do you know if you are in danger during Break-up Season? A bitch must be cautious and inquire with trepidation. I have always found it pretty easy to figure out if my significant other wants to give me the boot. Like a lady, I usually sink my talons in deeper, and try and beat them to the punch. This method has had a 50/50 success rate.
Here are some tips to make it through the Break-up Season unscathed…
- Lay low. It’s hard to get dumped if you aren’t around. Visit some distant relatives in Poland, make superfluous dinner plans, and just be busy. A bit of mystery is necessary in any relationship. Maybe change up your behavior. By creating a fog of confusion, you are staying a few steps ahead of your partner and throwing them off any trail to a break up.
- Prey on their insecurities. If you know your man has an undescended testicle he is wildly embarrassed about, make sure to reference it constantly. Remind him how it still catches you off guard after all this time. Passive aggressive digs should always finish with an insincere compliment like, “I think your uni-ball makes you unique and I love you in all your penile deformity babe.” This makes them unconsciously feel like you are making sacrifices for them, which makes them feel guilty, ultimately delaying a break up.
- Pre-emptively dump them first. A PD (pre-emptive dump) is as tried and true as anything in this big bad world. When this works, you’ve hit the jackpot— the person doesn’t want to end things, you take them back, they’re grateful, and they are most certainly too scared to dump you now. If it doesn’t work – then you are fucked.
Obviously these are all terrible ideas. This is about damage control, not practicality. If you have been victim to this Break-up Season, just remember it is a new year and you’re probably better off without the shmuck. Delete those couple photos, post a fabulous default looking happier than ever, and be thankful you can now openly return your fucking Tiffany’s kidney bean necklace for 60% of its value.
Since I was an adolescent bitch, I have made the monthly tradition of breaking into my parent’s voicemail and leaving a monthly greeting that is both irritating and highly informative. I found that it is an amazing defense against solicitors and almost guaranteed teachers NEVER to leave messages. At first my parents were not so keen on these monthly hijacks but slowly realized no matter how many times they changed the password, I would find a way to beat the system. This New Years Day I revived the tradition with a fun and spritely personal greeting…enjoy and excuse my appearance.
This may the most Emo Emily post I have ever written and will ever post. Fueled mostly by menstruation, I have felt completely stuck like an Asian at a yellow light for past week. I always feel this way around the New Year and have no fucking clue why. I usually blame being a Jew and feeling conflicted internally that I have to celebrate two New Years and than coincidently have to pick which one is the real thing.
I have a quarter life crisis at least 5 times a year. I am insanely hard on myself and riddled with excess adrenaline. I care way too much what people think of me. It’s not the worst thing in the world. Why do we as a society celebrate not giving a fuck? I give huge fucks. Mazel Tov, you don’t care what people think, how “Los Feliz” of you. My livelihood is based on a stranger’s approval so it is to my best benefit to care. Right? RIGHT.
Last week while staying at my parent’s house during the holidays I ran into an old middle school “friend.” I do not do these situations well. I get really nervous and highly over share. I let her know I was constipated – why this is my go-to topic of convo I will NEVER know. We were both in the tampon aisle; I hadn’t started menstruating yet but was trying to channel The Secret for my last moments of 2014. Like I say every month “better to GET your period, than not.” I then awkwardly mentioned how serendipitous it was to reunite in the feminine product aisle and offered her a high five for “not being pregnant.” I then continued to over share and told her I have yet to actually GET my period but was anticipating a real menstrual monsoon based on recent cravings. She indulged me in my ovulation small talk and made a joke “Maybe you’re just pregnant?” I laughed and shot back, “Luckily, I have a sketchy friend who swears a few lines of cocaine, a scorching hot bath, and a day of extreme horseback riding will solve that issue.” This did not go over well.
Once again, in my pursuit of being charming, I had taken it too far. Sensing her disdain for my failed joke (although not REALLY a joke – my friend swears it works) I gave an awkward hug and evacuated the aisle quickly. Fuck. Then the tornado in my head started brewing. Uh-oh, what if she had a baby? What if she is in a Pro-Life Initiative Group? What is a Pro-Life Initiative Group? What if she thinks I am a drug addict? I have never even done cocaine… Although it would be a great way to aide in a deviated septum so I could get a free nose job. Why do I even care?
I started awkwardly pacing through different aisles debating whether I should stage another run-in and try to redeem myself. I decided I had done enough damage and should spare myself the opportunity to make anymore inappropriate jokes. I could already check abortion and substance abuse off my list. What would be next? Holocaust jokes? It was time to leave.
Later that day I started thinking about perception. Sometimes who we really are and who people think we are can be a scary paradox. Why the fuck did I care SO much about what a glorified stranger thought about me? As I tried to talk myself off the metaphorical cliff of worrying about making the front page of our local newspaper “Jackie Schimmel Hates Unborn Children AND Does Cocaine!” I sat down and found unlikely solace from Valerie Cherish. For those of you, who don’t watch “The Comeback” or don’t find Valerie Cherish to be the MOST loveable and endearing character on television I need you out of my life. Val taught me that while a public opinion is nice– the most important is the opinion you have of yourself. If your hair is ratchet, you can buy a weave. If you’re not that cerebral, you can hire a tutor. But you can’t buy a good reputation.
