On this weeks podcast, my best friend Rooty makes her triumphant return. I grill her on her epicly questionable bridesmaid behavior and her incessant love for DIY projects and inspirational quotes. Beyond all of this, she is also a fucking amazing singer/songwriter and to insure my ticket to the Grammys I wanted to share a live acoustic version of “Pray” from the 50 Shades Darker soundtrack (spread bar scene) written and performed by our best friends JRY and Rooty, listen and buy that shit on iTunes!
Another week, another podcast. On this weeks episode I recap my “stories” aka RHOC and Southern Charm, answer listener questions, call Grandma Gloria and ask her about STD’s and casually reveal that I went on a date with Rob Kardashian before he ate Kirstie Alley.
Fuck, I hope people don’t think I am trying to be a fashion blogger with this post. I AM NOT. A lot of people have been asking about my sunglasses and I have a confession. Up until 3 months ago, I only wore sunglasses with a price max of $5.99 and tell people they were “vintage”. Because I am an ASSHOLE. Before you judge me, know that I had a traumatizing experience with designer sunglasses as a child. I spent all my Bat Mitzvah money to buy a pair of rhinestoned aviator glasses that Jennifer Lopez was wearing circa Jenny from The Block. Someone stole them from my Jansport backpack and I swore off designer sunglasses for all of eternity. I know… rough beginnings. I am a survivor.
So for years I have been wearing a collection of my local gas station’s finest selection of eyewear. It wasn’t until I had a stern reprimanding from my optometrist that I needed to invest in some nice sunglasses. Spending more than $6.99 on a pair of glasses initially gave me a small case of PTSD but ultimately has proven to be worth it. I am trying to keep this post witty and entertaining but I am all out of inspiration… so here are my fucking new favorite sunglasses…
As some of you might know… I got married. CALM DOWN. I have always said that getting married brings out the worst in people, you get a ring on your finger and all the sudden you think the world revolves around you. Brides are the biggest assholes ever. Like, don’t even get me started. I wasn’t a bridezilla because I am a simply a lifezilla. Being so, I had a very clear vision for what I wanted our wedding to look like, feel like, sound like, taste like, you get the picture. I thrive in decision making, delegation and spending other peoples money so I really felt in my element during the planning process. In the most non-basic self indulgent bridezilla way, I wanted to share some elements of my wedding with my bitches.
Music | There is nothing worse than a wedding with shitty music. Being that my groom and many of our wedding guests are in the music industry, it was the most important element of our wedding. We curated playlists for pre-ceremony, cocktail hour, reception, after party. Sometimes providing track by track playlists aren’t enough – we also included a list of DO NOT PLAY THESE SONGS OR ELSE THE BRIDE WILL SHANK YOU IN THE THROAT ( anything Jason Mraz, Baby Got Back, YMCA, the fucking song from Twilight, shoot me). My husband produced the music for our processional and it was one of the most special aspects of the wedding.
Personalization | I think a wedding should *feel* like the couple and not some sad replicas of your pinterest board. I love a personalization. Matches, napkins, place cards, specialty cocktails, anything and everything. It’s inexpensive, chic and unique. Just make sure everything is COHESIVE. Fonts are my life. I made sure the fonts and monogram used in my invitation were the same throughout (details bitch).
Monofloral | This was something I felt extremely passionate about. I am 93% positive I have severe OCD (cute) but floral arrangements give me shpilkes (yiddish for nervous energy). I wanted all centerpieces/bouquets arranged by flower type. No mixing. I had a legally binding “use roses and hydrangea sparingly” rule and stuck with mostly modern structured flowers (calalilies, orchids, gladiolus) and it was fresh as fuck.
Acrylic | I love anything non child friendly. It’s clear, it needs to be windexed constantly, its sharp and it’s perfection… it’s acrylic. My save the dates were acrylic with gold imprinting and totally set the tone for the wedding. For our escort board, we had a sexy plexiglass board with all of our guest names printed in a clean block letter (I hate a swirly font – again shpilkes), place cards were acrylic drink stirrers placed in champagne glasses and for reception chairs we used “ghost chairs” that gave our whole decor a super modern look.
