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

Goop Gift Guide 2015

There are times when I really start to question humanity and spiritual justice in this world. But just when my faith has almost dissipated the universe throws me a bone and I can see the light once again. Normally these spiritual awakenings come to me in the form of a Goop Gift Guide. Nothing and I repeat NOTHING gets my blood boiling, my heart bursting and my palms sweating like the release of a super Goopy curated list of things that nobody could or should have.

Like not that I am some fucking humanitarian but there are kids starving and carrying bowls of rice on their head somewhere, I am pretty sure we should throw some cash their way before spending $6,000 on a fucking caviar set. Ladies and gentleman, I am proud to present you the 2015 Goop Holiday Gift Guide (this is NOT a drill, this is 100% real).

ROLEX WATCH DAYTONA BLUE $14,968.94Because there is nothing radder than a custom, neon-blue watch” I can think of something radder Gwyneth, it’s called social awareness and likeability. Also thank you for being so accurate with the pricing. God forbid you round up the number six cents. Every penny counts!

THE ROSEWOOD HANDLE TRUFFLE SLICER $40If you own a truffle slicer…” I applaud Gwyneth for suggesting a gift under $12,000. However, I am not sure this is an a appropriate stocking stuffer.

CEDES MILANO TOOTHPASTE SQUEEZER $244Better than a chip clip!” Okay now I am starting to get angry. A mother fucking toothpaste squeezer? I am pretty sure it makes more sense to buy an economy sized supply of Crest at Costco then invest in a machine to squeeze out every last morsel of toothpaste. I would put my life on it that this bitch doesn’t own a fucking chip clip.

HERMES MAH-JONG SET ABOUT $46,000There’s a waiting list” I would like a copy of that waiting list. This is actually revolting. I adore the casual price estimates, Gwenyth is just like at the office slicing truffles and all “It’s about $46,000 not entirely sure. Whatevs. Brb gotta go get Apple her new gold-plated mechanical pencils #singlemother.”

SENNHEISER ORPHEUS HEADPHONES $55,000 “Because some audiophiles really do need $55,000 headphones” Like a recording of people gagging while reading this list? Even the way she spells “audiophiles” makes me want to die. I want to take the truffle slicer from above and slice my retinas at this point because it is all too much to handle.

18K GOLD DUMBELLS $125,000Speechless” Go fuck yourself.

WORLD VIEW EXPLORATION AT THE EDGE OF SPACE $90,000We want it.” Ironically this is still a teacher’s salary less than the fucking solid gold dumbells. “Happy Hanukkah Aunt Jodie! This year instead of the usual Target giftcard I am sending you to the edge of space. Have fun! XO, Jackie”

ULYSSES TIER STANDARD SURVIVAL KIT $12,500Give life, everything you need for a full two weeks.” How woodsy of you Gwyneth. What the hell is in the kit? Tracy Anderson? Hermes china? Preserved Foie Gras? I’d prefer the cash k thanks.

Tis the season to be Goopy. Fa la la la la, la la la VOM.

My Cuntry Tis of Thee.

I have learned a lot about myself whilst living in London. I have learned that drinking everyday does in fact NOT make you an alcoholic, just a much happier person with more regular bowel movements (I’m serious – instant vacation constipation solution). Also, white strips clearly have not made their way across the pond… tea stains people. But I would have to say that the true takeaway from my time abroad is that I have absolutely no shrivel of elegance, manners or social graces.

I have always considered my nonchalant cursing, harmless rape jokes and mild racism very charming and ironically hilarious in the homeland. God knows my main way of bonding with strangers is giving unsolicited updates on my current digestive state and I will admit, it totally works. People find me odd, unfiltered and 83% of them even applaud me for being so “real”. Today I came to the harsh realization that although I am in a country where I speak the language, I may not be translating.

