THE COMMANDMENTS

The Art of Giving

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.

Gilded Dildo’s by Gwyneth.

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.

Love always,

Jackie Schimmel

Bachelor Recap: Hoe-metowns

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 Annoying Couples

I am not nearly as bitter as I make myself out to be. Granted, I self admittedly do NOT think all children or beautiful, don’t get weepy at leaves changing colors and would rather shoot myself in the asshole than watch a Nicholas Sparks movie marathon. I can however, get a wee bit mushy when it comes to love. I am cringing even as I TYPE that last sentence. The beauty of dating serial egomaniacs is that when an amazing man comes around you have the right to get a little gooey (internally). This is a very slippery slope for a closeted basic bitch like myself to navigate but once you find proper footing along with your social decency, it’s fairly easy to conclude that those feelings are reserved for you and your partner. Consider this a very passionate and strongly worded letters to people (both male and female) who feel it necessary to annoyingly publish intimate photo’s and declarations of love on social media.

We all know the couple… 18 hours can’t go by without a fucking collage, song lyric, gag-worthy Facebook comment or incredibly awkward photo of your significant other sleeping. PDA on social media is like a bacon wrapped street hot dog… sporadically it can be enjoyable and joyous (especially under the influence of alcohol) but on a daily basis it makes you sick, fat and remorseful.

Here is the issue, while you think you are solely promoting your happiness I would dare to say that doth protest too much. I understand a scattered moment of weakness where you want to scream your undying love at the rooftops, I have been there. What I cannot understand or support are the couples that unconsentually rape my retinas with their ridiculously cheesy and inauthentic declarations of love on social media.

It is always the couples that have either broken up 52 times OR are on the verge that throws a fucking non-milestone Flipagram slideshow into the mix. It’s a very passive aggressive plea to publicly reminisce on better times and quite frankly makes me want to take a shower with a blow dryer. OMG HE BOUGHT YOU A TEDDY BEAR AND SENT YOU A SAD BOUQUET OF CARNATIONS? I literally don’t give a fuck and no one else does either.

If you are a bitch posting articles from Elite Daily like “Why Highschool Sweethearts Make The Best Life Partners” just kill yourself. HOW REVOLUTIONARY. So because some freelance writer suggests that being penetrated by the same person who sat next to you in Geometry before you got your braces off is the best foundation for a life of fidelity and comfort, then you should totes do it. Just know there is a flattering article for EVERYONE and just because it’s applicable doesn’t make it true or worth sharing. OmG yOu GuYs, look aT oUr HiS aNd HeR XmAs sWEaTerS! STAB ME IN THE FOREHEAD PLEASE.

No one cares. NO one cares. NOT ONE PERSON BESIDES YOU FUCKING CARES, NOT AT ALL. You are annoying the fuck out of everyone who knows you and it’s self indulgent and delusional to think anyone besides you two sappy assholes need to be privy your intimate moments.

Here’s the harsh truth… when people are TRULY enjoying themselves, finding a steady handed Asian to capture their loving embrace is the LAST THING on their brain. Love is a many splendid thing, love lifts us up where we belong, but daily declarations of such are disingenuous and WRONG. How’s that for a poem…

Love you. Mean it.

Quarter Life Crisis Vibes

Today is my mother fucking birthday. Many would assume that I relish in all things that are centrally focused on me. This is 100% accurate in almost all aspects of my life with the exception of my day of birth. As a child I LIVED for my birthday, I wore a tiara for the major part of August, registered myself at all major department stores and would have big jam-packed birthday parties with a $25 gift minimum.

After I turned 20, something changed. What once was my favorite day of the year became 24 hours I wished I could fast forward. Jackie Schimmel, the introvert? Has hell frozen over? I have no clue what happened but for the past 5 years my birthday has been a real self-inflicted bust.

For some reason, people seem to think turning 25 is a big deal. I guess it’s the start of a quarter life crisis and you officially are no longer a member of the early-twenties club. I’m like actually considered an adult. Fuck, is this the last year my parents are paying for my health insurance? I still don’t even know what Obama Care is? Am I going to have to look into this? Shit.

So in commemoration of my early twenties self I thought I could compile a list of things I will have to retire as of today…

I feel like I need to be more mindful of my nail art. Ladies in their late twenties don’t have the flexibility to test out as many decals as a 22-year-old. Also, chipped nail polish seems completely unacceptable now that I am legally able to rent a car.