Mixed Metals | I love shiny shit. So I would never limit myself to one metallic accent color. I love mixing gold and silver, we had no other color in our wedding scheme. Silver mirrors, gold rimmed china, silver votives. You get the picture.
FUR (because why the fuck not) | This was a controversial decision on my end. When you think a spring wedding in the middle of the piping hot desert, you don’t usually think of white fur… unless your a psycho like me. I ordered 20 white sheepskin throws from an illegal international import website to achieve my dream of casual white fur draped over the outdoor furniture, you know, for “texture”. I am a monster.
Mirrored Err’thang| We used mirrored round table tops and mirrored runners for all the tables. Not only because its fucking pretty but it also reflected the chandeliers, candle light and center pieces to really pump everything up a couple notches.
I would like to preface this post by clarifying that I have not taken this digital vow of silence to re-invent myself as a fucking beauty blogger. I haven’t written an article in nearly a decade mostly because I am at the point in my life where I am afraid to have my thoughts in written form. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen…
I am easing back into sharing more content because I am a real over achiever and so sick of listening to myself via audio (shout out to The Bitch Bible podcast) SO like the basic bitch dumbfuck I am #selflove I decided to share some skincare regimen because after a Botox consultation gone wrong (too risky so close to my wedding date) I have had to explore alternate pursuits to remove the fucking crevasses rivaling the Appalachian mountain trails on my forehead…
Like my flaming homosexual husband always says, “Don’t blame the artist, blame the canvas…” or as my favorite fire crotch housewife Caroline Manzo once said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig” (ehem Danielle Staub). Because I bankrupt myself last month buying a pink Gucci bomber jacket unconsciously at 4:18am that is both amazing and hideous at the same time, I have turned to alternative budget skincare products and developed a FAIL PROOF routine I had to share with my bitches.
- Ice roll your fucking face (too many martinis = puffy).
- Wash your fucking face.
- Exfoliate your fucking face.
- Steam your fucking face.
- Put a mask on your fucking face.
- Rinse your fucking face.
- Tone your fucking face.
- Moisturize your fucking face.
This is all pretty standard. The real crux of this post is not some stupid step by step (you’re smart enough to figure that out) it’s the products. Not to sound dramatic, I’d sell my future child for a facial steamer. It is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. My skin has never been better. The day you order this steamer is the first day of the rest of your life. Sometimes when I am feeling wild and fucking alive, I infuse my facial steamer with rose water or my toner and think that if Leo Dicaprio ever propositioned me for sex it would be solely because I’ve had a really amazing face steam… So just let that marinade.
I am in no way a product junkie. I refuse to spend excess money on products because I am both cynical AND Jewish and would rather buy clothes. Your face is your base! Find all the products I swear by CLICK HERE!
There are pop culture milestones that change history forever. Last night the world received a metaphorical edible arrangement in the form of Kim Kardashian vs Taylor Swift. As a squad reject, I have very personal feelings about Taylor Swift. I would rather hang out with ISIS than attend one of her holiday weekend barbeques. I am not thin or rich enough and I doubt she would be cool with my JonBenet Ramsey jokes.
As we all know, Taylor Swift is a nice girl. I have always struggled with the term “nice”. Nice is a behavior not a personality attribute. Just remember there are people who say Osama Bin Laden was NICE. I value authenticity over bullshit pleasantries which is why this story vindicates me so.
As we all know Nina Banks from Father of The Bride 2/ Jenny Humphrey aka Taylor Swift has been very vocal and self-righteous over Kanye West’s “Famous”. She gave a enthrallingly basic/victimized/ babysitters club Grammy speech jabbing at Kanye and insisting she was blindsided by the song. Innocent little cat lady. All the while Kanye West has INSISTED Taylor knew about the song. Pablo let the incident die while he was off taking a pair of scissors to a Fruit of The Loom sweatpants for Yeezy Season 5 until last night when Kim “Harriet the Spy” Kardashian Humphries West exposed T Swift with the light of a trillion Lumee cases.
