Prude & Prejudice

A lady never forgets her first crush and definitely never forgets her first biracial union. This little bitch was down for the swirl in a big way. I am sure many of you are privy to my early case of jungle fever (reference here). For me, it wasn’t as much a sexual preference as a commitment to civil rights… It’s hard being a humanitarian at such a young age. His name was *Denzel (I will be protecting his real identity like a class act) and we met at summer camp. He had seductively spikey hair, a solo diamond earring and was the best basketball player in the whole camp. That’s not racist, it was the fucking truth. My Hershey heartthrob could ball so hard motha-fuckas wanna fine him #thatshitcray. In hindsight, I should have considered it a red flag to date a guy who was allowed to have his ears pierced before me. Who the fuck has that kind of accessory confidence before your balls even drop?

I was 7 years old and it was my first year at an all day summer camp. My mother packed me my store bought California roll and organic soda, I grabbed my roll-on lip gloss, strapped on my jelly sandals and was ready to tear shit up. I remember feeling that this summer was going to be my foray into adulthood. I stepped into that camp convinced I was going to immediately grow boobs and know how to do long division through osmosis. I was directed towards my counselor and what looked like a seriously disappointing group of camp mates… That’s when I spotted Denzel in all of his hazelnut frappucino glory. He had like 8 Tamagotchi’s on his back pack #pantydropper and was clad in USC gear. I was praying for a trustfund but would settle with a basketball scholarship. Our counselor led a few ice breaker games and then insisted we utilize the buddy system. I was on that shit like white on brown rice “Wanna be buddies?” Cool, calm, collected AND Caucasian. It was so meant to be! He immediately agreed and we spent the day glued at the hip. I swapped a California roll for his Doritos, we EROTICALLY shared a Capri Sun and frolicked down the waterslide drunk in love. 


Only 4 days at summer camp and I was in my first committed relationship. By Friday, Denzel was ready to take things to the next level. Anal. (IM FUCKING JOKING) As we parted ways for our gender segregated bathroom break, Denzel grabbed my arm and aggressively pecked me on the cheek. As soon as his lips left my face he sprinted to the bathroom leaving me alone cloaked in shame. I couldn’t believe how forward he was. What kind of prepubescent did he think I was? Should I have traded out my triangle top bikini for a more modest tankini like some of the inland empire campers? What kind of whore did he take me for? Should I start wearing bermuda shorts to leave a bit of mystery? Who knew I was omitting such an intense sexual energy before I was even allowed to shower unsupervised. I felt the tears start to well up and all the color drain from my face. I really couldn’t afford to lose any more melatonin, I was in a biracial union for fuck’s sake. Paralyzed with promiscuity I ran to the main office and demanded I call my mother to take me home. “Mom something really bad happened with a boy in my group, I need to come home.” My yenta mother called up the family attorney and was there within 4 minutes ready to cut a bitch.

She pulled me out of there and took me out to the parking lot so I could explain what had happened. My poor mothers mind was already planning a Megan’s Law protest outside the camp building when I finally confided in her that Denzel had kissed me. “Like a movie star kiss?” “No.” “Like on the lips?” “No.” “Like on the cheek?” “YES!” Tears of shame ran down my face, I couldn’t even look at myself. 7 years old and already a total slut. “HONEY… you are this upset over a boy kissing you on the cheek? You are such a prude!” Having my mother call me prude at 7 years old will continue to be the low point of my life. She dragged me back into camp and insisted I stay. Unfortunately, camp administration had already gotten a hold of Denzel and ridiculed him for his inappropriate behavior. My mother profusely apologized and they all shared a good laugh at my expense. I was beyond embarrassed by my blatant inexperience and desperately needed to patch things up with my life partner. I ran to Denzel with the conviction of Rosa Parks and the love of my young heart ready to reconcile. I met him at the lunch tables, our “spot”, and expressed how sorry I was for telling on him. Things were just moving so fast and I got scared. He sipped on his Capri Sun and looked at me blankly and said “I don’t like white girls anymore.” Excuse me fuckhead? We didn’t speak the rest of the summer and he was dating a new Asian hooker by the end of the day. So cliché.

I was just an open minded girl who got seriously fucked by tasting the swirl. I don’t know what became of Denzel. Whether he ever made it to USC, dated another white Jewish girl with ethnic hair or had to pawn his Tamagotchi collection to afford a second earring. Love may see no color, but Denzel certainly did.

50 Shades of Gay

I like to think I make the perfect beard. I get aroused by gold lamé, put together a gorgeous Sunday brunch and can quote every Real Housewife tagline both past and present seasons. I have been romantic with many a potential backdoor lover and dame myself an expert in all things fag haggery. Here are some surefire signs that your boyfriend wants to tickle a pickle. 


