Beauty Tips I Learned From Watching The Real Housewives

When you think of pioneer women of beauty trends, lust worthy weaves and day drinking in faux lashes it’s hard not to immediately think of The Real Housewives. As a passionate and unapologetic aficionado of the franchise, I have learned many a lesson from these dynamic women.

Wigs R Us. One of the great things about being a woman is the opportunity to experiment with our look. Kim Zolciak taught us that wigs are for everyone and a hell of a lot easier than busting our ass on a blow dry. While Kim’s early synthetic wigs were less than appealing, she later redeemed herself with a wig collection to die for. The housewives show us that a weave can make all the difference, just make sure it’s tight. And remember, clip on bangs are NEVER a good idea.

Faux lashes are a girl’s best friend. Apparently being a Real Housewife requires wearing mink lashes to the gym. What kind of lash glue are they using? Carpenter’s glue? The ladies love their lashes and are rarely seen on camera without them. But how does one maintain this level of glam? The secret is sleeping on your back. Whether you have to tie all your limbs to the bed posts like you are having an exorcism or putting bricks on the sides of your body, sleep like a corpse and you will wake up with perfect lashes.

Contouring is the new rhinoplasty. Melissa Gorga vehemently insists that her slenderized nose was NOT the result of going under the knife but proper shading. To be clear, I don’t believe Mrs. Gorga for a fucking meatball. That bitch got one hell of a nose job. However, a proper contour and highlight truly can give you a post-surgery nose sans the procedure bills and hush money to your surgeon.

Tan with caution. While the housewives spend their days lunching alfresco and jet setting to exotic locales, most of us sit under fluorescent lighting quarantined to a cubicle. Housewives live for a good tan. Tanning beds (Danielle Staub), natural sun or the popular spray tan? So many options! If you can’t tone it, tan it. But think Yolanda Foster’s Malibu glow and not Amber Marchese Doritos orange.

A frosty lipstick CAN get you fired. Peggy Tanous, Alexis Bellino and Adrienne Maloof were all pioneer women of the daytime frosty lip. Subsequently, they were all fired. Some would say their termination was due to lack of personality; I blame the opalescent sheen of their lip color. I’ll just say it… it looks tacky. Unless you are dressing up as Romy or Michelle, just say no.

Less is more. Ugh. I know… So boring and wholesome #kimfields. After all the shading, gluing and glossing sometimes the best thing about being a REAL real housewife is the luxury of living au natural. Like Caroline Manzo once prolifically said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.” And hopefully that lipstick is not fucking frosted.


Dear DJ James Kennedy

Dear James,

There are a myriad of reasons I dream about hitting you in my luxury European vehicle that I don’t take selfies with because #decency. Firstly, I truly envy your ballerina body. I have always dreamed of having the same body type as Maureen from Center Stage minus the whole bulimia factor. Cooper Nielson would totally fuck you and give you the Swan Lake solo so congrats on that.

The way you talk to not just women but human beings in general is appalling. I don’t know how to politely tell you this but I’ll give it a go … you are a mediocre looking busboy with an entry level BMW and a laptop with some fucking stickers on it. You have no physical, mental, emotional or social qualifications to behave the way you do. Nobody does, but especially not you. Who spits on somebody’s door and then justifies it by saying “it wasn’t even a loogey”. I am so embarrassed for you.

You say you were born into the music industry, not sure if anyone told you this but having George Michael as an estranged godfather and rubbing peanut butter on the backs of your arms so your bff aka George’s dog can lick/bite it off and give you an erection does not make you some musical prodigy. I am fairly positive you will not be in consideration for a Grammy with this shit.


Payne? Cuzzi in the SWEET (*suite)? Dumb or dyslexic? You decide.

Watching you on Watch What Happens Live officially sent me over the fucking edge. I can handle your butt chin, your size 23 waist, your delusional ego and even your Jimmy Nuetron hairdo but NO ASSHOLE FUCKS WITH MY DAILY NIGHTCAP ENTERTAINMENT. You and Lala are like a cautionary tale for our generation. I burned 3,000 calories just from pure rage watching that nightmare.