Kim didn’t give us a cryptic tweet, suggestive caption or a magazine pull quote, she gave us kold hard evidence. That snapchat bomb was epic as fuck. I have never been a Kardashian fan, I find them incredibly uninteresting and tired. Except for Rob, what a strapping young sock mogul. I am kidding, he is the WORST. I must admit, Kim is my favorite.
I like to imagine Taylor Swift was home baking gluten-free banana bread, doodling in her Burn Book, watching yet another Friends rerun and manicly staring at herself in the mirror brushing her smug bob. Then her phone rings (Blank Space is her ringtone) and all hell breaks loose. She starts assaulting her housekeeper, takes a knife to her mattress, screams bloody murder and grits her teeth at her 38 cats while plotting her retaliation. She calls Karlie Kloss to see if with all of her “coding knowledge”she could take down Kim’s snapchat. Ironically, Karlie doesn’t ACTUALLY know how to code (side note: if you aren’t privy to Koding with Karlie please look into it, living for models pretending to be nerds and burger enthusiasts – stfu).
So instead, further perpetuating the victim mentality, Taylor responds by saying she didn’t know he was going to refer to her as “that bitch” and feels violated by being recorded without her knowing. Really? Remember when you professed to have no idea about Kanye’s song and there is a fucking VIDEO of you encouraging creative liberty? Bitch please.
The reason people dislike Taylor is because she seems void of authenticity. It started with the faux suprise everytime she won an award “what? me? no way! I can’t believe it. I am such an underdog!”. Then she took a big preaching shit all over Amy Poehler and Tina Fey after they made a miniscule joke about Taylors dating life. Instead of shaking that shit off (HELLO its an award show, if you get to do what you love and make millions of dollars doing so you can take a joke) Taylor shifted the narrative to feminism and voiced her concern for “pitting women against eachother…” shut the fuck up.
We can’t forget about Nicki Minaj pointing out that all MTV VMA nominations were in favor of slim women and Tay Tay made it ALL about her only to reconcile for an opening performance together. Ugh. Then most recently, Taylor willingly preferred and agreed to have a psuedonym as a writer on “This is What You Came For” and then oh so skillfully manipulated the narrative that she wasn’t getting proper credit. HUH? I just can’t.
Word on the street is that Taylor has a potential lawsuit against Kimye for releasing he phone call/ recording her without her permission. Unfortunately I know the extremities of these privacy infringements because I was almost sued by an emaciated busboy/ DJ (#PumpRules) but luckily he is too poor to prosecute. Taylor, bitch to bitch, if you choose to press charges not only will you have the rhythm of Gumby with Parkinson’s, you will also be a total narc. Darling, you are kinda a nightmare dressed like a day dream.
I have been pretty open about not really believing in Karma, feeling it is mostly a scare tactic and have grappled with my own contribution to the universe after many a martini. Last week I had a situation that reaffirmed many of the existential life crises.
After spending the last few weeks traveling (#humblebrag) my Ashkenazi Jew fro had hit maximum brillo pad capacity. Being in desperate need of a deep hydration hair mask, I saddled up my pooch in his illegal service dog vest and walked to my local Rite Aid to load up on some vodka and argan oil treatments. As I approached the entrance I saw a family of 4 standing with a sign that read “Homeless with 2 babies to feed. Anything helps, God Bless”. This isn’t going to come out right but here I go. I avoid homeless people like the plague. Sticks are free, find a tin and make some fucking music. Provide a service for compensation. Begging seems so half assed. This is America.
This homeless mother of 2 infants caught me in a very vulnerable state. “Sorry I don’t have any cash.” As I walked into Rite Aid with my hypoallergenic pup, one of her small children locked eyes with me and was giving me Sara McLachlan beaten puppy eyes. All the sudden I started hearing the familiar “In the arms of the angel… Fly away from here.” Fuck.
I was basically already in the clear, strolling right past them into the fluorescent lighting when I had a very out of character heart pang and decided I was due for a good deed. I begrudgingly turned around, went up to the mother and told her I didn’t have cash but would be happy to buy her some groceries. In my head, I though condoms would be the smart purchase personally. As I led her into the store she immediately grabbed a shopping cart. I was hoping she grabbed it as a possible guesthouse and not to fill with goods on my dime.