My day started with a quick trip to the pub aka my living room. The great thing about traveling for an extended period of time is that you are still technically on “vacation” so drinking during the day is acceptable. I have convinced myself that drinking with almost every meal is helping me avoid any type of food poisoning or airborne germ ingestion because alcohol kills germs therefore keeping me healthy. I love myself for this logic. After a cheeky pint and Scotch egg, I got my bloated ass on a fucking bike to pedal off the fleshy side carriages growing around my waist. Let it be known that I have almost died 38 times since I have been here on fucking foot. I ride a bike like someone who has cerebral palsy, a glass eye and a small case of the downs. Flailing limbs, gasping for breath, rosaceous red face. No one is safe.

17 minutes in I decided it was time for a break and I moseyed into a place for high tea a friend had recommended. Walking into any London restaurant in Lulu Lemon leggings is almost the same as announcing over a PA system that you are a stock-girl at Wal-Mart and go on lots of cruises… not chic. Luckily, I don’t give two fucks and have taken my love for ironic work out attire to the United Kingdom. I asked the cunty hostess for a table for one and she gave me an up down that made me feel like Vivian not being allowed to shop on Rodeo Drive. She told me she was unable to seat me because I was violating dress code…. She pointed to a sign that read “No Trainers”. I immediately responded “Oh honey, this ain’t a training bra. I need serious underwire for these d-cups or it would look like I am hiding extra large scotch eggs in my waist band if you catch my drift” while I made a super inappropriate hand gesture miming my low hanging boobs. I thought and still think this is HILARIOUS. Cunty McCuntingham, Duchess of Cuntville did not think so.

I told her that technically my “trainers” (translation: sneakers) were Miu Miu and probably worth more than all her fucking pretentious internal organs and I wasn’t leaving until I spoke with a manager. Begrudgingly I was seated at a corner table by the dirty dishes, moved from said table twice and then finally ordered myself a high tea spread. Soon they brought out a variation of utensils, dishware, condiments and glassware that overwhelmed me. So many fucking spoons. I blame my parents for pretty much everything, but I especially blame them for never enrolling me in cotillion. I was served my tea with some weird strainer mechanism that looked like something I would find at my gynecologists office… here are the following Google searches from my 3 hour high tea.

“Is it rude to be on your phone at high tea?”

“How many calories are in a scone?”

“Do people in London take food home from restaurants”

“How do you know if you have a tapeworm?”

“Where does Emma Bunton live?”

“Tazer guns in London”

“Miu Miu sneakers”

“Jackie Schimmel”

“Easy diuretic recipes for one”

“Is hair tinsel still in?”

“Justin Bieber penis pictures”

“In what countries do people eat dogs”

“Perks of kale enemas”

“Jackie Schimmel” (yes, again)

After a pot of Earl Grey, 5 finger sandwiches, some lemon mousse, a glass of champagne, a macaron and enough death glares to make me self implode I started to feel like Shrek’s slutty sister. One thing you should know about me is that I do not leave food on my plate. I would like to say it’s for some political reasons, like starving kids in Africa, but it’s really just cause I am Jewy as fuck. Baby leaves no finger sandwich behind.

I flagged down my waitress and asked her if she had a to-go box so I could take the rest of my pastries home. She looked at me like I asked her to give insert a rectal syringe up my ass. Repulsed. “Um… I will go ask.” Okay… I watched her first go to Cuntella Deville (the hostess) whisper to her then motion in my direction. Then the hostess went to what looked like a manager and started laughing repeating whatever tragic suggestion she had just heard and cocked her head towards my table.

The manager came to my table and alerted that they do not provide take-away materials. “Do you just have like some saran wrap or something?” Too far. “No ma’am.” “Foil? A paper towel? A spare hairnet?” “Sorry ma’am we don’t do take away, most restaurants in London don’t.” Seriously?

I was instantly catapulted into a defining paradox. I had two options, two destinies, two kinds of bitch. I could either eloquently gather my things, reapply my lip-gloss, leave minimal gratuity and part with the beautiful untouched finger sandwich (singular), raisin scone and pistachio meringue OR shoplift the clothed napkin, wrap up the food as quickly impossible, shove it in my purse, tell the hostess she is a Super Cunt and jump on my getaway bike. I couldn’t let social decency change me. I propped my purse open in my lap and very discreetly managed to fit all the food in various compartments over a 20-minute span. I would take a bite, patrol surveillance and shove. With the drop of my final meringue, I darted out the door and felt elated.