I am hopeful this letter finds you well. I can imagine my thoughts will inspire some new smash hit “fuCk dA hAteRz feat LaLa KenT” and you will headline Coachella this year if someone can cover your shift at Sur. The invitation to appear on The Bitch Bible podcast is on the table if you would like to settle our beef before the New Year. I will bite the shit out of your arm. Ain’t nobody that I’m feeling like I’m feeling you.

Love you forever. Never change.


Jackie Schimmel

Vanderpump Rules Recap

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.

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.

Markers and a Mugshot: The Kim Richards Story

I think about Kim Richards more than I think about anything else. I love Kim Richards and am very troubled by her recent mishaps. First she escaped to Witch Mountain, then she kicked a police officer (which is pretty baller), then she trespassed, then she started fucking turtles, then she got a nose job, then she found Christ in the form of a squirrel and now she is shoplifting. Not sure on that particular order but it has all been a shitshow of epic proportions. I have two words for you Kim; LIFETIME MOVIE.

In all seriousness I think Kim has a good soul so I do want her to get better. But like, there are kids starving and shit so I can’t waste too many heartstrings on her recovery. What I would like to focus on is the details of her latest role (and first since she was 6) as the Real Shoplifter of Van Nuys. As reported, Kim stole $600 worth of shit at a Van Nuys Target. It’s one thing to steal a pack of gum by discretely shoving it in your tits, its quite different to steal $600 worth of goods at a TARGET. She had to be double-carting that shit… With any illegal activity, the highlight for me is always the mugshot.


That hat tho.

Here are some pics of Kimmy’s loot. Either she was trying to start an elementary school for turtles or she is regressing back to her childhood and buying all the things she never got to shop for being a childhood star and all.



The good news is that she wasn’t stealing any Franzia or cans of paint, the bad news is that she stole enough coloring books to stock up Jared Fogles white van to the brim. Get well Kim and remember I will ALWAYS love you.

Kim Richards Update

Oy vey. I was hoping my next Kim Richards update was announcing that she had a line of sad polyester tunics and white capris for sale on QVC but no, things have only gotten worse for the turtle loving, fuchsia lipstick loving Kim. Back in April she was arrested for trespassing, resisting arrest and battery of a police officer. If the antics had stopped there she would have one hell of a Lifetime biopic to pitch.

Before this case was settled, Kim checked into a rehab to get help. Apparently her road to recovery was as short as Brand Glanville’s exposed tampon string because just a couple days ago Kim was arrested for shoplifting $600 worth of shit from Target. I mean if your going to pull a shoplifting stunt, at least be chic about it and go to a high-end department store a la Winona Ryder? Fucking Target? Really? What the fuck did she steal? An economy pack of Lysol wipes? A value pack of Mossimo full coverage briefs? It’s all so depressing.

I don’t want to seem insensitive to people who are mentally ill but I simply must state the obvious. Kim Richards is the new Amanda Bynes. Or perhaps Lindsay Lohan? Sources are now saying her family is considering putting her in a 5150 hold, which is really sad, but also ANOTHER amazing platform for a latter book deal. Being the compassionate Samaritan that I am, I have gone ahead and compiled a few title ideas for Richards’s exclusive use.

Voom Voom Sha-Clink

Turtles > Alcohol

Fifty Shades of Orange

Where’s Monty? (A picture book inspired by Where’s Waldo)

Kim and The Giant Cart 


I feel really bad for Kim’s family and hope she gets her shit together quickly. Kim, I have always loved you and your special occasion high ponytails and hope to see you healthy and nursing a squirrel very soon.

Welcome Bitch!

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

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

How To Handle a Breakup Like a Bitch

Thirsty Thursday

Awkward Encounters: The New Girlfriend

Woes of a College Dropout

Conscious Uncoupling

My First Roommate

The Almost Boyfriend

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


There are three things in this big beautiful world I love unconditionally; triple crème brie cheese, my dog (son) Leo and Vanderpump Rules. If you are reading this and don’t know what my third treasure of the heart is, just fucking leave this blog and never come back. I am sure all you “intellects” (my target audience) are rolling your eyes GUFFAWING at me, a seemingly uneducated blonde proclaiming my unwithering and at times challenging love for reality television. Sure the housewives are like family at this point, Patti Stanger similar to a loud cousin I try to sit away from at Yom Kippur, but these kids at Sur have captivated me in a way I am afraid I can’t put into words.

