bitches

Things I Kurrently Kan’t With

Sorry I haven’t been actively blogging lately. I have been in a great mood lately and tend to only do my best work when I am angry or super menstrual. Lucky for you and my vagina, I am menstruating (#notpregnant) so I knew it was time to delight my bitches with some updates on my life.

Firstly, I have started wearing Uggs. I feel like I should probably go get a Wal-Mart credit card and go buy some fucking Warm Vanilla Lace body spray because isn’t that what people in Uggs do? This is a true story, I am quoted in my high school yearbook saying, “Uggs are UG” a decade ago (I won ‘Best Style’ #humblebrag and that tidbit was all I could come up with as a style philosophy). At the time, this was very controversial. I lost like 7 friends who swore by a Hollister jean skirt and Ugg boot combo after that was published. So as you can imagine, as I ventured to Starbucks this morning in leggings and my very vintage Uggs I felt like a super cunt traitor but also amazing.

Also on an entirely unrelated note… someone called me a pedophile on twitter. Just because I innocently called Hilary Duff’s 4 year old son hott. I would like to go on record and say that I stand by that statement. Seriously though have you seen him? Hottest 4 year old I have ever seen. If the one upside of sexism is that as a woman it’s less pedophilic to call kids hott, then please let me take advantage of that. Kaia Gerber is hott as fuck. She gets Cindy Crawford genealogy AND a lifetime of Casamigos Tequila. Romeo Beckham… please call me when you are 18. Or 17. Or 12.

Fuck “friends day”. The best part about making harsh statements against these fabricated Facebook holidays is that people get so offended and immediately start to defend themselves for taking part in the propaganda. If you are a regular cyber stalker like yours truly, you don’t need a sappy computer generated slideshow to reminisce. Firstly, you don’t even like 60% of the people pictured and secondly, no one gives a fuck. Publicly celebrating FrIeNdS dAy is like publicly celebrating your menstrual cycle after a pregnancy scare. Or like a Ramona Singer “New Beginnings” party. It’s self indulgent as fuck.

And lastly, on this day February 3, 2016, I initiate yet another Kardashian Kleanse. Because after 3 painful episodes of Kocktails with Khloe, 26 disgruntled reader emails attacking me for calling Caitlyn Jenner an asshole and 487 hours of watching Kylie Jenner’s snapchat and crying myself to sleep – I just kan’t do it anymore.

I miss Lace.

Bachelor Recap Week 3

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.

 

SANGRIA STAKEOUT

On this weeks podcast with Kingsley I allude to my first documented Sangria Stakeout. Equipped only with binoculars, subpar disguises and a front row ticket to homeboys balcony we dedicated 2 hours to confirming his whereabouts. Here is the condensed footage from our excursion. Enjoy, and James please don’t file a restraining order… Hope your grandma is doing better.

The 10 People on Facebook

The Supportive Acquaintance – Likes ALL. YOUR. SHIT. Despite the fact you and this person BARELY know each other, you appear to be the very best of friends on social media. Sends you super unfunny gifs and you two have been trying to get drinks for 7 years… but it ain’t gonna happen.

The Perpetual Humble Bragger – Whether it’s a promotion to be the manager at Cheesecake Factory, a romantic trip to Mykonos or just a constant reminder how hard it is to be naturally thin, this person just can’t fucking help themselves #SPOILED.

The Ex – To unfriend or not to unfriend, this is the question. Facebook friendship mostly maintained for stalking purposes and to send vague yet passive aggressive messages via status updates like this;

“If it’s over, let it go and
Come tomorrow it will seem
So yesterday, so yesterday…”

And you get to troll HARD on their new side bitch. Win win.

The Parent – Doesn’t understand hashtags, loves a good puppy video and posts the same picture an average of 59 times. Most likely to post political, semi-racist and culturally offensive material which creates tension with your quirky Libertarian friend from Los Feliz.