By the time I got home most of my souvenirs were wet, smooshed and ruining the lining of my purse. But it didn’t matter. Justice had prevailed. I was emulating the land of the free and the home of the brave. I am a fucking American. I did it for my country. Nobody puts Baby in a corner, insults her jewel encrusted sneakers and then doesn’t let her take her extra food home. Live free or die hard.

Manners are like assholes. Wait, that doesn’t work. Social graces are like assholes. That doesn’t work either. People are assholes. Miu Miu sneakers are not the same as fucking Reeboks and if you pay for it, you should be able to take it home in a proper styrofoam container.

JOMO

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.

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.

High Hopes, Low Expectations

For my gentile readers who may not have known, we are amidst the Jewish New Year formally known as Rosh Hashanah. It is one of the only days where frizzy haired Jews head to the nearest synagogue to husband hunt, swap rhinoplasty stories and judge each other’s temple ensembles. It is also the beginning of a 10 day period of reflection and repentance.

It has always been my favorite holiday because it gives me a January 1st redo and this bitch LIVES for a good list, this being the faux-intentioned resolution list I get to make for myself and others not once, but TWICE a year. Naturally I have zero intention of following any of these but those who can’t reflect, deflect. So….

  1. Ban the following articles from my wardrobe; maxi dresses, peplum, crochet monokinis, any embellished headbands, moccasins, wedge sneakers, mesh insert dresses, vests and anything made of vegan fabric… ew.
  2. Stop body shaming my boyfriend. One amazing trick to a happy and healthy relationship is to keep your better half humble. I like to slowly but surely create completely false insecurities to keep people I love appreciative and indebted to me for my brutal honesty and understanding. I often refer to my significant as “pear shaped” when in reality is eggplant shaped and hott as fuck. I still find this to be hilarious but also really want him to put the money he may invest in thigh gap lipo towards an engagement ring so I guess I will stop.
  3. Learn the difference between a city, state and country. I was too busy trying to reconstruct the texture of my jew-fro and cultivating charisma in middle school to pay attention in Geography. It’s called Google Maps bitch. HOWEVER, I thought Hawaii was it’s own country up until 7 weeks ago which is not ideal. I also thought Isis was a new upscale snow cone shop.
  4. Instill a lifelong Kardashian Kleanse. I will no longer be discussing them. I am trying to be a fucking intellect over here and they no longer fit into my new cerebral life #growth.
  5. Incorporate some form of physical activity in my day to day life. I hate people who say they “love to exercise” I think anyone who says that is a dirty liar. I personally love eating whatever I want without consequences a fuck lot more then busting my ass on a treadmill. I don’t drink water because I am being respectful of the drought and I avoid anything gluten free because I have a fucking SOUL. Regardless, it would be nice to be able to make it up a flight of stairs without a side cramp.
  6. Stop cussing so fucking much.
  7. No longer use my digestive system as a go-to topic of conversation at social gatherings. As much as the bartender making my dirty martini is wildly riveted by my state of constipation, I think it is time for me to be more selective and mysterious in regards to my bowel movements. I like to think acknowledging my food baby is a great way to bond with a stranger but apparently some people think it’s uncomfortable.

Wish me luck and Shana Tova bitches.

DEAR GWYNETH

Dear Gwyneth,

It’s been awhile since we spoke. I have sent a few nudes to Noah in efforts to pull a Mary Kay Letourneau situation (like only when he is legal) but haven’t heard from him either. Whatevs. I hope everything is going great for you, I imagine you are somewhere in Côte d’Azur calling your house staff by the wrong names and muddling organic tarragon and Apple’s tears for a new signature Goop cocktail. I hope to one day sit next to you on the porch of one of your many vacation homes and laugh at poor people together, but until then being pen pals will just have to do.

