budget

Buttaface.

I would like to preface this post by clarifying that I have not taken this digital vow of silence to re-invent myself as a fucking beauty blogger. I haven’t written an article in nearly a decade mostly because I am at the point in my life where I am afraid to have my thoughts in written form. It’s a lawsuit waiting to happen…

I am easing back into sharing more content because I am a real over achiever and so sick of listening to myself via audio (shout out to The Bitch Bible podcast) SO like the basic bitch dumbfuck I am #selflove I decided to share some skincare regimen because after a Botox consultation gone wrong (too risky so close to my wedding date) I have had to explore alternate pursuits to remove the fucking crevasses rivaling the Appalachian mountain trails on my forehead…

Like my flaming homosexual husband always says, “Don’t blame the artist, blame the canvas…” or as my favorite fire crotch housewife Caroline Manzo once said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig” (ehem Danielle Staub). Because I bankrupt myself last month buying a pink Gucci bomber jacket unconsciously at 4:18am that is both amazing and hideous at the same time, I have turned to alternative budget skincare products and developed a FAIL PROOF routine I had to share with my bitches.

  1. Ice roll your fucking face (too many martinis = puffy).
  2. Wash your fucking face.
  3. Exfoliate your fucking face.
  4. Steam your fucking face.
  5. Put a mask on your fucking face.
  6. Rinse your fucking face.
  7. Tone your fucking face.
  8. Moisturize your fucking face.

This is all pretty standard. The real crux of this post is not some stupid step by step (you’re smart enough to figure that out) it’s the products. Not to sound dramatic, I’d sell my future child for a facial steamer. It is one of the best things that has ever happened to me. My skin has never been better. The day you order this steamer is the first day of the rest of your life. Sometimes when I am feeling wild and fucking alive, I infuse my facial steamer with rose water or my toner and think that if Leo Dicaprio ever propositioned me for sex it would be solely because I’ve had a really amazing face steam… So just let that marinade.

I am in no way a product junkie. I refuse to spend excess money on products because I am both cynical AND Jewish and would rather buy clothes. Your face is your base! Find all the products I swear by CLICK HERE!

x J

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.

EAT, LAY, SHOVE.

I’m sorry if I have revoked you of my wicked yet totally charming and likeable (right?) stream of bitchiness for the past couple of weeks. I am actually not entirely sorry, sometimes a bitch needs a break to refresh, reboot and refill…

I have been volunteering at a third world country grammar school building jungle gyms and planning my next philanthropy event “Cycling for Syphilis”. I have met so many people my age who are tits deep in charity work and it just baffles me. Aren’t we supposed to save that for later in life when we’re bored and trying to fluff up our children’s college applications? Duh.

Really, I was in Europe with my boyfriend having serious sexual relations with every carb and cheese wheel in sight. On the tail end of our trip my boyfriend had a last minute change of scheduling and needed to fly back to LA four days early. I decided to stay solo and had one of the most therapeutic experiences in my short, unimportant life. I instantly compared it to the 2010 classic ‘Eat, Pray, Love’ and decided to carry on the theme for the entirety of my time alone.

EAT Holy fuck, can I eat. When you are paying for your own meals at restaurants you really get the breakdown of your appetite. When I go out I tend to split a few different things (I am a food commitment-phobe, I like to sample) so I always assume I am only eating my share. I am in for a seriously rude awakening when my metabolism slows down. Everyone keeps asking me “Did you shop? Buy anything special?” No I didn’t fucking SHOP. But I did fucking eat… EVERYTHING. Snails, veal tartare, frog legs, cheese, bread, pastries, you name it. If it could fit in my facehole, I ate it. Excess consumption + shy digestive traits = struggle. Thank god outerwear is bulky because this bitch has never needed an elastic waistband more. The best part? I don’t fucking care. Who needs a hot body when you’ve got Photoshop and charisma for days? Sure I almost had to buy an extra seat to accommodate my hot new muffin top a la Kevin Smith but who gives a fuck. I virtually didn’t have a vegetable in 2 weeks. I tried to completely emerge myself in the culture balls deep and if it seemed authentic and illegal to consume at home, I ate it. At this point I am practically bleeding Béarnaise and I would have it no other way.

PRAY LAY I am notoriously super antsy. If I sit in one place too long I become very disruptive in order to keep myself entertained. I’ll put ice cubes on people’s thighs under the dining table, start making prank calls, or just kick it old school and go into one of my standard panic attacks. I am about 20 years late to the Ritalin party. I am saving that prescription for my post-twenties weight gain. It’s easy to get wrapped up in our bullshit Snapchats, overly filtered Instagram posts and passive aggressive tweets. We are so busy editing our faux lives that we can often forget to really live and appreciate our REAL lives. I started really thinking about how lucky I was to be in a position to travel alone and how truly definitive these moments are. The truth is if you can’t just be with yourself, why would anyone else want to? I had this very strange experience of almost disassociating with my body and becoming my own travel partner. Clinically, I believe that would be considered bipolar disorder. I have so many new inside jokes with myself it’s crazy. I learned through solitude and one too many solo dirty martinis that I actually really like myself and enjoy my own company. So I wasn’t laying in the grass like a fucking vegan poet but I did learn the value of slowing down and tuning out. (Nothing else rhymed with PRAY)