The Shameless Mofo – No birthday wishes, no likes, just un-consensual molestation to your newsfeed with personal vendettas and self promotion– so basically me. Hi! #THEBITCHBIBLE

The Buzzkill – I don’t want to see any bible quotes, sobriety anniversaries, dolphin rape epidemics, terminal illnesses or death announcements on fucking Facebook. Keep in mind this is the same platform for fucking Candy Crush invites. WRONG PORTAL!

The Skanky Hoe – We get it, you’re over your awkward stage and got the lap band surgery. We don’t need to see you, your belly button ring and polyester lingerie set on the reg. This is applicable to men also. Put a fucking shirt on, no one wants to bang a guy at the gym at 2pm on a Tuesday. Get a job.

The Underachiever – Nearing the 9th year of their stint at the local community college, still lives at home and only socializes with people and places in a 4-mile radius of their teenage area code. If you have been in a Junior College longer then you attended high school, it’s time to give up and just become a drug dealer.

The Overachiever – The bastard that graduated from MIT in 2 years, created an app that cures cancer and now is dating Karlie Kloss and only flies private. Just when you are feeling like a baller for getting a new car sans co-signer, you get wind that this person just bought an island. Usually an Indian guy overlooked in high school you wish you paid more attention to. For the record, I luh that Tikka Masala. Call me boo.

The Mormon – Wedding photos, pregnancy photos, dorm renovation photos. Mormons are pleasant as fuck so it’s hard to make fun of them … except they can’t drink but probably cause they are just always pregnant?

Please passive aggressively share and for a play by play of my evening with Taylor Swift (for real) listen to this weeks podcast 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!

Why Every Bitch Needs a Gusband

In honor of tomorrow’s podcast episode (which you can listen to HERE: http://tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod ) where I introduce and lend you the wisdom of my Gusband, I thought I would emphasize the many perks of having a gay life partner. You may think your morals, lifestyle and personal triumphs define you as a bitch… perhaps… but nothing I repeat NOTHING defines your true self like the selection of your Gubby.

1. To be your faux boyfriend in a pinch. Who cares if he is drinking a daiquiri and wearing a mesh tank top? No one has to know he likes it in the schvincter. Accidental run-ins with an ex become a breeze when you have a gay best friend handy to pose as your new loving and fashion forward lover.

2. A faithful gubby offers unfiltered truth. They tell you when you are dressed like a cheap hooker, when you may need a rhinoplasty consultation or when you may need to go on an ice chip/splenda diet. Yes, the truth hurts, but so does lap band surgery. In Gubs we trust.

3. Free image consulting. In sketchy female friendships and even in hetero relationships there are a myriad of motives when giving opinions on your aesthetics. A boyfriend may worry you will garner too much male attention and a female friend may have the same concern. It is in a gay man’s best interest to have the hottest “fag hag” on his arm.

4. BRUNCH. No explanation necessary.

5. Low drama. I tend to live by the guiding light of Mary J. Blige’s “No More Drama.” I fucking love her and that gold tooth. Naturally this (and this whole list) is a huge generalization and I have met many a twink who sashays through life feeding on drama and vodka sodas. However, because of their direct nature, gay men tend to be less dramatic.

6. Male insight. In most situations, a heart to heart with a straight man is propelled by one thing: sex. Since this is off the table with your Gub, you have access to the inner workings of the male mind without having to make an emergency Planned Parenthood appointment.

7. Unless he is a bi-bi birdie and swings both ways, chances are you aren’t competing for the same man candy. Whether anyone wants to admit it, bitches are competitive. It’s called Darwinism. Having a life partner that can’t be emasculated by your successes is what makes a hoe & her mo’s union so stable.