If you ever want to see me come ALIVE in a social setting just ask me about “Style by Stassi” aka the home of sub par statement necklaces and unfortunate layering #goatcheeseballs. Between bringing her own wine to dry restaurants, visits to her mom’s tri-level cabin in Big Bear with uneven drywall or just cruising down Melrose in her Toyota convertible, Princess Stassi never lets me down. True story: my housekeeper Jazmine was over yesterday, she only comes like once every 4 years but I am kind of obsessed with her in an unnatural way. I give her all my old clothes and she feels obligated to wear them when she comes over and it’s both highly unpractical and adorable… Something about sequins and Clorox warms my heart. As I was 3 hours deep into a Vanderpump Rules marathon, Jazmine politely asked “What crazy show are you watching chica?” Has she been living under a tortilla for the past 3 years. “Jazmine… you have never seen Vanderpump Rules? It’s always on Bravo!” Long pause. “What’s Bravo?” I fired her immediately. Not actually but our relationship will never be the same again.


I watch every episode about 34 times. I may not know what the Civil war was about (although I am glad to hear it was civil #recycledjoke), thought Benghazi was a new kabob place in Glendale and am only 64% certain on my lefts and rights … I can tell you anything and everything about those puffy-painted wine glass swigging millennial DISASTERS working at fucking Sur. I figured what better way to bond us bitches than with a really lame yet gratifying quiz to see how well YOU know the rules a la Vanderpump.


And always remember… people may try and bring you down for being obsessed with Vanderpump Rules, but you are good as gold.

Vanderpump Rules Rundown

If you don’t follow my neurotic ass on twitter… you are really missing out. Some of you may notice that I have opted out of the standard post-reality show recaps I once relied on to fill this blog. This is because I have taken to the twitter-verse for a dirty martini fueled impulsive play by play. In honor of the disastrous masterpiece that IS Vanderpump Rules, I have decided to compile my tweet thoughts from the live premiere to give you all an insider look whilst watching this shitshow of 30-something failed model slash actors living in apartments with cottage cheese ceilings and drinking out of puffy painted wine glasses like community college sorority girls.

The episode starts and immediately we check back in with one protein powder snorting, chunky sweater wearing wannabe “sex addict” Jax Taylor. He is still living in his super chic Hollywood studio so he can bang, make mac and cheese AND shit in the same radius of 500 square feet #pantydropper. Side note: as a Jew from the San Fernando Valley, I ain’t buying the ol “deviated septum” nosejob excuse.

Then we check in with my personal fave (not) Kristen. Her ex boyfriend Tom has evicted her and subsequently dropped her from his Verizon Wireless family plan and now she is banging a 22 year old busboy. Adorable. The good news for her is that if this whole server career doesn’t play out she is a SHOE-IN for the perfect Lexapro spokeperson. Get it gurl.

Scheana has gone for the low budge Kardashian ombre and has ruined “Almost Famous” by tattooing a Penny Lane quote on her forearm “it’s all happening”. The only thing happening for me at this point is a libation refill and a note to self to burn any gold polyester I have convinced myself looks “chic”. #GoodAsGold

Oh yay! It’s Katie! The good news is that Katie is no longer is a fire crotch – the bad news is that she now has the hairdo of a Midwest soccer mom who is trying to revive her marriage with a box of Franzia and a weekly date night at the bowling alley. HONEY – please get it together. Kisses.

The bitch is back. Nothing warms the heart like Princess Stassi riding dirty in her fucking Toyota convertible in a Claire’s “Couture” statement necklace. If life is treating her so well why is she squatting in Katie and Tom Schwarts fluorescent lighting apartment? And if her family is so wealthy why the fuck does her mother live in Lake Arrowhead? I am over this Princess Stassi charade. Is Pump hiring any new hostesses?

Krazy Kristen has done some casual cyber stalking and has “evidence” Tom is cheating on Ariana. She brings this news to pop icon Sheana Marie and naturally she starts crying. She decides it is an AMAZING time to discuss the situation at her own birthday party and holds the tears back to avoid an eyelash malfunction. The only thing I was able to take away from this party is how happy I was that Scheana wasn’t wearing another fucking tutu #growth. Also Kristens new twink boyfriend needs to stop pretending he is fuckin Afrojack. Super tight stickers on your 2009 Macbook DJ no one gives a fuck – you are a busboy shut up. Until next week bitches…

A Plea of Desperation

To Whom it May Concern:

Hello, my name is Jackie Schimmel. I am a whipper snapper in my mid-twenties with an affinity for daytime sequins and a very sexual relationship with a good dry-aged gouda. I spend many nights home alone with my precious purebred pooch Leo sipping an ice chip clad dirty martini whilst in a plush robe. I often find myself snuggled by the fireplace watching some vintage Real Housewife episodes and throwing things at the television when Gretchen Rossi comes on the screen in one of her heinous outfits. It is in these blissful moments where I appreciate life and find solace in my alone time.

In the past few weeks, these moments I used to hold near and dear have become seriously fucked up. I hope I am not the only bitch that has recently suffered from the overflow of horror film trailers plaguing my television screen. Not only do I have to worry about fucking Ebola and running for cover whenever I hear someone out in public with a southern accent, I now have to deal with seeing the trailer for Annabelle every time I want to escape my daily disgruntles with reality television. It is wrong, terrifying and doesn’t sit well with me NOR with my Xanax prescription. I see this fucking trailer everywhere.  I love (some) children but I swear to fucking God if I had a kid that got possessed by a doll, I would not be headed to a church for an exorcism… I would be headed to the fire station #byefelicia.

So please, whoever you are, stop playing these wildly frightening trailers in the middle of Barefoot Cuntessa and Below Dick. It sends my serotonin levels on a roller coaster I am not equipped to handle, and also makes me want to personally dismember each and every one of my collector American Girl Dolls I had to hound my gentile Grandparents for.



#RHONJ Recap

AFTER A FULL WEEK OF ANXIETY RIDDEN ANTICIPATION WE GET TO HEAR THE TAGLINES AND….I haven’t been more underwhelmed since the last Barney’s Warehouse Sale. What the fuck? Like for Melissa I was thinking something like “I’ve denied having a nose job, and I will also deny Tarzan as long as I am shacking up in this rental home.” This was a huge disappointment.

So it’s Christmas time in the old swamp land. Faux J-Lo aka Melissa is not ecstatic about her boujie decorations in her seemingly nice rental home. Antonia isn’t pleased either … things could be worse babycakes… you could be Gia right now. Nicole and Ter-es-uh hang out at their parents house #chic and more offensively wear fucking santa hats and drink out of puffy painted wine glasses. This scenario might actually be my version of hell. Oh wait I spoke to soon, no – my version of hell would be spending 20 minutes at Amber Alert’s house. After only being acquainted with Amber for one week, I can guarantee this much is true. A) Her children are going to need intensive psychiatric assistance B) She definitely has invested in the entire Brighton sterling silver jewelry collection C) I would rather eat my childhood dog for a snack then ever be in a burning building with her. She WOULD have a fucking whistle… she’s like the adolescence nazi.

How does Dina stay zen with all those fucking chatchkies everywhere and Lexi has really come out of her awkward stage with flying colors and a very intriguing highlight situation. Now we head over to the good ol Giudice palace for some good ol kosher fun. Did anyone else see the irony in Tre wearing a shirt that read “OOPS”? Yeah girl…fraud is such whoopsie! I don’t give a shit what anyone says, I love Teresa Giudice and I just don’t care who knows it… you heard me. Haters are gonna hate, but I just LOVE LOVE LOVE.

Nicole and Dina have brunch fit for a cougar in a fedora and then we move on to Hitler with a weave (aka Amber’s) home where she is running fire drills and I need to refill my dirty martini just THINKING about how badly I want to punch her in the ovary (which she would probably appreciate given her blatant disdain for children). I am so loving Melissa and Teresa getting along. Plus I call dibs on Melissa’s youngest son in 18 years because he is a totally hott tot. Too much? Whatever.

Some boring shit happens then we join the Gorgas, Giudices and Wakiles for a cousin Christmas dinner, where they exchange weird ass gifts and pretend Juicy isn’t months away from getting his ass ripped apart in prison. Sounds pretty normal to me. Side note: Why can’t Rosie be a housewife? Until next week bitches…


Sunday Frustrations

Hello, bitches. If I see one more Sunday Funday instagram picture I am going to lose it. Boohoo the weekend is over. Mondays are fucking amazing for two reasons in particular A. It is the day I always allege I am going to start my “2014 health plan” (I should mention this *health plan doesn’t include any form of exercise regimen and only means attempting to not have carbs for every meal of the day #fitness – also, this health plan was supposed to start in 2010 and has yet to be completed) and b. TELEVISION OF THE GODS: THE BACHELORETTE, RHOC, LADIES OF LONDON. It is all too much.

I literally told my mom last week “If Ladies of London doesn’t get a Season 2 I am going to kill myself in front of the whole family.” Andy Cohen, please take that threat seriously… I have so much more life to live and don’t envision myself kicking the bucket before 30 wrapped in a British flag, singing the Ladies of London theme song with a Caroline Stanbury inspired platinum bob – but I will fucking do it. For those of you who have no clue what I am talking about I suggest you do yourself a favor and hit up your DVR stat. After being lured out of my cage and forced to be weekendy social I always start off my week seriously irritated…

Juicy Fruit – What a sad excuse for a gum. Firstly, it loses flavor quicker then the person chewing it loses their dignity and second it tastes like ass, plaster and stale fruit juice. And yes, I realize juice doesn’t go STALE so fuck off vocab police. I also find this is the gum selection of under-achievers and that is a truth you need to deal with. This gum is targeted for the person who doesn’t aspire to minty fresh breath and also doesn’t mind being taken advantage of due to its disappointing taste longevity. Think about it.

Crudités – For those of you living under a rock or engaging in sexual relations with a first cousin – Crudités is an incredibly pretentious word for a veggie platter. I would like to make it clear that anything sold in a plastic tray at fucking 7-11 does not merit a silent “s” or this fancy of a name. I was at a very distant friend of a friend’s house last week when the host kindly offered up some “Crudités” and a huge part of my already nonexistent soul started to die. REALLY?!? Stop. Please.

Pet Birds – I consider myself an animal lover if you excuse birds, reptiles, sharks and most sea mammals out of the equation. Listen, I have been very vocal about my distaste for cats. Many of my best friends love them and Taylor Swift is probably fucking one as we speak. One thing I do appreciate about those assholes is that they eat birds and for that I will be forever grateful. I can say with full confidence if I met Ryan Gosling and he took me home to his gorgeous piece of real estate and I spotted a pet bird I would run for the fucking hills. It takes a real weirdo to select a BIRD as your pet of choice. It’s equivalent to having a pet rat and I just can’t associate with people who think it’s okay. Unless you can advance my career in any way … which in the case I totally love pet birds.

@MileyCyrus – Listen I am guilty for being totally into this twerking train wreck that is Miley Cyrus. Her vakakta front teeth, creepy as shit dad, and her little dykey haircut. I get it – she’s a “genius” (why does everyone say that?) I realize she is laughing and probably air humping all the way to the bank. COOL. Last night I unfollowed Miley on Instagram and truly have never felt more liberated in my life. If I had to see one more picture of her ravey and weird as fuck arts and crafts projects I was literally going to lose my mind.


So last night I put on my leopard pajamas, chugged a chilled bottle of Fabellini and indulged in a chracuterie plate only worthy of Joe Giudice pre-clinker. When people ask me which Real Housewives series is my favorite I often respond with the socially sensitive answer of “Sophie’s Choice. I will not choose.” This is a lie, I love MOST of them the same but I lose my parma di prosciutto for those New Jersey bitches. The show starts out recapping the Giudice’s small “legal troubles” #NBD. Firstly, Teresa does potential jail time so well. Teresa has and always will be my favorite. That bitch busts out her sequins, teases that low hairline and slaps on a smile like no ones business. She is committed to her delusion and seems to be trucking along fine (although Milania needs a visit from the adderall fairy ASAP). Was anybody else COLLOSALLY upset that we didn’t get to hear the new taglines?

More importantly DINA IS BACK AND I COULD NOT BE HAPPIER. “The bitch is back and if you don’t like it you can kiss my ass” ugh, the things I would do to go back in time and make that my senior quote for the yearbook. Dina is looking hot and I just like her. I could do without her vakakta Dr.Doolittle routine with all those busted animals but hey… I’ll give her a break. It’s sweet that Teresa is worried about saving for her kids college tuition… Dollface Milania surely will not be attending Yale. I smell a tender community college for that little whipper snapper.I am actually really happy Meliss and Tre are all buddy buddy. This is off topic but I am beyond perplexed why Melissa is still denying a nose job. That is just offending my intelligence and well researched knowledge of a good nose job. I am a jewish girl from the San Fernando valley…. I could practically perform the surgery myself.

Next we get to meet fucking Amber. I will probably refer to her as “Fucking Amber” for the remainder of the season because only 2.5 seconds into her debut I decided I totally hate her. If Maya Rudolph, Shrek’s better looking sister and a really neurotic, overly bronzed and passive aggressive psychopath had a baby… you would get Fucking Amber. Dina’s therapy office exterior looks like a bad Mongolian bbq spot. I must say her accessory game is on point this season and the hair is flawless. Now we meet Ter-ES-uh and Nicole. These bitches and their polyblend ensembles give me legitimate anxiety. WHAT THE FUCK IS A FALL HARVEST PARTY? Fucking Amber. Great now I feel bad because we find out she has cancer and I feel like a huge asshole. I vouch to make a donation to redeem myself at the supermarket checkout later today. “Oh that little fucking kid took my shawl.” Okay – now I like Ter-ES-uh… or is it Nicole? #dgaf

The Giudice brood gets together for a family portrait and I cried harder then the time Ashlee Holmes died her hair blonde and got lip injections. Until next week bitches.


Holy fuck balls. Ladies, call your hair stylists to put tinsel in, bust out your Herve Leger dress circa 2011 and go find a fire crotched, electronic cigarette smoking BFF who also conveniently talks to dead people and assures you that your husband will never “emotionally satisfy you”. Unless you have been hiding under a rock the size of Kelsey Grammers lingerie collection (#homo) or are just FAR too intellectual to give a fuck (#pretentiousloser) hell has officially frozen over and my prayers have been answered. ONE MISS ADRIENNE MALOOF AND CAMILLE GRAMMER ARE RETURNING TO THE REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS. When I found this out I was digesting my yellowtail sushi, getting a pedicure and wondering how my nail girl Tina keeps her hair so shiny… luck of the Asians I assume. As I relaxed and wondered what has to go wrong in your life to thinK acrylics with “flowas” are socially acceptable my phone began to convulsion in my purse like a mofucka. I usually don’t let ANYTHING interfere with my paint job but I then began to fear one of my 100 year old great Aunts may have kicked the bucket and seriously fuck up my holiday weekend… that would be seriously SO rude. How awkward would a funeral be on the fourth of July? Fireworks during Shivah would just be too much for me to handle. I unwillingly decided to face my issues and answer my fucking phone.


I was delighted to see that it was not a relative but my best gay Maxy-Poo. I answered immediately and he excitedly told me life changing news. Two words “ADRIENNE AND CAMILLE.” This is what I like to call Fag-Hag telekinesis. No dialogue necessary, I knew EXACTLY what he meant. “SHUT THE FUCK UP.” I nearly kicked my pedicurist in the jaw out of excitement. “ARE YOU FUCKING KIDDING ME? FUCK I NEED TO GO GET HAIR TINSEL.” I thought the news of “Yoyce” (or Jacqueline) and that tranny-witch Carlton being canned was the highlight of my year but NO – this is far more emotionally satisfying. Between Adrienne and her cat faced aggressive self-promotion and Camille Grammer and her majorly PR trained new identity with a special side of uncomfortable grind dancing I began FOAMING AT THE MOUTH WITH ANTICIPATION. I hope all you bitches are as excited as I am and are downing red velvet Zing Vodka and publicly discussing your famous ex-husbands small penis in celebration.


If I ever believed in a God, it is now. And by God, I mean Andy Cohen. #DREAMSDOCOMETRUE