I suggested we go to the baby supply aisle because I am a philanthropist and immediately this bitch starting throwing shit in the cart like it was the fucking Supermarket Sweep. I’m not talking generic brand diapers and wet wipes… this poverty stricken asshole was hawking Jessica Alba locally sourced organic burlap diapers and aloe vera infused ass wipes. Um no. I suggested we gravitate towards thing with a yellow sticker but she clearly wasn’t listening. Soon the cart was overflowing with 70lb containers of organic formula, paraben free bottles, even some fucking toys and coloring books.
If I were alone I would have put the kibosh on this immediately. But other shoppers were giving me such nods of approval, one person even offered me a warm shoulder grab and said he was honored to witness such selflessness. That was a first. I considered asking him if he wanted to go halfsies on the final bill but contained the urge.
My attempt at a good deed was now making me resentful. I was gritting my teeth and murmuring things under my breath like “Want to go to the fucking Ivy after this? Do your babies like crab cakes? Perhaps a fresh orchid for your tent?” I grabbed my $38 hair mask feeling less guilty than I had a mere 16 minutes ago and got in line with my new sponsored family. Solely because there were like 6 other people in line I decided this was my mitzvah for the decade and I needed to suck it up and be gracious. Although every time I saw the woman peruse through the bins in the line I gave her wrist a quick slap.
Finally, I was at the register. The cashier started to ring up everything and I looked around at the Rite Aid staff and fellow shoppers and gave them all a nonchalant shrug that said “Hey! I do what I can. Humanitarian by day, good time gal by night. It’s no biggie.” For 32 seconds I was Mother Teresa. I considered buying a pastel sweater set, organizing a can drive and eliminating the word “cunt” from my lexicon… giving back felt so right. “Alright miss, your total is $463.28.”
It was over as soon as it begun. No fucking way. This was a defining life moment. I took a second to gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and figure out how to navigate this situation. Should I hand my card over graciously or am I going to shatter my short-lived image of grace and humanity?
“Oh fuck no. Can you give us a quick second?” I asked the cashier. I pulled the homeless woman aside and explained to her that I too would be homeless if I had to pay for all of these goods. I know found myself bartering with her item by item. “Do you really need this economy sized formula? Can you still produce milk from the tit? I hear it’s better for brain development and then maybe one of your sons can be a brain surgeon and get you a condo in the valley. Also rattles are a luxury item. Void please.”
After we had the store manager void 7 items, I then made the executive decision we needed to exchange our remaining goods for the generic brand which resulted in 5 very embarrassing PA announcements “Manager to register 3, we need to exchange the Honest Company diaper rash cream for the Rite Aid brand equivalent.” This homeless woman was NOT happy about her Supermarket Sweep going generic and had the nerve to tell me that if I didn’t need my $40 hair mask, her children could have new toys.
After 28 minutes of checkout drama, I was able to get my charity bill down to $120 and left Rite Aid with my head held low and truly bitter towards the whole experience. The woman hugged me, blessed me and I was on my merry way. I decided to grab a reflective iced tea at Starbucks and call my mom to brag about what a giver she had raised.
When I walked outside I saw my new rescue family standing on the street with the cart full of merchandise and imagined they were headed to the freeway underpass and got the same familiar heart pang that got me into this whole mess. A real full circle moment.
Until a brand new Honda mini van pulled up curbside, trunk popped (automatic) and her husband started loading all the shit I just bought into their car. My jaw dropped and rage filled my body. The doors slid open (luxury) and this “homeless” hooker started to buckle her kids in their seemingly non pre-owned car seats. I had to get closer.
As I approached the van I noticed Despicable Me playing in the fucking headrest TVs. Yes I said it, HEADREST TVS. What the fuck? They sped away presumably to their Bel Air estate before I could confront her and I sat their feeling helpless and taken advantage of. For my own state of well being I have convinced myself they LIVE in that car hence the leather interiors and built in entertainment system. God, I hope they live in that car… Is that awful? Nope.
Anne Frank once said, “No one has ever become poor from giving.” No offense to Anne, but she didn’t get out much. The moral of this long winded and sure to be polarizing story is to never let someone shame your hair product selections, a small act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention and always carry cash.