NEW PODCAST TOMORROW xx

20 Things To Do in Your 20’s

 

  1. Travel alone. If you don’t want to travel with yourself, why would anybody else? Learn how to print your own boarding pass, swig cocktails solo and explore a city sans travel buddy. Bon voyage bitch.
  2. Figure out your fucking eyebrows. Whether you prefer a Selena slim brow or a Frida full bush – find the right shape and fullness for your face. Eyebrows are the best way to say who you are without words. They ARE that important.
  3. Clean out your clique. Like Caroline Manzo once said, “when you hang around garbage you start to stink.” Your college friend who pukes in her purse and hits on your boyfriend? Let her go.
  4. Put in the long hours, write the awkward emails and be ruthless to the point of obnoxious. Think “young and eager” not “old and desperate”.
  5. Learn the hard way. I am not suggesting you start a meth habit or dabble in wire fraud. Date the bad boy, drink the tequila with a worm in it, try deep fried orangutan testicles whatever. Being wild and promiscuous is acceptable in your 20’s so own that.
  6. Find your skill. My dream is to be a Korean pop star but my singing voice could bring Helen Keller to pained tears. Through extreme therapy or delusion free self reflection figure out what you excel at and perfect it.
  7. Cut the umbilical cord. My parents stalk me (it’s a Jewish thing) and I think they are the best. However, there is something liberating about realizing your parents aren’t always right and you don’t need their approval to make your own decisions.
  8. Call your grandparents. They could die soon. Too real?
  9. Show off your shit. This is coming from someone who is currently wearing a flannel one piece and my gold glitter retainer. Our thigh gaps probably aren’t getting any wider or our boobs perkier so I say go for it. Slut.
  10. Embarrass yourself. There is something totally liberating about learning how to weather really embarrassing moments. Taking yourself TOO seriously is exhausting and quite frankly a buzzkill.
  11. Say you’re sorry. I try to avoid apologies at all costs but when you fuck up, you have to apologize. Unless you are an asshole.
  12. Learn to cook. I am not saying you need to rebel against your natural disdain for domesticity and become Ina Garten but everyone should know how to cook at least ONE thing decently.
  13. Take care of your skin. Wash your face and get some fucking eye cream. You can’t paint a masterpiece on a busted canvas… think about it.
  14. Find your karaoke song. This may be the most important thing in the whole list. It should be under 3 minutes, keep the crowd engaged AND showcase your best vocal/dance moves. It can take YEARS to perfect (Mine is “All The Things She Said” by T.A.T.U).
  15. Take a big risk. Quit your job, invest in a Scandinavian condom company, or move to a Kibbutz. This is the time to embrace change and suffer the consequences while we still have access to our childhood bedrooms hopefully still complete with Spice Girl memorabilia.
  16. Break-up with your adolescent boyfriend. I am uncertain why people think “high school sweethearts” are so adorable. I think it’s kind of creepy as fuck. I am all for later reconciliation but spread your….wings? It’s refreshing to be with someone whom you didn’t have to borrow mechanical pencils from.
  17. Read a fucking book. It gives you something to talk about and is an amazing companion for a solo dinner date.
  18. Find your go-to cocktail. If you are still drinking liquor from a plastic bottle it’s time to step your game up. I am still totally confused the difference between neat/up/shaken/stirred/with a twist – but I do know I like a Ketel One vodka martini… and I like it dirtayyy.
  19. Fall in love. Could I be more basic?
  20. Don’t rely on stupid lists for inspiration (but do share with other fellow 20-somethings via social media… obviously)

New Year, Same Bitch

I was trying to think of something quippy but I am having major digestive issues and can’t be bothered with mental stimulation. I kind of fucking hate New Years. Firstly, bodycon dresses with mesh inserts hurt my feelings and the pressure associated with the holiday gives me anxiety. My best New Years was spent in a onesie with a vintage Bravo marathon and sexual spooning with my dog. We are forced to reflect and think about things we are supposed to change for a better “new year” and it all reads very basic.

Girls in Uggs and Michael Kors watches EVERYWHERE start posting cryptic Facebook statuses and video collages of their 2014 highlights. Gag me. To be completely honest, my year has been the best of my life romantically, career-wise and digestively. If it ain’t broke don’t fix it right? Sure I could start caring about my physical health, drinking more water and be a more compassionate being but that all feels a bit pushy. I believe we all have minor room for improvement and in the spirit of all things basic (and nothing else to write about) I have compiled a bitch-approved list of New Years resolutions.