LOVE SHOVE I have a wild pigeon phobia. Not like in a cute quirky way, like in a psychologically crippling, downward spiral, tears of fear way. It is ADORABLE. I want them all to die and I have never meant anything more. If I had a gun and better hand eye coordination I would devote my life to hunting and murdering every single fucking pigeon I could find. Whatever shift in the ecosystem that would cause would be worth it. My name is Jackie Schimmel, and I want all pigeons dead for a better tomorrow. In fact, in France I actually ATE a pigeon over potatoes au gratin for poetic justice. In Europe, they are EVERYWHERE. Whilst with a travel partner, it is much easier to disguise the downward spiral that ensues when I see one within 5 feet of me. Normally, I can hide behind someone I am with or close my eyes and let them guide me through the streets. When alone, I look like I have schizophrenia. I twitch, scream, cry and flail my limbs like Amanda Bynes. It’s just not something you can recover from. If I hear a wing flap I instantly burn 3,000 calories, it’s how I keep my figure. I had to externally keep composure while walking on the street simply to avoid being institutionalized. I tried mantras, deep breathing and drinking wine I poured into a travel-sized water bottle. However, none of these tactics worked out for me. When I saw a devil-bird swoop and land inches away from my face, talons first, I shoved a poor geriatric in front of me for shield and sacrifice. I did this a lot… not great but oddly grounding.

So now I am back to reality, with traces of Foie Gras still in my colon and the shrill sound of wing flapping keeping my seratonin levels amiss.

Spring Fashion

When fall/winter comes around I know most people lose their shit for layering, scarves, beanies, boots, tights and all that boring shit. I figure I only have this svelte for another year or 2 sans exercise so nothing about me gets excited to swaddle myself up in excess fabric. If I wanted to add extra bulk to my frame I would go engorge myself with double-double cheeseburgers not lose my shit for a fucking infinity scarf. I prefer a bare leg to a hosed leg, prefer an exposed décolleté to a rashy neck as a result of some sickly H&M polyester blend scarf and overall think layering is for people with things to hide. What can I say? Winter clothing aint my jam. When Springtime rolls around I am one happy camper. The pollen in the air irritates my eyes which gives them a super glassy green look and the rising temperature lets me bust out my labia skimming hemlines, colors, prints and sparkle. So say farewell to your tired black leggings, adios to the combat boots and a big fuck off to your black wool coat cause its Springtime bitches. Here are some Springy looks I have been oogling recently… and yes I hate myself for just using the word “oogling”. (Click for full size)

spring fashion

For info on where to get these Spring-alicious looks comment below! XO

Bitch on a Budget – Home Office

Well kittens, it’s official. This haute mess is moving up the non-corporate latter and needs a legit work space. As much as I love my living room turned retail shipping station – it is time for me to have an actual workplace. Since our one bedroom apartment is not Versailles yet semi-spacious, we cleared out our dining area so I can have a home office. In my fantasy world I would have Kelly Wearstler come in and decorate for me but in my reality I am my own interior decorator #whitegirlproblems. I wanted to make sure it felt true to my aesthetic but still uni-sexual since my boyf has kindly relinquished part of his home studio to give me a home office (the pink chair eventually has to go). I set up a garment rack with all my shirts/ samples, busted out an old ikea storage cube for my printer/miscellaneous shit/ locks of Heather Dubrow’s hair and gave myself a budget to make the little space I had make me feel like a boss bitch. Not that I need any help in the bossy department.

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I was able to create this whole space just over $750. Hopefully next year I will have an office with sweeping city views, 30 ft ceilings and a REAL sheepskin rug or even better a tiger one (yes PETA I went there) but for now I am happy with my quaint space. Below is my super gay vision board I used to create my home office. Trust me when I say, there may be nothing gayer than a vision board…

DESK PP

#hautemessheadquarters

Bitch Bible ICON- SJP

Anyone who knows me, knows my deeply unhealthy obsession with Sarah Jessica Parker, aka SJP.  I have always felt she was my spirit animal and forever my fashion icon. If you knew me in middle school, you could testify to that statement. I was the only person in braces who deemed it necessary to wear ostrich feathers and one shoulder tops with big flower pins on them and thought I could not have been more chic #awkwardstage. Many people just think my obsession stems from the “Carrie Bradshaw” factor which is partially true. But beyond that, SJP has one of the most vibrant, eclectic and unapologetic personal styles of all time – and she is bff with my fave super gay Andy Cohen. She will wear an acorn on her head, sequins to the market, feathers for days all while looking like it aint no thang but an SJP thang. A definite “more is more” kind of girl and baby likey