Some people find joy in the sound of a child’s laughter, the sight of a baby bird learning to fly or the smell of a freshly baked apple pie. I find all life’s satisfaction within the release of a Goop gift guide. Just when you think… “Hmmm… maybe GP is just like one of us?” She assures our tax bracket and us that indeed she is not.
The Goop newsletter is my main source of cardiovascular exercise. I sweat, I laugh, I ponder all life’s unanswered questions “are truffles mushrooms or chocolates?” and then I have a good cry and blow my nose into $5 dollar bills.
Much to my dismay, this week Goop delighted us with a Sex Toy Guide. So EdGy! After waiting in line at the supermarket, perusing tabloids and reading headline after headline with GP saying, “I am not a prude!” (only someone prude as a fucking Duggar sister would say that) I abandoned my shopping cart and beelined to my nearest computer.
I am super emotionally invested in these Goop gift guides because I live with the eternal hope that one day she is going to include a fucking Mossimo tunic from Target or an IKEA throw pillow. Not that I would purchase either but at least I am concerned with my relatability factor.
Gwyneth, you have truly outdone yourself. What a minx. Don’t let the macrobiotic diet, personal shaman and truffle oil fountain fool you. Kill me.
Amidst the various $400 nipple clamps, $540 leather whip and the bargain $20 anal beads, Gwyneth Paltrow (Heidi Fleiss) also recommends a $15,000 24-karat gold dildo… THERE she is!
Okay. Firstly, I need a list of all people who own this device and it’s manufacturers because they all need to go find a (tall) roof and jump off of it.
If someone is shoving $15,000 up his or her orifices it better cure cervical cancer or own a private plane. How do you keep the gilded dildo clean? Take it to a jeweler? Like next time you are at the mall, just pop into Zale’s and ask for a quick polish while you go wait at the food court eating Hot Dog on a Stick? Do you know how many corn dog popsicles you could buy for $15,000? AND they are the same shape. Connect the dots bitches… I am just sayin.
Gwynny, I admire your complete disregard for self awareness. Poor people are no fun and give shitty birthday gifts. Never change, stay goopy and hopefully the gold plated dildo doesn’t turn you labia green.
This year I made the responsible and conscious decision not to attend Coachella. At first it was because my digestive system couldn’t weather a weekend of eating Spicy Pie and for the price of accommodations and artist passes, we could buy an ocean view condo. Also, my people did enough time wandering the fucking desert.
Last year I attended and had 4 mental breakdowns, gained 6 pounds and wore a metal head wreath that I still haven’t forgiven myself for. With every peace sign, crop top and snapchat of trust fund babies pretending to be SuPeR into LCD Soundsystem a bit of my soul dies and reaffirmed my decision to sit this year out. Is it fun? Duh. Does it bring out the worst in people? Yes (please see below).
People tend to go all Silverlake at Coachella. Bitches (and bros) pretend to know and love obscure bands, dress differently, Nashville filter themselves till their fucking phalanges bleed and all while professing that this weekend “changed their lives”. Shut the fuck up Vanessa Hudgens. It’s a music festival. It’s fun as fuck I get it. But if your life epiphany occurs next to a blow-up neon caterpillar it’s time to get your head out of the asshole you shoved molly inside of and grow the fuck up. I can’t with these people. Maybe the floral crowns and chokers are cutting of blood circulation to the brain?
Also, everyone is on drugs. “Nuh-uh Jackie, I didn’t do drugs! I am there for the music.” Go fuck yourself, EVERYONE IS ON DRUGS. I have no problem with this. I am not a drug person but I hold no judgment to those more free spirited than I. For me it’s the idea of these bitches in body chains shoving vials of cocaine up their vaginas like the Mexican Cartel that concerns but also intrigues me.
Then there are the people who bring their fucking kids. So you’ll spend hundreds of dollars on a ticket (I’m assuming general admission) but can’t drop $40 for a fucking babysitter? You’re baby is getting hot boxed ma’am. I strongly believe there should be a Child Protective Services booth right next to the Heineken Beer Garden. “Little Timmy, finish up your bottle, Diplo is about to start!” No, just no.