Be kind to kind people. I am not that delusional, I know I can be a huge bitch. I like to think I am just overly direct but sometimes I have a razor tongue and heightened adrenaline levels that turn me into fucking Medusa. I often get stereotyped as some type of Regina George life ruiner and it’s just not true… count the homecoming princess tiaras. I am the most verbally abusive to people I really love. I am currently working on this with my therapist. How you treat people who can do NOTHING for you says more than how you treat anybody else.

Good Credit is kind of important. My father has permanently ingrained that “if you don’t have good credit, you have nothing” this statement is incredibly dramatic and fueled by serious Judaism. My credit hasn’t been stellar but my shoe game has always been incredible. I was on a Neimans Most Wanted list for a solid 4 months and it was a rough go. This is something I have been tirelessly trying to improve despite the fact that I am still toting a 3-year-old Time Warner Cable box a la Kristen Doute… I will do just about anything to avoid going to Camarillo (that is where the drop-off location is… Google it).

Talk shit, get hit. If there is one pearl of wisdom I have learned from watching The Real Housewives is that people will almost ALWAYS hear what you say behind their back. For some fucked reason, people use gossip as a bonding tool. I prefer discussing my digestive system and extensively analyzing Vanderpump Rules over dirty martinis but whatever. Expect anything you say about someone to be pulled out of a manila folder at a reunion special and read to the subjects face and you will be a much more careful bitch.

Remember, most of the shitty things that happened in 2014 are your own fault. Deaths and natural disasters aside (too real?) most of the things we complain about in retrospect right before New Years are our own fucking fault. Still harboring tumultuous vibes with an ex? Your fault. Unhappy with your career? Your fault. Working a grade a muffin top? Your fault. As soon as a bitch realizes that she is the sole CEO of their own fucking life, you can rid yourself of the less than fabulous factors and strut forward into 2015 (hopefully in shoes that you didn’t have to bounce a check for).

HAPPY NEW YEAR BITCHES. NEW YEAR, SAME BITCH.

Questionable Tidbits of “Wisdom”

This week I was a guest speaker at my high school. I was supposed to give life advice, talk about building a creative brand and a bunch of other shit I am in no way qualified to be talking about. The good news is that the students were all so cute (I didn’t get booed) and I didn’t say fuck ONCE. That is what we call a victory people #lowstandards. I am pretty sure I said all the wrong things: I mean, I am a college dropout who prides myself on rather unimpressive statistics and useless knowledge. I started thinking about the very few things I have learned as a bitch out in the real world and how it has shaped me as a boss ass BITCH. I am so fucking reflective it kills me. Here are some morsels of shitty “wisdom” I have pulled out of my ass oh so delicately.