It’s probably time I stop toilet papering my grandparents house. For the past 25 years, I have spent many an uneventful Saturday night going to CVS for an economy sized pack of 1-ply toilet paper and tee-peeing my relatives homes. I happen to think this is really hilarious and keeps them youthful so I may have to hold on to this pastime for a few more years. Sorry Papa…

Become the laundress of my dreams. Whoever started telling people it’s a big fucking deal to separate whites from colors is a borderline tard. I have quarter of a century (or really only like 4 years) experience of NEVER separating jackshit and all my clothes have maintained their shapes and saturation just fine. It’s a Clorox conspiracy theory. My perfect laundry philosophy; keep the water cold and instantly fold. You’re welcome!

Exercise for “my health”. Ew I’m kidding, physical activity is the worst. As long as I can keep my neurotic yet oh so endearing demeanor and maintain my average of 5 mega calorie-burning panic attacks a month I should be able to keep my figure. I love people who say they only work out for their “health”. You don’t want a muffin top and I get it.

Become a humanitarian. As a real adult and hopefully a future part time cast member on the Real Housewives I should probably find my cause. I could be basic and go with some popular disease but I’m unique. I’m leaning towards fibromyalgia, gluten allergies or AIDS. Actually, AIDS can’t be my cause… Too real. I would need a light-hearted std to fundraise. Synchronized Swimming for Syphilis DOES have an amazing ring to it, no?

Delete my fucking Linkedin profile. I am a young unprofessional, I have no business being on there. What kind of sick fucks designed a business networking site that SHOWS who’s been creeping on your shit? Not my vibe. I have managed to avoid a real job for a few years now and am enjoying the ride. Also, no legitimate place of business would ever have me so it’s time to delete.

Utilize both Google and Webster’s Dictionary. Confusing chlorophyll and chloroform is both inappropriate and dangerous in a group setting. Also, truffle butter is NOT a luxury condiment. So thanks for that awkward conversation at Spago Nicki Minaj… Bitch.

Let the quarter life crisis ensue!

Welcome Bitch!

Hello kitty, my name is Jackie Schimmel and I am potentially your new best friend or worst nightmare. If you are here because you saw me on Watch What Happens Live, welcome and brace yourself. This is my sick little twisted world where I vent and offend people. Here you can find misguided life advice, strongly worded letters to Gwyneth Paltrow and even a few recipes because I am wholesome and approachable… right?

If Britney Spears has taught us ANYTHING in this world, it is that hair extensions are a slippery slope and they cant ALL be hits (#Perfume). Because of this Britney Jean life lesson, I have compiled some Bitch Bible posts to lure you into my bitchy stratosphere. That sentence sounds super rapey and I am okay with it. Enjoy and follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Grindr, Craigslist and YouPorn.com or just on the street… Having a stalker is very chic.

How To Handle a Breakup Like a Bitch

Thirsty Thursday

Awkward Encounters: The New Girlfriend

Woes of a College Dropout

Conscious Uncoupling

My First Roommate

The Almost Boyfriend

And if you aren’t sick of me yet, please subscribe to my podcast series aptly named “The Bitch Bible” available on iTunes, Soundcloud, Stitcher or wherever you get your pod fix!

Center Stage

Everyone should know I am a very responsible drinker. I love having a keg or four of beer with dinner, mimosas on a Sunday and obviously live and breathe for a good dirty martini. Maybe it’s because I am a complete control freak or because I’m completely vain and don’t want to embarrass myself, but I really never get drunk.  When I hit the clubs in my Bebe bandage dress trolling for a Middle-eastern real estate broker with bottle service and yellow lambo ( I am kidding ew), I am in the pursuit of a steady happy buzz not a Courtney Love downward spiral.

The few times I have been slob kabob wasted I busted a heel on a pair of Louboutins, verbally assaulted someone for cutting me in the bathroom line, got in a legitimate fight with my boyfriend about the band Greenday and on my drunkest occasion did an interpretive dance in front of an entire fraternity. Seriously though, If I was ever on the precipice of life or death and “Boulevard of Broken Dreams” started playing I would willingly take my own life. It’s nauseating, whiney and nasally as FUCK. Let’s lighten the mood and discuss the time I bared my labia to a frat house shall we?