Beyond all of this, there is a serious social stratification (big word) that sets the mood as separate but definitely not equal. I’m talking about General Admission, VIP and Artist. The harsh truth is, I would never engage in sexual activity with anybody in General Admission. Mostly because there is a big chance they are sleeping in a fucking tent and shitting in a port-a-potty. VIP allots you shitting in a porcelain throne and you don’t have the same Auschwitz level security entrance. Artist passes are ideal if you want to be escorted in a fucking golf cart and drunkenly sway next to fucking Rihanna. It’s called the Coachella Caste System… one day we will read about this in our grandchildren’s textbooks.
As bitches everywhere comedown from their post-Coachella commas just remember it’s not you, it’s your head wreath. See you next year Coachella.
Hi everyone. Sorry it has been a while since my last post. I have been volunteering my services to the Hilary Clinton presidential campaign and learning Mandarin. But actually, I have been doing nothing and couldn’t be happier. Recently, after only four death threats and one failed attempt to join Raya, my boyfriend proposed. I’m getting fucking married and it has catapulted me into a Bridezilla/Basic Bitch/ Existential life crisis.
While this is arguably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me except for the time I bought something at Bloomingdales and talked my way into exchanging it at Neiman Marcus (and people think I have no talent). Since I have started planning I realized I am haunted by basic brides that have resurrected before me. Is it possible to plan a wedding and NOT be a self involved, fluffy haired, asshole? I fucking hope so. People get married and think they become the epicenter of the universe. The harsh truth is, no one gives a real fuck about your impending nuptials except you and like 8 other people. So while you hold people hostage like the fucking Taliban and ask whether they prefer ivory or eggshell, remember to stay self-aware, step away from pinterest and embrace these truths.
Just because you have solidified a life partner, does not mean you are the new authority on eternal happiness. Getting a Zale’s cushion cut diamond wrangled on your phalange doesn’t give you the right to judge your free spirited slutty friends. We get it. You have found the love of your life. Maybe your friend’s love of their life is a bag of Chex Mix and her Valtrex prescription.
Not to be a Debbie Downer but statistically almost 60% are destined for a second marriage or maybe a Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell situation. So while your ironing your white button down polo shirts for your extremely basic engagement shoot, remember that before you express pity for your single friends that you have to clean underwear that is not yours for the rest of your life. Live and let live.
Getting hitched does not mean you have to start dressing like a midwestern substitute teacher who collects potpourri and ceramic figurines. I know people that could have been the spokesperson for Vegas attire. Bandage dresses (kill me), platform pumps and a clip in synthetic weave that could start a wildfire. Magically upon matrimony, they start dressing so “Churchy” and complaining about a heel height of a fucking tic-tac. Really bitch? You lived in hooker heels (#madeinchina) for a decade – don’t try.
If anything, you need to get sluttier after “settling down”. Just because you are on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t check out the fucking menu. Newsflash… guys have penises. Penises are fueled by testosterone. Testosterone makes men into primal animals. Animals that subconsciously WANT and NEED men other than themselves to want to bang their future wife because then they feel like they have a prized possession. I am not saying women are possessions just calm the fuck down, it’s a METAPHOR. The sooner bitches understand this biology, the sooner we will truly run the world.
Despite my grievances, I am SUPER excited to navigate the bitchy bridal rapids with a bedazzled life jacket, Dramamine (or Xanax) and an unsigned prenupt as my sail.
As far as I have been responsible for feeding myself, I have had a deep and steadfast affinity for all noodles. They are cheap, never go bad and versatile. I don’t give a fuck what Marie Osmond, Jillian Michaels or your gluten free roommate tells you… carbs are NOT the enemy. I get aroused by a good pasta and if you learn to make it at home for yourself, you can cut out a lot of the fatty, unhealthy bullshit ingredients restaurants add (same goes with salad dressing). Last night I experimented with an old friend of a noodle, Ramen, and was pleasantly tickled.
I haven’t cooked Ramen in years because it takes me back to a dark place… college. I know being that I am just 39% basic, one would assume I loved college and was in a sorority and like shared hotel rooms in Vegas to go to some day club cause I knew the promoter…but no. I fucking hated college. Hence while I only made it about a year and a half. I spent the better part of my collegiate days ditching class, doctoring fake report cards to send to my dad to see if fake straight A’s could wrangle me a few extra hundred a month, watching Barefoot Contessa, then going to Food for Less in pursuit of discount Branzino.