  1. I kinda hate that saying “fake it till you make it” because it implies a lack of talent but to a certain degree there is no harm in pretending you know what you’re doing. In fact, I make a conscious effort to always act like I know what I am talking about which I really only do 20% of the time. Quantum physics? Nailed it. Japanese Agriculture? Practically invented it. Stock trading? Since birth.
    It’s only deceptive if you have zero intention to actually LEARN what you are pretending to know. I have become almost professional at bluffing. When I first decided to start a blog I had to Google what a domain was. I also used to boast on my resume I spoke Spanish AND French, but in reality I can barely speak proper English (it’s called spell check and a fab copy editor … bless you Yimu). This is 2014. There is an app for almost everything… think about it.
  2. Only listen to yourself or those who know more than you. I pride myself on not being an authority on ANYTHING. Sure, I am a good cook but Ina Garten is better. I think I am a phenomenal dancer but I’d never get cast as Nomi in my all time favorite movie Showgirls. Personal intuition is a strong guiding force. I was told I couldn’t write, would probably marry some rich guy and never be taken seriously due to my affinity for daytime sequins and my ample bosom. Thank God I am a terrible listener. I always say only listen to your own best judgment or people who REALLY know what they are talking about (preferably with accolades and the savings account to prove it.) Some power hungry corporate asshole with a Ford Fusion and a general distaste for life doesn’t get to tell you what your limitations are in life (I am talking to you Carlos… sorry I won;t make it to your birthday party. You are an arrogant asshole).
  3. Don’t be a slob. Fashion is the best way to say who you are without using words. Luckily, my words are my business but there is a certain appeal to aesthetics that draws people in. You don’t want to buy a house that looks like crap on the outside. Some would say you shouldn’t judge a book by its cover and although that is heart warming ideal – life isn’t a PBS Special. Looks matter. I have worked in offices where whipping out your tits would get you a promotion and in contrast an office where shapeless Hillary Clinton inspired skirt suits were admired like a crocodile Birkin. Brush your fucking hair, smell good and put a little effort in. You’ll thank me.
  4. Check your ego at the door. Nothing pisses me off more than people who take themselves too seriously. If you ever find yourself quoting lines from your resume you need to get your shit together. Some of the smartest people I know graduated from an Ivy League school called LIFE. Education, social class and bullshit credentials shouldn’t define you.
  5. Cry on the inside like a winner. I hope this doesn’t make me seem like a total chick with a dick but save your emotional fragility for a private showing of Steel Magnolias in your living room. Breaking down at work blurs lines and bitches need to separate business from boo-hoo fests. If you need to cry find a bathroom stall and don’t make a scene. It’s just annoying and dramatic.
  6. Don’t be annoying. Persistence is great. Ass kissing is transparent. Don’t be the annoying intern ostracized from the rest. The mentality of “not being here to make friends” is all too overplayed and fucking stupid. I am not saying you need to be braiding a co-worker’s hair and sharing froyo but if everyone has a problem with you… YOU’RE the asshole. No one wants to hire someone that doesn’t get along well with others. Being likable may be the most underrated characteristic of all time. Nobody wants to help, hire, or happy hour with a fuck-head.

So smile, bite your tongue, bust your ass, feign interest in your cubicle mates dying cat and when all else fails remember that salvation is just a dirty martini away. Feel enlightened? Probably not. You’re welcome.

None For You Glenn Coco.

I’m usually someone who always takes the high road (not) and keeps to myself #meek. With the leaves falling and smell of dry turkey in the air I decided it was time to get my dick out and confront a special predicament head on.

Last night I received an email from one bitter bitch named Glenn after he awkwardly asked me out for a date via email a few months back. I received Glenn’s first email while I was half asleep at 3am. The timing seemed rapey and insensitive to my rem cycle. The message read:

“Hi Jackie. Love your blog and you seem like a really chill girl. Not sure if you are taken or not but would really love to take you out ;)”

Much to my dismay, he also attached a heavily filtered selfie complete with indoor sunglasses and fucking puka shells. Legally, I am unable to post his picture (believe me I asked…) He looked like someone you would find in an Ed Hardy sweatshirt driving a Toyota with a spoiler, racing stripes and red rims. I didn’t respond because I am busy and try not to communicate with people in puka shells at all costs. Even small children on vacation in Hawaii… Legit don’t give a fuck if you are 7 years old and just being “festive” puka shells are tragic.

I had long forgotten over my little cyber suitor. Seasons changed, food babies delivered, weaves reinstated. It had felt like eons. That was until I received this follow-up email last night as I sipped my dirty martini and got ready to watch Real Housewives.

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Firstly, I have no problem with having people value my “looks” over my brain. Your attempt at an insult was actually a huge compliment. I would assume the only thing your going to be popular for is having recognition on my blog so… You’re welcome. Please forward me your Paypal information as my 2014 Mitzvah Project I would like to pay for a year’s membership to Match.com for you. I am relatively sure that would just cover the tip of your romantically disabled iceberg. This sucky writing you speak of has allotted me some expendable income to help the less fortunate. What can I say? Philanthropy is my life.

Please do not find this essay to portray any offense taken from your letter. I can say with complete authenticity that I was more offended by your photo than your attempt at harsh words. The truth is I was low on material and this proved to be a real jewel of inspiration. The only real takeaway is that you think I am pretty… and you probably own denim with white stitching like all real shmucks.