Freshman year of college I was asked to a winter formal. I was pretty nervous about going since I had just met my date and didn’t know what to expect. Also, he was Israeli and those bitches can get REAL handsy. Somehow I worked out scoring invites for some of my girlfriends so it would be a group outing. I was under the impression the guy who asked me was still sitting comfortable in the friend zone and was not looking to progress our relationship any further.  Prior to the shitshow, my legal cousin and I gallavanted to the local Food For Less for $2.99 bottles of Andre. Like I said, college was never my thing and this is what I would consider an ultimate low point. We started popping the Dom  alcohol infused urine around 1pm and by 4:00pm I was white girl wasted. With the help of my friends, paid professionals and a high pressured hose I got myself barely together by 5pm.

Our dates picked us up and we headed for a group sushi dinner. As they approached my dorm, I was almost positive we were accompanying the cast of Superbad to a sad movie premiere. I had pulled some seriously depressing tail back in the day. My date was wearing a fucking vest…a VEST. I chugged the last of the Andre to ease the blow. We went to some ratchet sushi buffet place and I started throwing raw fish at the walls to see if it would stick… it was pretty cute.

After I gracefully breezed through dinner, we headed to the formal. I was expecting to make an entrance down a double staircase with my name announced like they did on the Titanic. “Miss Jackie Schimmel of Westlake Village, CA. Lover of dogs, sequins and well-intentioned racism”. My entrance was a face plant into a plastic folding chair and the horrid realization that the venue had cottage cheese ceilings and the only food was plastic bowls of Doritos. This obviously prompted me to drink more alcohol to cope with all this AND the fact I had wasted one hell of an outfit. My date was all up on my dick. I needed to ditch him immediately, every time he would try and canoodle me I headed straight to the bar and started canoodling with my real date Andre. After my second bottle of the day I decided to really take this formal to the next level.

All of my close friends tease me for never getting drunk. They think it’s because I am neurotic or worried it will disrupt my digestive issues which is all true but the real reason is this; I get really weird. Not in a cute slutty sorority girl way, in a completely insular, solo mission, awkward way. I think something will be “so hilarious”, fully commit to it and then let no one in on the joke. In this situation, I thought it would be totally hilarious to perform an interpretive dance in front of the whole party.

I went behind the DJ booth, told him to turn off the music and grabbed the mic. I sashayed to the front of the dance floor and immediately jolted the guests with the feedback sound from turning on the mic. I demanded the DJ turn off the music. He was scared and obliged, “What’s up A E Pi!!! Who’s having a good time tonight??!!! CAN I GET A WHUT WHUT FOR ALL MY JEWY BITCHES UP IN HURRRR. Everyone if you could please take a seat and clear the dance floor there is a special performance I would like do for you all to thank you for this shitty party. Let’s DO it. Yeyuhhhh!!!” Clearly no one was enjoying my impromptu disc jockey routine.

It’s no secret that I have entitlement issues. I am uncertain how this has trickled into my comfortability with hostage performances for large groups of strangers but I have made a note to ask my therapist. Reluctantly, people started to clear the floor. Being the hospitable lady that I am, I started going into strangers bedrooms wheeling out desk chairs and bringing patio furniture inside so everyone would have a seat. I was going to make this busted frat house the closest thing to Madison Square Garden humanly possible. I dragged people out of sexual escapades, bathrooms and dark corners. No party guest was left behind – it was like a firedrill, everyone needed to be present.

I took center stage (#JodieSawyer) and cued the DJ to play the song I had asked him to. What proceeded next is all a bit blurry. My song selection was the appropriate Armageddon theme song by Aerosmith “I Don’t Want To Miss a Thing” and that irony is not lost on me… From my flashes of memory and debriefing from my loved ones who were present that day, it began with a slow crawl and ended with a leap which sounds super elegant. I even grabbed a stray streamer and had a short but sentimental ribbon dance bit during the bridge. Apparently the DJ tried to phase out the song seeing the sheer horror on my audiences faces and I got back on my mic and screamed “DON’T TURN OFF MY FUCKING SONG. I AM NOT FUCKING FINISHED, THAT’S SO RUDE.” Cute.