  • He knows the difference between Yves Saint Laurent and Saint Laurent.
  • He only knows the terms “wide-reciever” and “tight-end” when it comes to sports.
  • He speaks in hashtags #likesitupthebutt
  • He drinks rosé and watches the Real Housewives with you… voluntarily.
  • He is under no circumstances trying to penetrate you.
  • He thinks ear cuffs are the new body chain.
  • He suffers from limp wrist syndrome.
  • His instagram username fudgepacker69.
  • He offers you “charcuterie” and/or “fromage when you go to his place.
  • His drink of choice has grenadine in it.
  • He gets erect for a good juice spot and the perfect kale chip.
  • He uses the term YAAAAAS in lieu of a hetero yes.
  • He watches gay porn like this gem.
  • He uses more than 1 emoji per conversation.
  • He has headshots even though they are not prevalent to his career… you know just for fun #gay
  • He owns a Ke$ha cd and insists he too is “hot and dangerous”.
  • He fucks guys.

It’s not that weird to be a guy’s beard, but you should know when you’re romantic with a homo.



My formal education seems like it was eons ago. One thing I do remember learning from my hott 26 year old Algebra teacher is that “x” stands for the unknown. Anyone who has ever suffered from a breakup understands that this mathematic principle runs an eerily similar parallel to our love life. Ex also represents the unknown. Are we supposed to keep in touch? Wish them a happy birthday? Congratulate them on a job promotion? Tell them their new girlfriend needs rhinoplasty and a restraining order against polyblend maxi dresses?

Last week, an ex-boyfriend sent me a text message saying “Hey!” I should have clarify we have not spoken in over 2 years and from what I remember he is so not an exclamation point kind of guy. My first thoughts upon receiving his text were the following a) He is coming out of the closet. b) He needs to borrow money. c) He wants me to stop obsessively looking at his new girlfriends Linkedin profile – for the record she is a 31 year old college graduate “barista” #reachforthestars. I have such an issue with the term “barista”. There is no need to glamorize waking up at 5am to make corporately crafted coffee in a dumb hat . That’s like being a fucking dog walker and calling yourself a “Canine Fitness Consultant”.  I coolly waited 48 minutes before responding with a super casual “hey.” classic case of an intentional period. I thought that was a really nice touch – it says I am approachable yet distracted. Instantly I was overcome with anxiety – why is he texting me?

I began to think more about my ex communications. We keep shoes we will probably never wear but toss out exes like they are expired milk. I have wisely said multiple times that once you see a guys “pee-pee” staying friends is kind of creepy. I am not sure if I actually believe this or I was just influenced by a good rhyme. He went on to ask how I was doing and asked if we could meet up for a drink soon and “catch up :)”. I know this bitch didn’t dabble in exclamation marks and sure as fuck didn’t text smiley faces. SUPER AWKY. I responded with a cool “sounds good. lemme know.” Sometimes I can be so nonchalant it KILLS me. I started thinking about friendships with exes and realized I literally have none. Being the adorably neurotic bitch that I am, I then began to psychoanalyze myself and wonder what that says about me… I then made myself a dirty martini before I started to get the shakes and concluded that I will never be good friends with any of my serious ex boyfriends with good reason. For one, I don’t like to voluntarily welcome rejection into my social life. Our blessed union clearly ended for a reason and when meeting for a quick “catch up” if he didn’t seem completely tore up from my absence in his world I would feel under appreciated. Not to sound like a huge dick but he is a 6 in looks and a 4 for charisma, and I think I am a fair overall 7.9 … if you are a leg guy some might even say an 8.1 #thighgap. So naturally he should never be able to get over me right? I like to think he cries himself to sleep every night trolling my Instagram feed wondering how he ever let me go. Additionally, I think to ever truly move on and meet someone new staying all bullshit buddy-buddy with your ex boyfriend is the metaphorical leash holding you back. They know you too well – things normal friends don’t know. Every meeting turns into a mixed signal hell. “When he said he liked my dress did that mean he was flirting with me? Why did he kiss me on the cheek instead of a friendly hug?”  You can’t tell them about who you’re dating now (unless it’s passive aggressively), complain about your ever perplexing state of constipation (unless you are me who discusses it constantly) you can’t ask them to go buy you a pregnancy test or ask them to hold your hand through a brazilian bikini wax because you aren’t real friends.