Merriam Webster defines the word “glen” as a small, narrow, secluded valley. Coincidentally the culprit of this email is named Glenn who I am assuming has a small penis, narrow mind and secluded studio apartment in the valley with a roommate. NONE FOR YOU GLENN COCO, must suck to suck.

High & Triple Distilled Spirits

I am a very routine bitch. I wake up, check my Instagram followers and make a to do list for the day. I tend to do my marketing around 11am post breakfast after a failed attempt at delivering my food baby, an average of 4 hours watching Bravo and cloaked in both shame and water retention. The parking lot is open, the cheese selection hasn’t been picked over and the staff seems in a chipper mood. For the first time ever I braved the carpool mom cluster fuck that IS Trader HOES at 5pm. The whole market just smelt of baby formula, cheese puffs and regret.

Within 34 seconds of entering the market, a kid spit on me. It wasn’t like he hacked a loogie on me, it was more of an aggressive drool. Thank god I have a serious gravitation towards Asian children or I may have cut a bitch. I am not an ageist … babies can be real assholes.

As I headed towards my happy place aka the liquor aisle I was hit with an immediate wave of social anxiety. All of these medicated carpool moms were clearly 20 minutes away from getting the shakes and running rampant. Children were left abandoned as their mothers grabbed crates of Two Buck Chuck. The sight alone was the best birth control I have ever experienced. I needed to get the fuck out of there. As I went to grab my routine bottle of Goose on the top shelf I found myself perplexed as the bottle in my hand started to crackle… because it was made of fucking plastic.

It read “Vodka of The Gods” and was $9.99 for a handle. The description boasted it was “perfect for mixed drinks” which is like when someone describes a bitch as looking “healthy” after she has gained a few lbs. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I would sooner ferment my own potatoes or find a Russian sugar daddy with great Vodka inventory before I bought this shit. I practically dropkicked the nearest employee and demanded they check the back for some decent vodka.

College wasn’t my shtick but I can imagine how those 4 minutes of waiting for Salvador to return and determine the fate of my evening has to be eerily similar to waiting for a University acceptance letter. As I saw my little chalupa emerge from the back without any happy juice in tow my heart sank. “So sorry ma’am. It’s been a very busy afternoon. Have you ever tried Vodka of The Gods?” “Fuck you Salvador.”

I had spent 40 minutes navigating this infested market, helped an elderly pick out a new orchid and swapped germs with enough children to cast a United Colors of Benetton ad. It was time to get sketchy.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a yoga pant-wearing woman chatting away on her Bluetooth. She had abandoned her little boy in the shopping cart and was perusing various meatless products. I quickly scanned the contents of her cart: 1) Her mediocre child 2) No animal byproducts 3) A bottle of fucking Grey Goose. Clearly this bitch was a vegan. Can they even DRINK vodka? “Seriously tempeh tastes better than steak Cheryl, you MUST try it” … Now all bets were off. Her kid was playing on his iPad, she was gabbing away about her philanthropic dietary restrictions (side note: if everyone was a fucking vegan the ecosystem would CRASH #teamfoodchain) and I was getting thirstier by the minute. I knew if I could just position myself about 45 degrees to the left of her malnourished child I could grab the bottle of Goose and make a bolt for the cashier. It really seemed like I would be doing her a favor… I mean drinking something that possibly could have come from a Goose seems conflicting with her lifestyle choices.

I inched closer pretending to red the nutritional info on a nearby box of Snap Pea Crisps and ever so delicately let my left arm fall into Vegan Victoria’s shopping cart. Without breaking eye contact from the Snap Peas, I located the bottleneck and slowly started to lift it out of the cart. With merely centimeters to go … “MOM MY IPAD DIED!” what a little shithead. The mother whipped around and caught me awkwardly holding the bottle of vodka behind my back while I clutched the snap peas. “Oh… UM. I am so sorry I thought this was my cart? Haha!”  #LAWLZ Yeah fucking right. I am pretty sure I didn’t also have an overindulged little asshole riding shotgun in MY cart. She looked over at my nearby basket filled with ground lamb, 46 kinds of cheese and enough frozen fish to subsidize for Fukushima and things only got more awky.