I was also wearing a dress that forced me to go to commando so beyond the grand finale split leg leap, there was also an appearance by my vagina. And people ask me why I dropped out of college… The next morning I woke up with bruised arms and a bloody shin which just shows my commitment to the dance. I would walk through campus a sad broken legend and 4 months later I transferred schools and vowed never to drink cheap in excess, go commando or watch Armageddon ever again…

You’re An Asshole

My friend Heidi and I were discussing the benefits (branding wise) I could attain if I contracted or faked some small non-life threatening disease. We decided an STD would be too hard to pull off and probably a bad look long term. Although a Chlamydia endorsement could be super lucrative. Syphilis seems cute too. Maybe a new strain of hepatitis? Maybe not. We decided Fibromyalgia would be perfect for me and despite having no clue what it is, I’m pretty positive I have it. So you should all feel bad for me and subscribe to my podcast series to help me with my disease. Bless you.

I’ve been thinking a lot about assholes lately. Not the orifice but the notable group of people who are a constant life suck. I could probably find a better diagnosis with some psychoanalysis and then conclude what factors in their life MADE them such an asshole but that seems like a waste of my time and also totally impertinent #DEFLECTING.

Recently, an ex friend of mine reached out to grab drinks. While I pondered getting my hair professionally done and telling her how much better my life is without her trying to bang my boyfriends, I decided that she was and always will be an asshole and my barely dirty martini with blue cheese olives would have to be consumed at home. Assholes tend to blame their overall suck to various people, places or things. They didn’t get hugged as a child, they have no money, Selena’s death really ruined their faith in mankind, whatever, bidi bidi bom bom. The truth is, while many of these life factors are influential and upsetting, they are all irrelevant and invalidated as an excuse for being an asshole.

If you’ve had problems with almost every person in your life, you are an asshole. If you only had 3 people (minus Tom) on your Myspace Top 8, you are an asshole. If Jesus is the only person who is regularly forgiving you, you are an asshole.  No offense to God but salvation and atonement should start in the home. Hiding behind something that is legitimately sacred and cherished by non-assholes shouldn’t be abused by people who can’t get their shit together. It’s like carrying a fake designer handbag, don’t ruin it for the rest of us please and thank you. My ex-friend would puke in your purse, bang your boyfriend and then go on a Church retreat and tell me she was forgiven. That’s chic but I still think you are an asshole.

Another huge aspect of general asshole-ness is victimization. So you’ve pissed everyone in your life off and now you feel bad for yourself and everyone else should too. Poor little a-hole. Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. Pity parties are the fucking worst and usually include a very short guest list and a cash bar. Clearly empathy has never been my strong suit but it’s pretty difficult for me to feel sorry for people who’s woes are all self inflicted. I feel sorry to the kids starving in Africa, people killed due to genocide and Yolanda Foster #lymebrain.

The hardest part about BEING an asshole is accepting that you’re an asshole. And to be honest, assholes usually stay assholes until they die an asshole and then have a super assholey afterlife. Right? Right. Assholes are like assholes, everyone’s got one.

To end things delicately, a poem:
If you’re still upset that as a kid, your daddy missed you make your first goal,
Or while all the other kids got Barbie dream houses, Santa only gave you coal,
And while all your peers went to college, and instead you chose the pole,
Realize it’s not anyone else’s fault, that you became an asshole.

Love,

Jackie

Side Bitch 101

We need to address an epidemic sweeping the nation and compromising our gender morale… the social outbreak of the SIDE BITCH. In life you either want to be the USDA prime filet mignon (a la cart) or the basic baked potato. It doesn’t matter HOW MANY BACON BITS AND CHIVES YOU DROWN YOURSELF IN, you aren’t the mother fucking entree. This reads harsh because it seems wildly obvious and baffles me how many side bitches live in denial.
“He works so much”, “His great aunt’s dog died”, “He has a yeast infection” the truth is, if he isn’t taking you to dinner, has never seen you in daylight and still has a parenthesis in your contact info… For example: Jackie Schimmel (neurotic bitch with blonde hair), you are the sidest bitch on the block.

I can speak informatively on this subject because I have been a side bitch. It was brief and it was brutal. He only offered me his roommates alcohol,  only saw me after 9pm on Wednesdays and I am almost positive thought my name was Jade. He would occasionally bring me to work events because I am sociable, can clean up well with a professional blowdry and know how to handle my alcohol. I was poor and would date about anyone I could steal fruit snacks from. I eventually pretended he was hit by a truck and ignored his late night calls. SIDENOTE: Anthony if you are reading this, you are short, rude and smell like latex and failed entrepreneurship. Phew, that felt good.

So let’s assume you are a few chromosomes short and are unsure if you too are the lukewarm creamed spinach in the meal of your romantic life. For your convenience here is an idiot proof list.