SJPP

She knows what she likes, knows her body and probably just wears whatever the fuck she wants as she SHOULD because she is a legend. Can we just discuss her Met Gala outfit last year? I almost cried – she is so fucking cool. I have gotten in serious arguments defending her honor with friends of mine who criticize her looks and even worse her outfit choices.  Ive put together some SJP inspired looks (minus the SJP price tags) for a new Wednesday fashion delight outfitting you for a wedding/work/ and the weekend. Ribbet collageRibbet collageThis first look is trademark Carrie Bradshaw, I personally live for a tutu. I thought we could modernize it Haute Mess style by adding the sequin crop top. I would wear this yesterday,today and tomorrow despite the occasion! The second SJP look is very work appropriate while still over the top in the most understated way. I love how simple this outfit is but still so exciting due to the bright color blocking. SJP is to the Met Gala, what I am to the imported cheese section of my supermarket. This bitch always turns it out and I used two of my fave looks of hers. Naturally it would be pretty fucking ostentatious to try and work a plaid thigh high boot around town so I incorporated the plaid pattern and a solid thigh high boot to keep it slightly more wearable. SJP keep doing you girl, and I will be creepily admiring from a distance. Love you boo.

Mixing it Up

I fancy myself a mixologist in more ways than one. Obviously I make a mean dirty martini (Haute Mess Happy Hour) but beyond alcohol, I like to think I’m pretty skilled in the mix of low-budge/ high end fashion. Nothing warms my heart like an outfit that looks like a million bucks but only cost me 20 (hello, I’m JEWISH!) I have an always been an extremist (0 or 100) and that trait comes in full throttle with my shopping habits. Sneakers with crystals that cost more than a new kidney SURE, but jeans that cost more than $9.99 I just won’t stand for. I am the most frivolous-cheapo you will ever meet. It’s confusing, ironic and semi manic. Whatever – dgaf.

My mom always taught me the most important thing to “invest” in is shoes and handbags since you can pair them with anything and instantly class up your latest F21 purchase. Do you like how we try to rationalize shopping by labeling it as an “investment”? Buying a duplex is an investment, not a Prada bag.  But shit, I’ll go with it! One of my most reliable wardrobe go-to is a shirtdress or “tunic”. I am going with calling it just a “shirtdress” because the word “tunic” bugs the fuck out of me.  Tunic is too pretentious of a word to describe something that is too long to be classified a top and too slutty to be defined as just a dress and is usually polyester (downside of budget shopping- oh well). I love a shirtdress because I can really get my bang for the buck with its dual wear ability. I can wear it over pants for work, than drop trou put some heels on and head to dinner. Here are some perfect examples of Fashion Mixology with the shirtdress at its best.

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  • Necklace: Kiosk at the mall (12 dolla make me holla)
  • Poncho: Forever 21
  • Clutch: Prada
  • Shoes: Gucci

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  • Dress: Zara
  • Earrings: H&M
  • Shoes: Jeffrey Campbell
  • Bag: Vintage Gucci

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  • Dress: Forever 21
  • Bag: Aldo Accessories
  • Shoes: Miu Miu

Bitch on a Budget

Whenever summer time comes around my shopping habits really start to pick up. I blame it on being my “birthday season” Also, my birthday is August 18th if anyone would like to send gifts. I’ve been considering putting together a Kickstarter Campaign so I could by myself these amazing thigh high Dior boots (J LO!) but thought that might turn off readers. Instead, I started looking into selling some of my eggs. Girls, you can make some serious paper selling those bad boys. Just a suggestion. Anyways, during the interim of me getting compensated for selling my eggs/ovaries and still needing to fill my summer shopping void I have been hitting up the sale rack big time. I usually figure most things are on sale for a reason but have been pleasantly surprised by some of my latest finds.

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  • Necklace: J Crew $165 $49.99
  • Top: J Crew $68 $19.99
  • Jeans: Zara $79.99 $39.99
  • Shoes: not telling.

I had to omit price of the shoes, firstly because I lied to my boyfriend about how much I would actually spend on metallic Spice Girl shoes and secondly, they will blow my whole Haute Mess for a HUNDRED concept. Sorry folks. Most of the outfit is relatively simple (especially for ME). I love the bright color of the top and the jeans have cute gold zippers at the ankles, but lets face it, they are just supporting roles. The main stars of this outfit are obviously the necklace and the shoes. I was so excited when I found this necklace, I tried to get a close up shot but the photo really doesn’t do it justice. I was not much a J Crew girl and feel like I have been missing out! Pricier than I would have guessed for a store that is related to Old Navy, but well worth it. As a gal who lives and BREATHES for overly sparkly, gaudy and over sized statement jewelry I am a newborn FAN #jajagibore. Here is some of my fave J Crew jewelry (some of it is even on SALE)jcrew2jcrew

Fabulous Flats

It is no secret that I love me a high heel. If it’s under 4 inches you will not find it on my foot. It has taken me years to not burst into tears whenever I see a kitten heel… they literally offend me. As much as I love heels, realistically you just can’t wear them 24/7. I never thought I would be as much of a flat shoed person as a heel person, but if they sparkle… I’m into it. Here are some I found online that are so cute and wallet friendly ( I purchased a couple, I couldn’t resist. Technically it’s research right?)… I love a good collage.

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