Amy, I am really sorry if I offended you. I have yet to pick up any form of substance abuse and generally like 70% of small children. I still think it was really funny and hope you will forgive me… #igaf
I was trying to think of something quippy but I am having major digestive issues and can’t be bothered with mental stimulation. I kind of fucking hate New Years. Firstly, bodycon dresses with mesh inserts hurt my feelings and the pressure associated with the holiday gives me anxiety. My best New Years was spent in a onesie with a vintage Bravo marathon and sexual spooning with my dog. We are forced to reflect and think about things we are supposed to change for a better “new year” and it all reads very basic.
Girls in Uggs and Michael Kors watches EVERYWHERE start posting cryptic Facebook statuses and video collages of their 2014 highlights. Gag me. To be completely honest, my year has been the best of my life romantically, career-wise and digestively. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it right? Sure I could start caring about my physical health, drinking more water and be a more compassionate being but that all feels a bit pushy. I believe we all have minor room for improvement and in the spirit of all things basic (and nothing else to write about) I have compiled a bitch-approved list of New Years resolutions.
Be kind to kind people. I am not that delusional, I know I can be a huge bitch. I like to think I am just overly direct but sometimes I have a razor tongue and heightened adrenaline levels that turn me into fucking Medusa. I often get stereotyped as some type of Regina George life ruiner and it’s just not true… count the homecoming princess tiaras. I am the most verbally abusive to people I really love. I am currently working on this with my therapist. How you treat people who can do NOTHING for you says more than how you treat anybody else.
Good Credit is kind of important. My father has permanently ingrained that “if you don’t have good credit, you have nothing” this statement is incredibly dramatic and fueled by serious Judaism. My credit hasn’t been stellar but my shoe game has always been incredible. I was on a Neimans Most Wanted list for a solid 4 months and it was a rough go. This is something I have been tirelessly trying to improve despite the fact that I am still toting a 3-year-old Time Warner Cable box a la Kristen Doute… I will do just about anything to avoid going to Camarillo (that is where the drop-off location is… Google it).
Talk shit, get hit. If there is one pearl of wisdom I have learned from watching The Real Housewives is that people will almost ALWAYS hear what you say behind their back. For some fucked reason, people use gossip as a bonding tool. I prefer discussing my digestive system and extensively analyzing Vanderpump Rules over dirty martinis but whatever. Expect anything you say about someone to be pulled out of a manila folder at a reunion special and read to the subjects face and you will be a much more careful bitch.
Remember, most of the shitty things that happened in 2014 are your own fault. Deaths and natural disasters aside (too real?) most of the things we complain about in retrospect right before New Years are our own fucking fault. Still harboring tumultuous vibes with an ex? Your fault. Unhappy with your career? Your fault. Working a grade a muffin top? Your fault. As soon as a bitch realizes that she is the sole CEO of their own fucking life, you can rid yourself of the less than fabulous factors and strut forward into 2015 (hopefully in shoes that you didn’t have to bounce a check for).
HAPPY NEW YEAR BITCHES. NEW YEAR, SAME BITCH.
Oh em gee. This is the longest I have gone without posting. I am sorry for going MIA but I am being basic as fuck and enjoying this lovely holiday season. I feel like I have become wildly basic in the past couple of weeks and I am not proud. By 2015 I may be driving a white Jetta, wearing a Michael Kors watch, upgrading my Emoji selections and binge watching Pretty Little Liars with a froyo. Just kidding, that’s disgusting.
I’ve taken this time off to roast chestnuts by the open fire, drink eggnog and contemplate the age old question, was Mary really a virgin or just hit the Jesus juice too hard one night, fucked a sheep herder, rode a camel back to her pad and figured it would be a better story to say God knocked her up? Who could blame her? I’d do the same fucking thing. Although I’d rather have the illegitimate father of my bastard be more financially stable but I digress.
Currently I am in San Francisco on vacation and enjoying the sights and plentiful Asians. I will be back and bitchier than ever next week, until then follow me on my pursuit of holiday cheer on Twitter and Instagram @jackieschimmel (I lost 800 followers and this bitch is THIRSTY)
Tag me, tweet me if you wanna reach me bitches. Yes that was a Kim Possible reference and yes I am embarrassed.
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.
I have been instructed to clarify I do not support use of any illegal substances #duh
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.
CLICK THIS QUIZ THAT TOOK ME 3 HOURS TO MAKE (AND CAN’T FIGURE OUT HOW TO DIRECTLY LINK/ AM TOO EMBARRASSED TO ASK ANYONE FOR HELP) IF THE QUIZ DOESN’T WORK HERE CLICK THIS #desperate : http://imahautemess.polldaddy.com/s/vanderpumprules AND SHARE WITH YOUR FELLOW VANDERBITCHES.
And always remember… people may try and bring you down for being obsessed with Vanderpump Rules, but you are good as gold.
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.
- 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.
- 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).
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.
- 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.