Unfortunately, once mid-month hit I usually had to resort to one fucking thing to sustain my beastly appetite, Ramen. So as you can imagine, we have a very sentimental and indifferent relationship, Ramen and I.
Last night, I went back in time along with a more highly developed culinary touch and gave my 5 year old emergency Ramen package a go and here is the easiest, most delicious, cheap, healthy asian noodle dinner you have ever tasted. Fuck you Ina.
What you need (for one serving #allbymyself #dontjump) 1 package of ramen noodles, 2 small heads of baby bok choy, handful of kale, 2 handfuls of shitake mushrooms (or whichever you like), 2 small thai peppers, ginger, 5 cloves of garlic, 1 shallot, ¼ lb of steak (I used stir fry style), one egg, teriyaki sauce, 1 ½ cups of veggie broth, fish sauce, low sodium soy sauce, lime, chives.
- Soft boil an egg in pot of boiling water, 6 minutes is perfection erection, remove shell and rinse under cool water to stop cooking, put aside.
- In same water (#resourceful) cook your ramen noodles about 3 minutes, throwout the flavoring packet – that shit will leave you bloated until 2018.
- Strain noodles and set aside.
- Over medium heat, add about 2 tablespoons of olive oil, 5 cloves of chopped garlic, half a thumb worth of peeled and chopped fresh ginger, 2 thai peppers (scrape out the insides these fuckers are HOTT) and half of a shallot chopped. Sautee until translucent.
- Peel leaves of the bok choy (throw out the tough inside part) and add to the ginger/garlic and toss until they soften about 2 minutes.
- Add mushrooms, sautee another 2 minutes.
- Add vegetable broth, few dashes of soy sauce, few dashes of fish sauce, juice and zest of half a lime and handful of kale, stire and let simmer on low heat until shit gets hott and all veggies are soft and wilted
- In separate pan heat up tablespoon of olive oil and add meat of your liking, sautee just lightly so meat does not get touch, add a dash of teriyaki to give some sweetness and throw in some sesame seeds if you got em.
- Add your ramen noodles and egg to the hot broth to reheat and then pour into a bowl. Slice the soft boiled egg in half and place on top.
- Add meat, handful of chopped chives, remaining raw shallot, lime wedge or zest on top of noodles and thank me later.
Holy fuckballs, its already hometown dates. This both excites me and depresses me. What the hell am I supposed to do on Monday nights once this is over? How will I go on? Do I need a Lexapro prescription? It’s all too emotionally strenuous.
The first hometown is with Amanda in Laguna Beach. I kept fantasizing that Stephen Coletti is secretly her baby daddy and Hilary Duff was going to do an impromptu performance of “Come Clean”. If you don’t get that reference leave this site and never return. They start the date with a playdate on the beach so Ben can meet Ombre’s kids. Full disclosure; I cried like a newborn when she reunited with her spawn. Listen, Amanda’s kids are cute. I was impressed by their gladiator sandals but had to knock them down a few pegs for the pigtails… it’s a bit Sundays at Church basic for me. And when I say they are cute I mean that half-heartedly. Calm down. Not all kids are cute and it’s detrimental to society to imply differently. But despite all of that, I can’t imagine their connection is strong enough for Ben to be an Insta-dad. Finally, they slip the kids some Benadryll PM and Ben assures Manders that her family was “awesome” kk bye.
Next, Ben heads to Portland Oregon to see Lauren B. I like her and think she is an obvious frontrunner but I need her to chill with the flannel and invest in a professional blowdry. They food truck hop and then head to a whiskey museum. My kind of a date! Not having kids is so refreshing. Is Lauren B always cold or drinking too many sulfites? Her nose is always so red and it concerns me. Lauren’s hott sister is clearly skeptical about Ben and Lo’s relationship so in attempts to get more screen time (which I’m assuming gave her a gallery of triple digit like-worthy #TBT instaposts) pulls Ben aside to get the dirt. In the reality TV moment of my dreams, I was praying Lauren’s sister had one too many glasses of Sangria and tried to make a move on Ben. But instead I was jolted back to planet earth as Ben started fucking crying whilst explaining his feelings for Lauren. Just stab me in the ovary. Or give me Ben’s “hope” bracelet and let me hang myself from a Bachelor mansion balcony. Ugh.