You only hang out on weekdays, specifically ones with none of his selected television programs. Plans are usually made an hour in advance and typically take place at his apartment or god willingly his condo, I love a man with real estate. Saturdays simply don’t exist in a side bitches world.

You’ve never met any of his friends, or if you have it was in a very large and very casual group setting. Very few details are shared regarding your relationship and sober affection is virtually non existent.

You don’t do dinner. This has a loophole for manorexics who simply are gearing up for their summer bod, but usually is because they don’t want to have the intimacy that comes with sharing a meal together. Dinner=dating=monogamy=girlfriend=death.

You aren’t friends on Facebook. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, nothing matters in life unless it’s FBO (Facebook Official) not your education, not your career, not your love life. You think you’re above Facebook proclamations? Or is that the side bitch universal code of conduct…. Think about it.

You can’t get him to accompany you to ANY event. Asking him to be your plus one at your friends wedding is basically like asking him if you can murder his whole family and then sell their organs on the black market. You find yourself bribing him to be with you. This is a low point.

You’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it 400 times… “he doesn’t do labels”. Let me be very clear, if a guy is into you he doesn’t want you to be with anyone else. It’s an animalistic testosterone thing. I am not a biologist but it’s the truth. Guys who “don’t want to rush things, don’t like labels and aren’t ready for a girlfriend” are fucking other people and probably on a Saturday.

You are reading this list and are having a mega epiphany that all of the above runs scarily parallel to your current situation. Mazel Tov, you are a side bitch. Although this is hard to accept and even harder to free up your Wednesday late night rendevous, remember it is always better to be the Filet Mignon (or Tofu Steak if you’re a sad vegan) than the fucking baked potato #ENTREELIFE

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The only thing sadder then living as a side bitch is that I spent 15 minutes out of my day creating the visual above. For more tough love download, subscribe and share The Bitch Bible podcast series here: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod

TOO MANY FEELINGS

Just when you think Asia couldn’t get anymore annoying, a hotel in Tokyo opens up specifically for women to cry in. If Sanrio goes out of business or the country bans designer fannypacks this hotel is going to be booked solid for a decade.

The Mitsui Garden Yotsuya Hotel is now charging emotionally unstable women for rooms fully stocked with hydrating eye masks, make-up remover, a plethora of sad movies (Nicholas Sparks for days) and even some lotion infused tissues. This makes me want to shank myself in the ovary.

I have always been a huge pioneer woman of the ‘No Crying in Public’ movement because I think crying is like pooping or drinking excessively, best done in the privacy of your own home or well kept public restroom. When I cry, my retinas really glaze and give me this amazing greenish hue, which can be worth the emotional turmoil but I prefer to keep things at bay. Feelings happen, I get it. Too many feelings, and you may end up in Tokyo… here are some warning signs you may need a hotel reservation for the Presidential suite.

You are moved by very regular and common happenings. The first snowflake of winter, a baby bird, the smell of a stranger’s newborn. I like to limit my sentiments to the three D’s: Death, Dumpings and Degrassi.

You hyperbolize (I learned this word during my one and only semester at college) fucking everything. For example, you get stung by a bee so you become hysterical, overdramatize pain, insist you are allergic, make 45 of your closest friends come over to assist with medical treatment, realize you’re fine, then apologize profusely and cry AGAIN because the bee lost its life and vow to volunteer at a beehive preservation fundraiser.

You are constantly apologizing. Bitches with too many feelings are always worried they are bothering people. Probably because they are. I will admit there is something adorably endearing about this. Maybe because I am an ice princess and need a little osmotic feeling? I am not a doctor. Also someone please tell me what “osmotic” means.

You are simultaneously obsessed and revolted by love. Imagine what your social media profiles look like to a distant stalker, visuals are the easiest way to decipher if your emotional pendulum is too active. Do you have sunset romance scenery immediately followed by an Alanis Morissette quote? Pictures of kittens followed by a bonfire burning all your exes clothing?

When you’re up, you’re UP and when you’re down, you’re down. And when you’re not sure, fly to fucking Tokyo and get out of town.

Kylie Jenner Hates Me

It’s Monday morning and I am in an Instagram tiff with Kylie Jenner. As I sat sipping my green tea, perusing the internet and reflecting on life I was all at once swarmed with text messages and phone calls. At first I thought they finally found Tupac or a new Zankou Chicken was opening up. Why else would everyone be contacting me with such urgency?

About 20 minutes prior, I casually put this photo on the @bitchbible Instagram account (#plug) all in good fun…

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Then this happened…

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#NOTIDEAL. I was then catapulted in the moral battle of defending myself, doing damage control and/or capitalizing on the situation like any other shameless media whore would do. Naturally I choose to focus on the latter. This is coming from place of ZERO JUDGEMENT but she was obviously cruising her own hashtag because I never tagged that bitch. Maybe she is stalking me? Maybe not.

Despite being a pretty ballsy bitch on the exterior, I am kind of a pussy in real life. I don’t handle conflict well and would be a much better woman if Kris Jenner were my mother. You can imagine my internal struggle on how to handle such a situation.

Like I always say, when life hands you lemons, infuse them into a simple syrup, mix with vodka and CHUG. For the next 30 minutes I frantically pondered my damage control. Do I apologize? Permanently avoid Calabasas as if it were infected with Ebola? Make a sex tape with Johnathan Cheban? Start a clothing line? Buy the 7th Tyga album ever sold? (Side note: who IS Tyga? Hopefully Kris is working an getting his ass a Frosted Flake endorsement) Now I will NEVER be friends with Kendall and Gigi! Fuckity fuck fuck.

In my defense, unless Ky-ky attended an early morning sample sale or a kitschy consignment store, the shorts retail for $60. Perhaps $20 in Kardashian Kurrency konverts to a normal persons $60? I don’t know, I am not a mathematician. ALSO “GTFO out of here” translates to get the fuck OUT OUT of here which is super confusing. Besides that Kylie kinda handed my ass to me on a black and white chevron platter available exclusively at Sears.

Was it nice? No. Was it malicious? No. Has it gotten me more followers? Yes. And that bitches… is the silver lining. I saw Kylie Jenner wearing army pants and flip flops so I bought army pants and flip flops. Bye dolls!

Sex-ed Sneak Preview

I am unsure how to introduce this video… Some people turn crazy over time and others were just born crazy. Recently a nearly 15 year old video resurrected from the awkward and malnourished pits of my childhood. As a kid, I was almost the same exact person I am today except with a much more sought after thigh gap.

In school, I used to use extreme theatrics to distract my blatant disregard for curriculum. When assigned a project about the reproductive system, I decided to make a nearly 30 minute film exercising my “theatrics”. I am in the process of getting the full video (which I will publish here) but for now will be giving you sneak peeks.

At one point in the film I LITERALLY dress up as a sperm and do a synchronized swimming inspired routine to showcase a miscarriage… you can’t make this shit up. Enjoy.

What Would SJP Do?

I have had the worst morning. First, I was trying to kick start a “health plan” this morning and instead found myself eating take-out Tikka Masala which has not been kind to my food baby. Then, I settled into my sofa and while trolling the depths of my DVR accidentally deleted the fucking Britney Jean special that documented Britney preparing for her Vegas residency… I will never forgive myself for that. Does it get much worse than that? Yes, yes it does.

This is truly difficult to write. Anyone who knows me knows that I love three things unconditionally; my dog Leo, swapping clearance stickers on full price items and Sarah Jessica Parker. Even as a fabulously emaciated middle schooler, I was dreaming of a floor length fur and even tried that awkward Carrie Bradshaw waist belt look.

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My infatuation wasn’t just limited to the fictitious Carrie Bradshaw, I was/am heavily involved in everything SJP. When she thought Gap was cool, I thought Gap was cool. When she went to Paris and got slapped, I went to Paris and tried to get slapped. When she had a surrogate birth her twins, I volunteered my vagina to bear her children. SJP in many ways was the chic older sister I always wanted.

Sure our noses aren’t great but what we lack in facial symmetry we always made up for in thought provoking brunches and killer accessories. Duh!

Last year I went through a serious low point when I saw the debut of the SJP shoe collection, I was in a serious downward spiral and on the verge of a Lexapro prescription. This year I was certain we would move towards greener pastures and advanced heel heights. I decided to dedicate last night to channel my inner SJP and check out the new collection. To get in the spirit I had an honorary cosmopolitan (not my vibe), a brief affair with my buildings maintenance man and left a break-up post it on his tool case. I stole some co-ed twins from a nearby elementary school and then called my bff Andy Cohen to catch up and discuss which designer to collab with for my Met ball look since my usual go-tos are both dead… RIP.

Once I was feeling like the best celebrity inspired version of myself, I sat down with my heart aflutter and googled “SJP shoe collection 2015”. The instant I pressed enter I knew it was a mistake… Here is the very first image I clicked on.

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I couldn’t decide whether to laugh, cry or hurl my body off my balcony. HEART CUT OUTS? ARE THOSE MULES? PATENT LEATHER? These shoes are perfect for your quirky 76 year old Aunt who lives in the inland empire and loves to dress up for holidays. Think light up snowflake earrings on Christmas, cornucopia sweaters on Thanksgiving and THESE FUCKING MULES ON VALENTINES DAYS. Festive and fashion forward! GAG ME.

Now after further research, the rest of the collection is MUCH BETTER and way less geriatric than prior collections. But honestly, Carrie wouldn’t be caught DEAD in that shoe. Fuck, even Suri Cruise wouldn’t rock that fucking mule to her tri-weekly therapy appointment. I still love you SJP and hope one day we will have a good laugh about this over a charcuterie plate and drinks al fresco.

IT’S HERE.

Bitches, my highly unanticipated podcast series is finally here. I try not to appear TOO thirsty (although I am parched as fuck) so consider this the ONLY favor I ask of you. Download (it’s FREE, link below) SUBSCRIBE (instant gratification) review (5 stars) and share with your bitches. Below is some feedback I received from family, friends and producers from first pod.

DOWNLOAD ON ITUNES https://itunes.apple.com/us/podcast/the-bitch-bible/id966029848 

OR LISTEN ON SOUNDCLOUD 

10 Signs You’re Dating a Bunny Boiler

  1. Excess Flattery. Bitches love a compliment. Psychos will have their nose so far up your ass you are blinded by your own inflated ego. You are the smartest, most beautiful, funny, charming, domestic, business savvy bitch he has EVER met. And while that might all be true – the sentiment is less than sincere adoration.
  2. What you love, he loves. Amazingly, your new bunny boiling boo is so simpatico with you! You love reality television? So does he! You collect Spice Girl memorabilia? So does he! You want 17 kids and a three-legged dog with one testicle? SO DOES HE. This is the psycho’s way of making you believe you are perfect for each other.
  3. Welcome to the Pity Party. You will hear it all, his ex is crazy, his father abandoned him, he was bullied in high school. Waaah waaah, cry me a fucking river. A psycho will try to appeal to your emotions by victimizing himself and confiding in you. This is a ploy to garner empathy from you. If stories he shares with you run parallel to any plotline on Vanderpump Rules – RUN bitch, run.
  4. Medical Mayhem. Since the crazy bastard loves a good pity party, medical trauma is inevitable. A simple mole is probably skin cancer, a hangover is most definitely a brain tumor and he most likely has some hereditary ailment just WAITING to rear its undiagnosed head. Make sure those life-saving medications aren’t candy coated.
  5. Psycho in the streets, Fabio in the sheets. It is standard for a bunny boiler to go out of his way to keep his prey pleased. This is just another way of him trying to get you hooked or a reason to put up with his crazy.
  6. Unexpected outbursts. If you are shopping for new silverware at Bed, Bath and Beyond and your possibly unstable lover randomly announces, “he collects knifes” he is either a closet sushi chef or has accidentally exposed himself. Psychos can only save face for so long before they show cracks in the mask.
  7. The Silent Treatment. After they get you hooked and the idealization love bomb phase concludes, a psychopath will begin to devalue you. This is an attempt to pull the rug out from beneath you sparking insecurity. You then begin to doubt yourself and wonder why he is no longer worshipping you, making you instantly more hooked.
  8. Jealousy. This is their way of manipulating and catapulting you into a jealous frenzy. They may introduce you to an abnormally attractive co-worker, take a lunch with his ex or stock up on Victoria’s Secret catalogs. This is to make you both feel unworthy of his attention and lustful for the initial worship you once had.
  9. The Chuck. He has found a new unsuspecting victim or he needs to flee the country and your psychopath has already taken you on his sick and emotionally taxing rollercoaster. If he doesn’t end up turning you into chop suey, this is when you and your new Lexapro prescription are chucked to the wayside.
  10. Hovering. Just because he is done with you doesn’t mean his ego is ready to relinquish your admiration. Even if he has moved on, he will still make sure you are missing him. Expect an awkward email or random invitations to happy hour… hopefully in a well-lit and public venue.