I thought it was really blue collar of you to do the NYC Food Stamp challenge for a few hours awhile ago. You are like an imported organic Cippolini onion, so many layers yet so unattainable. I felt for a moment a less Goopy Gwyneth was coming, like a blonde truffle-infused Phoenix Rising. I was even able to find a dishtowel for sale on your website that would only set me back $175. Can you say #downtoearth? All you needed was one public drive through at a McDonalds and a Taylor Swift concert cameo away from being America’s slightly less pretentious Sweetheart again. Was the Priestess of Goop becoming more relatable?

Clearly I had spoken too soon because shortly after this possible breakthrough I received your September Goop Newsletter. Besides you breaking world news and bravely stating that “Pokē is having a moment”, featuring a super practical cotton zip-up sweatshirt for $1,198, debuting your FALL 2015 CULTURE GUIDE which almost sent me into cardiac arrest –AND you also tickled my pretentious pickle with this recipe for “Beauty Milk”. The ingredients include pumpkin seed milk, Moon Pantry tocotrienols, lucuma, schisandra berry and fucking PEARL.

Um… is that shit available at Ralphs? WHERE THE FUCK AM I SUPPOSED TO FIND MOON PANTRY PEARLS? IS THAT EVEN LEGAL? WHAT THE HELL IS A SCHISANDRA BERRY? ARE YOU ON ACTUAL CRACK GWYNETH?

I’m sorry for yelling at you, I just got a little heated about asking my Trader Joe’s sale clerk where I could find the organic tocotrienols (preferably locally sourced) for my Goop Beauty Milk. I don’t care if this milk could turn Shrek into Jennifer Lopez YOU SHOULDN’T HAVE TO SELL AN OVARY TO AFFORD ANY RECIPE ON FUCKING GOOP. I would rather be ugly and still have my dignity.

I hope you understand where I am coming from and we can talk this over in person soon. Please know that I will always love you and never plan on unsubscribing from the Goop newsletter but only because it enrages me so much my heart rate increases and I end up burning lots of calories. Stay goopy girl and let me know when Noah turns 18.

Love always,

Jackie

gwyneth

Full Confrontal

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:

  1. you vent to others, things get lost in translation, you end up being a shady fuck
  2. 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.

Dr. Schimmel

I have always loved doling out advice… usually in the form of a vintage Britney Spears lyric or sad bumper sticker. Unfortunately 98% of the time I am too busy thinking about when the McRib is coming back into my life to give my full attention to other peoples problems but I try and give it a solid 54%. Here is the result of that from this week’s podcast. Live your dreams.

PREQUEL SEQUEL:

Fuck Fuckboys

I am aware that I’m always 6 months late to millennial slang. A term I have been grappling (big word) with as of late is “fuckboy”. What is this mythical fuckboy? After my misunderstanding of Trap Queen (which I figured was a bitch who swaps birth control for tic tacs and traps men with a fetus) I felt it absolutely necessary to go straight to the superior source… urban dictionary.

Fuckboy (noun)

A Fuckboy is the type of guy who does shit that generally pisses the population of the earth off all the time. He will also lead girls on just for hookups, says he’s really into you but doesn’t want to deal with all the “relationship bullshit” just to fuck you. He thinks about himself and only himself all the time but pretends to be really nice. He also does really fucked up shit and then complains about people who do the same old shit as him. Once a fuckboy always a fuckboy, because fuck boys ganna be fuckboys.

Cuh-yoot. When you really think about it, potential fuckboys can only blossom into bonafied fuckboys with our permission and allowance. The key to eliminating the species is to disable the fuckboy. That is not a physical threat calm the fuck down. What I mean is that fuckboys can only be relevant if we as females ENABLE the fuck boy. The second you get a whiff of Armani Acqua di fucking Gio find the nearest chastity belt and head for the hills. An estrogenous love side-affect is that sometimes we equate all SEX to deeper feelings. While in the land of Nicholas Sparks, intimacy is all pancakes in bed, love letters and fucking swans; unfortunately the only intentions we ever REALLY can know are our own. The harsh truth is that once a fuckboy, almost ALWAYS a fuckboy. So while we are envisioning 365 letters, and dying side by side in some waspy plantation hospice a la the Notebook, your fuckboy just needs a willing (hopefully) orifice.