Oy vey. All this thinking over a fucking catch up? I really need meds. I decided drinks seemed too committal and proposed coffee instead. I don’t drink coffee but hadn’t shit in 4 days so I figured between an espresso, the anonymity of a public restroom and the nerves of meeting an ex boyfriend, a bitch might get lucky. Keeping it ever so platonic I said “Hey can’t do drinks. Wanna grab a coffee instead so I can relieve my constipation and give birth to this food baby in time for my upcoming weekend getaway with my incredibly better looking new boyfriend?” I waited and waited, minute by minute, hour by hour, day by fucking day and no response. Finally last night around 10pm he replied “hey sorry, ya ill let you know what day works for me.” Huh? You asked me fucker! Don’t try to out manipulate a mass manipulator, I know your game I CREATED this game. And because I have never had these type of internal and borderline schizophrenic conversations in my head while making plans with ANY of my real friends the answer is simple. This in itself is why I have never delusionally skipped down the tear stricken road of friendship with any former lovers. That sentence makes me want to kill myself… tear stricken road? What the fuck?

Exes are the ultimate unknown value, BUT every bitch should know HER value. And this bitch doesn’t see any ex valuable enough to be relevant in my equation. #boom

How To Be a Bitch In Business

Being a young business woman (#not) in 2014 is not an easy task. Haunted by alleged glass ceilings, which actually sounds super chic,to stand out and excel one must be tenacious, hard-working and professional. As I have courageously left the comforts of a 9-5 office job and set sail on the tumultuous waters of building my brand, I have come to the harsh reality that I am not nearly as professional as I had imagined. I would rather eat a puppy then wear wide leg slacks or a heel lower than 4 inches and find there to be far too many shades of grey within sexual harassment policies. Racism can be super funny. I have always bonded with people by discussing my digestive system at length, removing my weave and throwing it across the room as a party trick or woo-ing them with my dead on impersonation of Carla Tate in “The Other Sister” (a classic tale of an autistic young woman leaving the nest). Unfortunately, most of these tricks of the trade don’t hold up well in a conference room. Here are some lessons I have learned the hard way as a Bitch in the business world.


No holocaust jokes – As a partially converted jew, my mother insisted Saturday mornings were dedicated to holocaust movies to show us what “our” people went through. While the other neighborhood kids were playing kickball and watching cartoons, my mother had us strapped to the sofa for an uplifting showing of “Schindler’s List”. Because of these unfortunate childhood memories, I have embraced some of the lingo in my everyday jargon. A term I use constantly in particular when confronted with difficult decisions in the work place: “Sophies Choice!”. For those who are not privy to this Meryl Streep classic, google it. Back when I was a bitch in the corporate world and I would meander to the office kitchen and take note of the selection of different bagels, I would try to make idle chit-chat with my coworkers and say things like “Wow, there are so many bagels today. This is like Sophie’s Choice!” Perhaps the asian guys from accounting weren’t my target audience. Needless to say HR wasn’t pleased with my impressive pop culture reference.

Don’t flub your resume. True story, my resume once stated that I was bilingual, graduated college with a 3.8 gpa and was well versed in Microsoft Excel, Powerpoint and dabbled in competitive fencing. The truth is I rely on Google for almost everything and have only spent a cumulative 5 hours on an actual college campus. I consider charisma, flawless incorporation of business casual sequins and Real Housewives trivia my strongest assets. Saying you speak fluent Spanish and then being summoned to communicate with the office repair man who doesn’t speak English is an awkward way for your boss to find out you lied on your resume.

Be mindful of email recipients. I am a very impulsive person. I am still learning how to think before I speak, proofread before I publish and flush before I flee. I have had a hard time accepting the fact that I just don’t translate via email. Day 3 of my previous job, I received an email from my sister and my boss about 2 seconds apart. My sister’s email asked me what street Neiman Marcus was on and my bosses email asked where I had placed the spare company Blackberry’s. I responded to my sister saying “They are located on the bottom shelf of the storage closet”. I responded to my bosses email saying “You are a fucking retard”. I then went on my lunch break and came back to a very veklempt inbox. Whoopsie.

Don’t get really drunk at the holiday party. I could go into details but I will spare you. When I drink too much I perform interpretive dance numbers or insist on picking up the bar tab for strangers who look like they have “kind eyes and gentle souls” like a Ketel One fueled creep. Save yourself from a seriously awkward elevator ride the next morning and keep your buzz at bay.

Remember it’s okay to ask for help. I’ll be honest, I would rather spend hours learning through trial and error than admit I don’t know how to do something. I have a rare disease where I think I am smart enough to figure anything and everything out by myself or with help from Siri. Unfortunately this is not true, especially with that whore Siri. She brings NOTHING to the table, I fucking hate her. Sometimes, a bitch just needs to ask for help. Surprisingly most people find someone requesting their help a HUGE ego boost and are happy to help. So before you volunteer yourself to takeover the company photo directory so you can play marry, fuck, kill on your downtime and consequently delete all 300 photos from the server… you may want to ask for a quick tutorial.


Instagram is Ruining My Life

UNFOLLOWED & UNENTHUSED I track my followers closer than I do any irregular moles, my menstrual cycle and my ill maintained weave. So one would be able to draw the conclusion I favor my Instagram audience over my own health… Which I think really go hand in hand because when some bitch I went to highschool with unfollows me it really fucks with my seratonin levels. I know this because I have an app that tracks this shit for me #21stcenturygirl. My immediate rebuttal is one of two maneuvers, I either go on a double tap rampage or passive aggressively unfollow them (if there profile isn’t private and I still have access to their shameless duck faced filterlicious selfies). I then engage in a serious downward spiral “why did they unfollow me? am I not funny? too much self promo? did I offend them? does my filter game suck ass?” It all can be so overwhelming, but everyone reading this should know… if you have unfollowed me you are on my shit list and I suggest you refollow me in next 24 hours or your basically dead to me. Big kiss.

OVERLY-FILTERED AND OVER-EXPOSED I am very well aware of my strengths and weaknesses as a human being both in the flesh and via the internet. I like to think I am self-deprecating and charming but can’t deny the fact that I am irreparably obnoxious. Instagram serves as the ultimate danger zone for obnoxious people like myself. Beyond being grossly gaudy, I am also grossly anti-social. Therefor selling an ovary to purchase a pair of Louboutins seems ridiculous given that they will most likely never get to be showcased outside of my apartment. This is when Instagram gets to me… now I can show off my overly priced shoewear to give them the exposure they deserve but then also end up being one of “those girls”. In the same shameful respect, if I have had a solid week of proper digestion (which NEVER happens) and I happen to find myself in a bikini sans food baby I need photographic evidence. It makes me hate myself in a big way. Unfortunately not enough to make me take it down because I suck and want to show off what I worked or shit hard for. I GUFFAW at others for their overly filtered, gayly captioned, self-indulgent pictures – but have found myself being one of them on more occasions than I will ever admit. Fuck my life.

LIKES FOR LIKES If I don’t receive double-digit likes within half an hour I will delete my pic which speaks to a deeper issue; my need for approval. I am positive no one has posted and deleted a single photo more than I have… If I post something at noon and I don’t get the likes I think I deserve I will delete and blame it on “poor timing – people must be out to lunch where cellphones aren’t allowed!” and will repost around 6pm when people are home and consuming an alcoholic beverage. The Grey Goose always got your liking fingers feelin loose. The caption is such a crucial part of the posting process. It should be witty but curt, funny but not trying too hard and unisex. My hell is an emoji boasting caption. For example; “Love the life you live <3″ just fucking shoot me in the face. Song lyrics simply shouldn’t be allowed as insta-captions because it makes you insta-stupid. Also any saying you would find painted on a plaque your grandmother has hanging in her janky inland empire kitchen shouldn’t be allowed either “live, life, love” #GROSS.

DOUBLE TAP DOWNFALL I’ve said it one I’ll say it again; I am one creepy bitch. Private profiles signify deep-rooted issues for me. I get wanting to keep your photographic moments for yourself but that’s what we call a scrapbook. I understand the thrill and mystery of a private profile, it makes you seem busy and obsolete. With a public setup friend requests are 100x more flattering because when people already have full access to your photos and STILL follow you, it really means something. It’s kind of like a social media promise ring…by Lorraine Schwartz. Being a fan of public profiles, I often peruse distant strangers photos without committing. Ex boyfriends, co-workers, creepy neighbors – you name it! The problem is sometimes when I stumble on a profile I get so excited, my fingers start to twitch and I accidentally “like” a photo from like 2 fucking years ago. You just CANT ever recover from something like that and it has been the black cloud over my usual sunny day for a long time now. This happened a few weeks ago whilst stalking a huge bitch I went to school with who is a total life ruiner. After LENGTHY research I found her profile and began trolling back in time. I was overcome with glee to see that she is living in a place with cottage cheese ceilings and a twin bed when I accidentally gave her the ultimate compliment – a double tap. Even if you immediately unlike something, they will still receive the notification. I learned that the hard way… Her profile is now private.

@JackieSchimmel #shameless


Hola bitches, I am in the process of recording my podcast series. Here is an unfortunate sneak peek of some of the awe inducing and truly thought provoking content which will be maturely discussed. You’re welcome and I am really sorry about this Temecula.

**I would like to clarify we went on to say we only disliked Lizzie with an i-e at the end. I actually love Lizzy’s and felt gay peer pressure to blindly agree with him. Besitos.