Jojo. The bitch that seems too mentally stable to be on the Bachelor. UNTIL she approaches her Dallas condo and finds a dozen red roses (gag). She assumes they are from Ben but once she starts reading the accompanying 86-page letter attached realizes they are from her ex boyfriend. To be honest, I immediately assumed this was a Cher Horowitz moment from Clueless like when she would send herself flowers and chocolates to make gay-boy Christian jealous. Totally something I would bust out on a hometown. Fucking Chad. I could go into details about Jojo’s thirst trap brothers and shit like that but let me cut to the chase. The moment where Jo’s mother swigged that wine straight from the bottle was the realest moment in television history. Especially since at dinner they were sipping from Baccarat. Ben was like Vivian from Pretty Woman navigating their extensive silverware. Jojo’s family is single handedly keeping potpourri and faux floral enterprises afloat. The takeaway is that Jojo’s mom should be cast on Bachelor in Paradise.
Finally, Ben heads somewhere to meet Caila’s fambam. Guys… “My dad is the CEO of a toy company” was so Gretchen Weiners I can’t even. So they awkwardly build a playskool dream house and I’m bored as fuck. I really liked Caila’s family. I desperately wish her mother would’ve opted for effing Invisalign but I digress. Caila assures her family that Ben is the one and wants to tell him she is in love with him. Either the Filipino food that was served kick started some impulsive bowel movements so she needed to find a toilet ASAP OR she totally pussed out because bitch said nothing. Fuck she has great hair though…
Amanda gets sent home (saw that one coming) and I will miss her demure Cinderella nature and severely aggressive ombre hair. Fuck I miss Lace. Until next week bitches!
Dear DJ James Kennedy,
Hey girl… it’s me, Jackie. Again. Hope you’re doing well. Just kidding, you are literally the worst. Before I begin my second attempt at contact, I would like to clarify that your hAtErZ are not your MoTivaTeRz because you are a fucking busboy at Sur. Also if you are reading this and telling yourself that shit like this makes you relevant, please know it doesn’t… I am simply low on material and love an easy target that is not intelligent enough to defend themselves and proudly displays their douche-ness to an extent that I am able to comment on it without repercussions.
As a journalist I find it my civil duty to make contact with you. Like Carrie Mathison risked her and Brody’s livelihood by hunting Abu Nazir and Diane Sawyer ventured to the Middle East for a nationally publicized sit down with Sadam Hussein, I too am reaching out to sit down face to face and go over some of your questionable behavior. My problem is not the fact that you dress like Kate Moss, think you are headlining Coachella (#saharatent) because you can make playlists on Spotify OR the derogatory way you speak to and about women. It’s your inability to acknowledge what an asshole you are. Perspective is everything… did I just give you your album name?
From one slender physiqued young lady to another, help me, help you, help myself, help the world, you’re the help. You is not kind, you is not smart, you is not important. I wish Octavia Spencer delivered a shit pie to your shared apartment. When you told Lisa that you are responsible for her burgeoning business at Pump, I almost vomited. Just because you have a free 30-day trial of Garage Band, a disappointing H&M blazer and a Yelp profile does not mean you are Calvin Harris. “You can read the yelp reviews, they are waiting for a cd.” I literally want to get this tattooed on my forehead. And then stab myself in the forehead.
I understand that you were probably very perplexed upon learning that you inadvertently ate another mans ass… the true shame is that he was a football player and not LA Reid or someone that could get you an internship at a record label. Music executives need their dishes cleaned too, share your gifts James.
Sometimes I think I am being too hard on you James. But then you start speaking and I feel complete permission and validation in my words. Please know you have an invitation to discuss our issues face to face perhaps over some mini bottles of Seagrams. Dance like no ones watching, rap like no ones listening and eat ass like you have never been hurt.