If he’s not taking you to dinner but is regularly sleeping with you, he’s a fuckboy. If he is platonic on the streets and freak in the sheets, he’s a fuckboy. If he doesn’t believe in labels, but his phone is full of them i.e.; “Blonde girl from Chateau” “Kylie from NYC” “Buttaface Barbara”, he’s a fucking fuckboy.

Ladies. Guys put their penises in their OWN FUCKING HAND. The same hand they high five their boss with, pump their gas with and wipe their ass with. Having a guy want to sleep with you repeatedly without any form of commitment means he is a fuckboy and WORSE you are a fuckboy enabler. Remember this as a mantra for recovery, penne before penetration. (That was supposed to be clever… Penne is a noodle often served at romantic Italian restaurants)

Playas gonna play. Talkers gonna talk. Fuckboys gonna fuck. And bitches better WALK.

Editors Note: I apologize to my family for the excessive fucks and to readers for my desperate rhyme schemes and alliterations.

#DontJudgeChallenge

It is no secret that I am a highly irritable lassie. Almost anything, anyone or any place can be a trigger for me to lose my shit. I nearly had an ulcer after a friend of mine told me she was going to get her acrylic nail filled… UNLESS YOU ARE AN ESCORT OR WORK AT A DOMINOS PIZZA WHO STILL WEARS ACRYLIC NAILS? But seriously. And don’t even get me STARTED on the Toyota Yaris… I hate that little troll car.

I was particularly perturbed this morning when I heard of the #DontJudgeChallenge infecting basic bitches everywhere to take to their social media accounts and post pictures of themselves with fake acne, unibrows, disheveled hair and glasses to project societies perception of “ugly”, only to then wash it all off and reveal their “beautiful selves”. Shit like this makes me want to pull a Caitlyn Jenner and switch teams. I hate almost any social media challenges but especially ones that are primarily focused on appearance. The #NoMakeUp selfie of 2014 nearly sent me to Passages in Malibu.

To be clear, I am no stranger to a self indulgent Instagram post. Just last week I had a serious digestive breakthrough which I immediately celebrated with a bikini pic because I was fucking feeling myself. I am not ashamed of that. And if I have to nearly sell an ovary to buy a new pair of shoes, I sure as shit will post a picture of them because I am anti social and need to justify the purchase. It’s not great but it’s the truth and like Jill Zarin, “I own it”.

But less about me (@jackieschimmel) and back to the matter at hand… the #DontJudgeChallenge. First of all, there is literally nothing empowering about dressing your face in clown make-up to be “ugly” and then revealing that you are like SuPer pReTty with a killer contour and perfect lashes. Fucking gag me. What a statement! It’s super cute that you can wash all that shit off and go resume your shift at Abercrombie and Fitch. What about the bitch waiting for her Acutane prescription or a distant cousin to the Kardashians who hasn’t gotten her unibrow electrolysis treatment yet?

There are plenty of young girls who don’t have the luxury of wiping blemishes off, so these pathetic public attempts to liberate women are essentially just humble brags wrapped in faux-feminist packages.

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I beg of you from the bottom of my black hollow heart, lets put an end to these exteriorly focused social media challenges because they are moronic and make you look like a huge asshole. You don’t need a “cause” to show off your shit, you don’t need perfect skin and contacts to be beautiful and you don’t need a tapeworm to rock a string bikini although it did help me a lot. Looks fade, tits drop, wrinkles form and we all die looking like gray fucking raisins ANYWAYS so let’s kibosh this shit and all go read a book, sing “Kumbaya” and swap tampons.

Love always,

Jackie

Bitches You Shouldn’t Trust

This list is incredibly arbitrary and fueled by rosé and benadryl. I am sorry if this offends anyone. Just kidding I don’t give a flying fuck, I have gained 3 pounds and am suffering from 7 spider bites. Shoot me in the face. Have a lovely day. 