She looked at me in total disgust. Back off me bitch, things could be worse. It wasn’t like I was trying to kidnap your child. Some may call this occurrence a personal low point… I prefer to think I had great initiative and high spirits. I headed to the checkout sans Vodka and many of my maternal instincts. Since this incident I have been popping birth control pills like wintergreen Tic Tacs. I have made a vow never to come face to face with these vicious Trader Hoes ever again and to forever more buy all alcohol at Costco where the dilfs and samples are plentiful.

Woes of a College Dropout

I used to get a lot of shit for dropping out of college. My scholarly friends assumed I’d either find a sugar daddy or I would pursue my high school dream of being a “Deal or No Deal” briefcase girl and when that failed, work as an overly opinionated retail associate. My parents were not too thrilled either, my father is a by the book Jew and my mother only pretended to be upset for the sake of a united front, “I care more about you being a good person than getting good grades and going to college” Well, we’re 0 for 2 on that one Ma.

I would run into family friends and parents who guffawed when they asked how school was going and I told them I had decided to pursue other options for myself. I could see their pity and judgment raping me head to toe “Well my little Suzie is just having the best time at Michigan, you should go visit her sometime to get the experience!” Vodka from a plastic bottle and burritos at 3am? I’m chill. People always just assumed I was lazy, overindulged or unmotivated and they are totally right but that is NOT why I dropped out of college.

Last night someone messaged me on Twitter (sidenote: I kind of hate twitter – its is just not my best portal for funny… too restricting) anyways, the message said “you shouldn’t be bragging about not being smart enough to graduate” Valid point. Some let their education define them – some people find validation in attending a prestigious school and let it become an elite factor that distinguishes them. I let my designer shoe’s do that for me. I mean…if I went to Yale I would abuse the fuck out of it, I would probably walk around dressed up as the mascot just to spark questions. Go Bobcats! The truth is school doesn’t make you smart, a syllabus doesn’t give you discipline and due dates don’t show you importance of time management. Not everyone benefits from the same path, especially a bitch like me.

My stint was brief – I would show up for certain classes here and there if there was a hott guy in the class, paid a few asians to take notes for me and even found myself at the dining hall for the pasta buffet. I didn’t have the drive to attend a prestigious university and would rather shoot myself in the asshole then be someone who has been in community college for 7 years (after 4 please just give up and become a drug dealer). I have always said I will only listen to myself and people who really know what they are talking about. The first class I attended in college was an English Lit class – the teacher wore bright blue eye shadow, had a hair wrap and a sign on the door that read “I don’t give you grades you earn them.” Gag me. She also sent me an email when I stopped going to class and said I was a mediocre writer but needed to “apply myself more” well duh. I wanted to tell her she needed to stop applying blue eyeliner but I controlled myself.

After one year I decided this shit wasn’t going to work for me. If I had to hook up with one more guy who slept in a fucking bunk bed I was going to lose it. I think college is an amazing time of your life for those who embrace it, I just never could. I wanted to drink out of proper stemware, start my shoe collection and create my own post-adolescent chapter. I would like to say I am just a naturally ambitious bitch – so not true. I am 60% fueled by others doubt and 40% fueled by my shoe board on pinterest.

The following is my collection of truths… I did not go to college, I barely passed Senior year of high school and I still have absolutely no clue how to navigate the recycling system. I can’t do Algebra, am unclear whether Hawaii is part of the United States and have no idea what the Civil War was about although I am super glad to hear it was civil. I haven’t felt an ounce of regret, haven’t read an educational book in 6 years and have no problem with the stigma that accompanies being a college dropout. I worked my ass off and didn’t let anybody tell me what i “should” be doing or what “should” my career path look like or that i “should” pay my parking tickets on time… shoulda, woulda, coulda, fuck off. I am a college dropout and PROUD bitches (please stay in school kids). I won’t attribute luck to how things have worked out in my favor ever. So no, I don’t have a degree hanging on my wall but I DO have an email from Lisa Vanderpump framed and that bitches, will suffice.