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.
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!
It’s always a sunny day at the Bachelor mansion. The episode starts with the frontrunners single mom with killer ombre hair and small featured Lauren B talking shit about Olivia the Velociraptor. Shocker. Instantly my only concern is where the fuck Lace is.
Lauren B gets the first one on one date and Olivia almost has an annuerism. “The Sky’s The Limit!” reads the date card and my two concerns are; could they at least TRY and make it look like Ben’s writing and not some disgruntled female production assistant’s and do they only plan dates that have correlate with some stupid semi-inspirational saying you may find at the bottom of a substitute teacher’s email signature “If you can think it, you can be it!” Fucking shoot me in the retinas. The women always delight in the romance of it all… negligent to remember they are sleeping in BUNKBEDS all trying to pork the same dude. Love lifts us up where we belong… on the top bunk.
Lauren B and Ben take flight and all I can focus on is that Ben is wearing a bracelet with a metal plate that says “HOPE”… and there goes my lady boner. They park their little jet plane in a super rapey deserted land plot where conveniently an above ground Jacuzzi is waiting for them so Ben can see if Lauren B is an 7 or 8 based on her bikini bod.
Back at the mansion, pretty but overly emotional half-Asian Caila sheds a tear over how hard it is to imagine him on another one on one date. Dear Caila, this is the fucking Bachelor. Stop crying and have a mimosa.
At dinner, Lauren B proclaims she only “likes really simple things”. I appreciate her game strategy and suggest all woman take notes. Being yourself is wonderful. But being full of shit is better. She goes on and on about how much she loves her dad and basically wants to bone him despite paternity. They swap stories of their cookie-cutter, Pastor guided, functional familied lives and bitch gets her rose. And just when things couldn’t get any better, ANOTHER COMPLETELY UNKNOWN MUSICAL ACT!
The group date card arrives and FINALLY Lace gets some screen time while she sits on the end of the coach gnawing at her nails twitching. The ladies are forced to compete for time with Ben which I LOVE because nothing screams girl power more than a bunch of woman pitted against eachother over a ball. That metaphor is not lost on me.
Jubilee is scared Ben doesn’t like black girls and to cover ABC’s ass explains that she is “complicated” and “not his type” so she is concerned. Little does she know Ben appears to be down for the swirl. Get it Jubs!
Queen Lace and Low Budge Mary-Kate are the goalies and something about watching them face dive puts a little spring in my step. “Balls flying at your face is never fun. But if I have to hurt myself, I’ll hurt myself.” Um same. For a moment I was SURE Olivia was going to Tanya Harding the injured girl. The losers cry and go back to the asylum, I mean the mansion.
Olivia is straight up Glenn Close. I hope Ben does not have a bunny. After Glenn steals Ben away to discreetly snip a lock of his hair, the bitches downstairs start talking about her toes and bad breath. Regardless if this is true, she is still significantly better looking than most of you so… have some perspective. “Perfection is so lame.”
Jubilee scores the next one on one date and offends the girls for calling Ben out on being late and saying shes not that excited for their date. Team fucking Jubilee. Also, did a producer slip Lace some sedatives? What the fucking fuck? Jubilee is NOT down with the caviar but very into hot dogs… I like your innuendos boo. Homegirl gets the rose and I am thrilled.
My absolute favorite moment happens at the rose ceremony when Ben somberly tells the ladies that he lost family friends in a plane crash and 2.4 seconds later Olivia consoles Ben by sharing some of her internal struggles… living with cankles. She tries to stay strong but her ankle radius is the real tragedy of the day. Like sorry about your dead friends but like I CAN NEVER WEAR AN ANKLET.
These bitches get their polyblend panties in a bunch when they see Jubilee giving a Ben a massage when she already has a rose. THIS IS A FUCKING COMPETITION YOU DUMBFUCKS, why would she forego time to expedite another girls relationship with Ben? Fuck off Amber. You are acting like an insecure petty asshole.
Then something truly terrible happens… Lace resurrects and says “Bahn… can I talk to yuh?” In her most mentally stable moments yet, Lady Lace explains that she needs to go home and work on herself. Like her tattoo says “You can’t love someone else, unless you truly love yourself.” And she says she doesn’t love herself which absolutely slaughters me because I LOVE HER ENOUGH FOR THE BOTH OF US. LACE, DON’T GO, DON’T LEAVE ME. LIVE, LAUGH, LACE. So now, I need to go take a bath with my blowdryer because I have no reason to live.
Shushanna and Jami (both of whom I could give a fuck about) leave and I am still in a post-Lace coma. Please respect my privacy during this time of need. Because you know I’m all about that Lace, bout that Lace.
Not to seem vapid and lacking any real or impactful hobbies and dreams, but reality television has a very special place in my heart. I know some of you reading this (but like, why the fuck are you reading this?) are rolling your eyes and turning your noses at the previous statement. Reality television is just garbage, unintellectual and for stupid brainless millenials to you. Go fuck a composter or your vegan leather journal made by Indonesian orphans you pretentious hipster fuckhead. Reality television is escapism and keeps my seratonin levels sky highs sans medication.
Reality television is ruining society, it’s people who were never taught the gift of judgement and can’t differentiate between observing others mistakes via television for entertainment value instead of making the mistakes on your own. Who’s intellectual now? The Bachelor for me is not only a sad 2 hour marathon of updos and sad pageant wear gone wrong, but also a real behind the curtain look at female sociology.
Here we have 208 women in a balls deep COMPETITION for a husband. The whole thing is a real mind fuck when you break it down. So you are supposed to be “authentic” while living in a mansion that’s not yours, wearing a gown selected by a wardrobe stylist, going on dates you cannot afford and have zero say in your impending marital bliss. It’s un-fucking-believable.
I can’t decide whether I have more respect for the girls who are actually there solely to find love (semi pathetic) or the one’s who are there solely to make it far enough where they can land a correspondent job on Access Hollywood and try and fuck Chris Harrison. Probably the latter.
The best part of the show are the awkward limo entrances, the bullshit job titles (fucking CHICKEN ENTHUSIAST? I love kabob but can’t put that shit on Linkedin..) and the crying confessionals. Lace is an American hero. She looks like Fiona (Parker Posey) in Josie & The Pussycats after she just poured a warm buttery chardonnay in every orifice of her body and I like it. I also really enjoyed the solemn firecrotch castaway… I hope she gets an SPF 115 endorsement deal. I also like that Rachel kept it 100 and declared herself “unemployed”. I tend to root for the girls who drink the most or are the prettiest. I am not saying that’s right, but it’s the fucking truth.
Now for the ladies I want to drown in the mansion infinity pool. Mandi (with an i) and that fucking rose on her head, needs to get punched in the vagina. When she offered Ben the opportunity to “pollenate” her I considered transitioning genders. Haley & Emily aka Dumb & Fucking Dumber are actually the worst. They are from Las Vegas (shocker) and come as some type of sister wive package deal. Their job title is “Twins”. When they said “how can you beat this?” I jotted down some ways…
- Have a brain.
- Be someone not trying to fuck the same dude as your sister.
- Don’t wear jewelry from fucking Icing.
- Or dresses from JC Penney Prom section.
- Have a brain?
Stock your fridge with champagne because it’s Bachelor season, the REAL happiest time of the year.
The truth is, it’s super hard to articulate my feelings about the Victoria Secret Fashion Show without sounding like a bitter, diabetic, troll. In theory (and some people’s reality) the opportunity to even aesthetically qualify to strut down a runway in a jewel encrusted vagina cloth with a bouncy blowdry and a 2 foot long thigh gap is super flattering. God knows, no one is asking me. But we all have to recognize that women gathering around the television to watch these female specimens in a fashion show (where you can’t actually purchase the “fashions”) is ridiculous.
Firstly, everyone calm the fuck down. This isn’t going to be some proclamation of feminism just stating the obvious. My absolute favorite part of watching the Victoria’s Secret Show is watching the behind the scene clips of the models being “so goofy and relatable”. Supermodels, they’re just like us. Except better looking and hungry. Taking selfies, lip syncing, being bff with all the other models. I wan’t just one supermodel to look into camera and say “I love cocaine, hate everyone here, have only eaten ice chips and an occasional Splenda packet #cheatday, fuck off.” But NO! Being an angel is all giggles, cheap body spray, glitter and acrylic underwear.
When the angels are not prancing around in pink robes and dancing backstage, they are also getting supes sentimental. Martin Luther King had a dream… and so did Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid. Even if being a supermodel is your “lifelong dream” how can anyone even rationalize saying that out loud. My dream is to have like 18 houses, more jewelry than Jaja Gibore and bi-quarterly tapeworm so I can stay thin sans exercise but for social decency sake, I am not going to fucking admit that. I’d make some shit up like “I just want to be a strong voice for my generation” or like “help needy children and rescue stray cats in Somalia”. No thanks. Just lie.
My second favorite thing about the VS Fashion Show is the obvious angels that were simply hired to comply with some racial quota. Like the overly spirited Asian girl who never quite nailed her end of the runway pose. Are you winking, are you kissy facing, having a cerebral palsy situation? Poor girl. I am going to go on a limb and assume that 43% of these bitches don’t even speak English. So you really can’t blame the girls for awkwardly lip syncing to all the performers music. They could be singing Hitler’s manifesto and they would have no fucking idea because they are just PeRkY aS fUcK.
The 24 hours after the show is what I like to refer to as Basic Bitch Dooms Day. Everyone complains how they never want to eat again, vow to get an ass like Adriana Lima or celebrate their “normalness” by posting pictures of themselves eating a pizza in rebellion. This is fucking stupid. Shut the fuck up. I get the attempt at irony but it’s as sad and redundant.
Also, poor Ellie Goulding, here she is fully clothed singing her little heart out and is background blur to some Scandinavian amazon with big pink balloons taped to her ass slow-mo blowing kisses to a camera man with a boner. Granted, I would sell my sister to a brothel for abs like Behati Prinsloo but like… it’s just never going to happen and I am okay with that. These woman are obviously beautiful and I live for embellishment so I get the allure, but let’s all live and let live.
Whatever your feelings are post-show just remember that we live in a world where Facetune is $1.99, Spanx are crotchless, lighting is everything and Victoria’s lingerie is made of fucking polyester… that bitch.
I have been on a very spiritual journey lately. One that includes excess fromage, disguising my Ashkenazi hair in this fog (#isis) and learning how to cope with aggressive pigeons sans sedatives. It’s all been very Eat, Pray, Love. Or more like, Eat, Overpay (currency rate probs), Shove. For those of you not stalking me or interested in my whereabouts, I have been in London for the past month.
Since my arrival there have been no shortage of fabulous group activities so during the week I am rewarded with my much needed alone time. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how socially uncultivated I am. I can go HOURS without any human interaction and feel incredibly mentally stimulated, more so than after a lengthy dinner with friends. At first I thought this may make me bipolar and it’s the voices in my head that keep me entertained. I have since realized that I must be a complete narcissist because I really fucking love hanging out with myself.
I think people assume that when you uproot your life and move (temporarily) to a foreign country it is polite to try and include said import in social plans and activities. Being that we have a very present social group here in London I have come to the harsh realization that my antisocial nature has followed me internationally.
According to the internet we are the FOMO generation. Honestly, fuck off. I hate FOMO and anyone who uses that term seriously. Fear of missing out? Did you not get hugged as a child? Why do people rely so heavily on social outings and being in the know? I would like to propose a new way of living… JOMO. Joy of missing out. I have been the poster child for JOMO since I crawled from the flaming pits of hell as a small adorable baby. I hate being invited places. The truth is if I want to go anywhere, I will just show up. I find that it has a very high success rate and I always bring a bottle of something.
When someone initiates social plans one of two things happen. Depending on my level of comfortability I will either immediately decline (my closest friends can attest) with a curt “NO” or consider the outing with a tepid “Do I have to? Will there be valet and/or snacks provided?” My other less desirable option is coming up with a very elaborate excuse. I normally lean towards a family death involving a very distant relative (less questions) which can be a real nightmare. I have accidentally had my Great Aunt Shirley die twice during a desperate scheduling conflict. With every cash bar invitation, conveniently my 98-year-old Aunt Shirley bites the big one. Time after time.
I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I wont. Every time you find yourself hungrily trying to confirm “where and when and what time and who?” with the perseverance of starved hyena, take a long hard look in the mirror and ask yourself this; why am I acting like such dependently needy asshole? Has anyone suffering from this “disease” ever considered that the reason they aren’t being invited places is because they are annoying as fuck. Brew on that for a second.
You know why an aged cheese is more expensive? Because it’s fully developed into the delectable version of it’s best self. It’s not afraid to showcase its mold or pungent smell. The cheese has spent time alone and matured. IT DOESN’T NEED CRACKERS OR A FIG SPREAD. I apologize for this cheese tangent… I have been in a sexual relationship with blue stilton for the past week. Sorry, back to the point.
The harsh truth is that if the mere thought of being alone sends you into a Lexapro prescription, FOMO is just the band-aid on the actual wound of a much bigger ailment. Go to dinner, take a trip, see a movie, go shopping, go for a bike ride ALONE. Jomo is the new Fomo.
Without sounding overly dramatic, Vanderpump Rules is kinda the only reason I wake up every morning. It gives me faith, it gives me hope, and it gives me self-esteem. I would give all internal organs to attend every single fucking staff meeting. Obviously I would never wear that heinous shirtdress required because it looks like a sad wet seal clearance shmata BUT I would be happy to sit in a dark corner sipping LVP Sangria and observing all the shenanigans. There are reality stars, there are actual celebrities and then there is the cast of Pump Rules. As I am currently living in London, I had to wait an entire day before I had access to the premiere episode. I don’t want to seem too egotistical, but I have never loved or respected myself more for executing such patience and self-control during those wretched 24 hours. Andy Cohen you owe me $2.99.
Naturally the season starts off in a staff meeting (#dreams). I love that the girls have invested their tip money/minimum wage pay and gotten extensions. Right out of the gate we learn that James is making his mark in the music business. I love that he thinks he is fucking Steve Aoki because he has a “residency” at fucking Pump. He is amazing and I would probably date him if I were single if he upped his 3 series BMW to a 7 series and like got me screeners for the show…
I will say Scheana has finally found her look. The make-up has gone from bad YouTube tutorial to a more natural and fresh look and I am proud of her. Katie’s bull nose ring is giving me anxiety. Jax looks like he joined a Fight Club fan group at a community college. How old is he? And who the fuck is his plastic surgeon? Helen Keller? As a Jew with extensive rhinoplasty knowledge I have never heard of using skin from your ear to patch into your nose.
Next we see James lingering in the infamous back alley at Sur where the cast rolls up in their budget sedans and smoke their cigarettes. James and Kristen have a heated exchange about Carmen or Jax or Tom or fuck I don’t even know. I was more focused on the discreet sneaky cinematography. Can somebody say Golden Globe nomination?
Finally, Kristen rolls up. She has been focusing on her t-shirt line and not acting like a psycho. Samesies. She is really screwing up James Guetta’s DJ vibes, which is fucked cause he has like 50 people who pre-booked on Open Table to impress.
James says he would rather lose his relationship with Kristen than hurt his dj “career”. Then he imparts us with this morsel of wisdom “Girls come and go… Dreams are with you forever”. These are moments that give me more joy than the cry of a newborn or the news of a tax return being deposited into my overdrawn checking account #hustle.
In the next scene we are once again welcomed into Jax’s humble 250 square foot studio and greeted by his censored penis. He then gives him mom his 12 second MTV cribs tour. “Here’s my closet. Here’s my microwave. Here’s my twin bed. Here’s my futon I bought on Craigslist.” God I love this show.
Just a day at the salon with the 2 Toms… cute? Tom (not a Jew) Schwartz decides to get a fucking perm. Mid curl, he decides he is ready to propose to Katie. Nothing sparks a desire for marital bliss like a day at the salon with the boyz.
Scheana is turning 30 so the gang is dressed in garb spanning a decade. Kristen shows up uninvited with nipples and labia in tow. I just want everyone to know that Scheana’s party is in the same venue as Kendall Jenners Sweet 16. You are welcome for that information.
Ariana and her bob have a come to Jesus moment when she doubts the authenticity of her and Scheana’s friendship. It’s really hard to take anybody seriously because of the plethora of synthetic mushroom cuts. James looks like name is Peggy and he buys all his produce at a Wal-Mart circa 1973. Then he starts chugging fireball. I guess that’s what rock stars do… Oh wait.
And so it begins.
For those of who are not currently stalking me, you may not be privy to my recent lovers pilgrimage to London to be with my puppy daddy. While I love cold climate layering (ideal for letting myself go), day drinking and fish and chips, the downside of this beautiful city is it’s tragic pigeon infestation. When I tell you that my only true wish in life is for every bird to immediately extinct or die a brutal painful death I mean every single fucking word. I am sorry if that offends you. Actually, I am not sorry at all. Since birth, every birthday candle blown has had the intention of the entire species being eliminated.
Everytime a wing flaps, a part of my soul dies. I considered bunkering down in front of my flat with an airsoft gun or casually leaving breadcrumbs traced with arsenic through every street within a 4 mile radius of our flat (#sobritish) but that requires too much physical activity. Like I always say, a smooth sea never made for a skillfull sailor.
Needless to say, my transition amidst the wildife, weather and vacation constipation is not going to be easy. Please follow me on my journey by following me on insta, twitter (@jackieschimmel) and SUBSCRIBE to my podcast on iTunes (NEW episodes every Tuesday). Because the thirst is so very real.
Also unrelated, please watch this. Does anyone else remember when Jessica Simpson had her own fucking variety show? Poor Jewel.
As I write this I am lying on the bathroom floor picking up the chunks of hair I ripped out of my own scalp upon hearing the news of your engagement. If this sounds like a suicide letter it’s because it is. For the past 24 hours I have been on a downward spiral that rivals Amanda Bynes’ 2013, Britney Spears’ 2007 and Joaquin Phoenix’s 2009.
My first emotion was anger. Angry at you, angry at her, angry at the cashier judging me for buying Nyquil, a magnum bottle of Ketel One, 4 loaves of French bread, 87 pounds of brie cheese and an assortment of razor blades aka my scorn lover suicide kit #HOWDOYOUMAKECHLOROFORM?
After the anger subsided and I did a ceremonial burning of all of my Leonardo DiCaprio VHS tapes, denial set in. How did this happen? Who is this woman? I’d like to tell you congratulations on your impending nuptials. I’d like to say I’m glad you’re settling down. I’d like to say I hope you name your yacht after her and live a long happy life together boating in Cannes. I never lied to you before and I surely am not going to start now after you have ripped my heart out and taken a huge metaphorical shit on my fucking dreams.
Honestly I hope you are miserable together and the whole marriage goes up in flames. No one has supported like me. I have loved you during your weight fluctuation, your pubis facial hair situation and even when you started driving a Prius. That’s loyalty Leonardo… something you clearly don’t value.
I named my fucking dog after you. And when people ask me why his name is “Leo” I always tell them he is named after his biological father. I assure my group of dog mothers that canine “Leo” he has my personality and your interest in humanitarian work. I am sure your fiancée owns a German Shepard named Axel and is a fucking vegetarian. OF COURSE SHE IS. Fuck her.
Sure she might be an ethereal supermodel who gives huge fucks about the environment and sunbathes topless and wears anklets and shit. Can she love you like I could? No. Does she own the Celine Dion “My Heart Will Go On” single remix cd? No. Did she see Critters 3 that you starred in around 1991? Definitely not. I FUCKING DID.
Worst of luck to both of you. My heart will not go on. You fucking let go Jack.
For the first quarter century of my life I have been absolutely petrified of confrontation. I owe at least $6,000 in late fees to Blockbuster just because I could never show my face there again after being delinquent with my rented collection of Nancy Meyers films. The possibility of scrutiny or any awkward conversation literally gives me diarrhea.
A few months ago I came to the harsh realization that my perpetual “non-confrontational” shtick was not only unhealthy, but also kind of made me full of shit. Metaphorically, not digestively, obvi. I know it may seem very contradictory that someone like yours truly would be non-confrontational, but here’s what would go down: I’d hear that a friend of mine would talk shit about me and do nothing about it. I’d pretend like it never happened, act like a phony ass bitch, and slowly distance myself without any explanation. Ultimately, I’d end up looking like the bigger asshole for being flaky. I’d never acknowledge what REALLY happened in order to avoid confrontation-induced diarrhea. It’s a vicious (and sometimes slimming) cycle.
When the tables are turned and I am confronted or feel cornered, I go into fight mode and will turn into a savage hyena. I also think the root of my non-confrontationalism is because in all other aspects of my life I am so loud and obnoxious. Or I am just lazy as shit and don’t have the energy to deal.
The problem is that when you don’t speak up when something bothers you, one of two things happens:
- you vent to others, things get lost in translation, you end up being a shady fuck
- you suppress all emotions and then one day snap and become Gone Girl.
Being non-confrontational is fan-fucking-tastic if you are brokering a peace treaty for terrorists but not in your everyday life. Someone much smarter than me once said, “Avoiding conflict doesn’t extinguish conflict.” So before you internalize your issues and ultimately find yourself in a state of digestive disarray, cut the bullshit and speak the fuck up.
I would try and write a quippy intro for this but I am still at a loss of words, so instead I will use a plagiarized movie quote…
“It’s a great thing when you realize you still have the ability to surprise yourself. It makes you wonder what else you are capable of…”
Do the right thing… @jackieschimmel
On this weeks podcast, I bravely took listener calls and showcased absolutely terrible advice devoid of any wisdom. The result is one of my proudest moments and very favorite podcasts, enjoy and I apologize in advance…