Never trust a bitch whose favorite color is PURPLE. Purple is for Quinceañeras and Barney the rapey dinosaur. Anyone over the age of 8 who loves purple is either a mentally unstable substitute teacher, Justin Bieber or colorblind. It’s a terrible color and should be banned from the rainbow. Lavender is tolerable (although I also don’t trust people who use pretentious color labels like Chartreuse, Mauve, Fuchsia, etc – get over yourself) but straight up PURPLE is appalling.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t like pickles. How does one not enjoy a crisp kosher dill? I have only found one instance that has proven me wrong on this theory. 99.9% of people who don’t like pickles are raging sociopaths and generally unfortunate.

Never trust a bitch who “doesn’t watch television”. Bullfuckingshit. Oh you think you’re so above basic entertainment value? How artsy. What are you doing INSTEAD of ever watching tv? Taxidermy? Murdering your neighbors? It’s just creepy and odd and usually not true.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t let their children wear two piece swimsuits. This is just a quirk of mine. I used to work at a summer camp and always categorized the mothers in accordance to what swimwear they put their kids in. Bikinis? Cool. Tankinis? Traditional. Heinous Speedo tiedye one pieces? Basically Amish. Rash guards and zinc? Social Services.

Never trust a bitch who always wears false lashes (in particular STRIP lashes) I am talking to you Lilly Ghalichi. If I was on the precipice of life or death and my one task was to successfully apply faux lashes to grant me life, I would die a torturous death.

Never trust a bitch with no long-term friends. If you haven’t known and stayed friends with at least one person you went to elementary school with, you are probably an untrustworthy asshole. If you haven’t stayed close with someone you have known for over 2/3 of your life something ain’t right.

Never trust a bitch with a “Facebook Stage Name”. If your name is Christina Rosenberg, you don’t need to go by Chrissy Rose. Use your own fucking name, this isn’t the Spearmint Rhino. 

Dangers of The Double Tap

For those of you have been living as your BEST self and subscribe to The Bitch Bible podcast series, you are already privy to my social media catastrophe that occurred a couple of weeks ago. It was an uneventful Wednesday night and I decided to delight in my usual midweek Instagram troll. I just earned a follow from an old “boyfriend” whom I “dated” for about 16 days when I was 15 years old. We were basically a prepubescent Jewish Kimye. I weighed 76 pounds, had braces and a personality I was not pretty enough to pull off. He was in desperate need of Accutane, played Lacrosse and drove a station wagon. True love.

I had just figured he died since I had not seen, heard or spoke to him in almost a decade. I broke up with him via text message and said I couldn’t do a long distance relationship. He went to a high school 1.3 mile away from mine and geographically was very undesirable for a bitch with only a permit and a bus pass. I expected him to write me 365 letters and beg for me to take him back but that didn’t happen and our love flame was extinguished.

Cut to 2015, me sitting on the couch with a face mask on and a stiff martini exploring the depths of his Instagram profile. Boy did I dodge a bullet. I won’t blow up his spot, but this fucker really likes Lake Havasu. Not my vibe. Naturally upon seeing an anniversary collage (gag me) he posted with his new girlfriend I clicked on her tag and was overwhelmed with joy to find her profile PUBLIC. Yahtzee.

After scrolling back nearly 94 weeks back, I must have been twitching in satiation because I accidentally liked a bikini bod selfie which was ironically ALSO taken in Lake Havasu aka the land of canned domestic beer, acrylic nails and regret. Holy ball fuck. OBVIOUSLY I immediately unliked it but the damage was already done. Three hours later I received the following text from my ex-soulmate aware of my mishap. I considered maintaining a morsel of self respect and not responding but that would be far too rational. Instead I decided to almost guarantee a restraining order, enjoy.

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I would say I am ashamed but that would be a lie. For more in depth analysis on this issue please listen to my podcast series and you will not regret it. Subscribe here: tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod