coachella

No-Chella, No-Problems

This year I made the responsible and conscious decision not to attend Coachella. At first it was because my digestive system couldn’t weather a weekend of eating Spicy Pie and for the price of accommodations and artist passes, we could buy an ocean view condo. Also, my people did enough time wandering the fucking desert.

Last year I attended and had 4 mental breakdowns, gained 6 pounds and wore a metal head wreath that I still haven’t forgiven myself for. With every peace sign, crop top and snapchat of trust fund babies pretending to be SuPeR into LCD Soundsystem a bit of my soul dies and reaffirmed my decision to sit this year out. Is it fun? Duh. Does it bring out the worst in people? Yes (please see below).

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People tend to go all Silverlake at Coachella. Bitches (and bros) pretend to know and love obscure bands, dress differently, Nashville filter themselves till their fucking phalanges bleed and all while professing that this weekend “changed their lives”. Shut the fuck up Vanessa Hudgens. It’s a music festival. It’s fun as fuck I get it. But if your life epiphany occurs next to a blow-up neon caterpillar it’s time to get your head out of the asshole you shoved molly inside of and grow the fuck up. I can’t with these people. Maybe the floral crowns and chokers are cutting of blood circulation to the brain?

Also, everyone is on drugs. “Nuh-uh Jackie, I didn’t do drugs! I am there for the music.” Go fuck yourself, EVERYONE IS ON DRUGS. I have no problem with this. I am not a drug person but I hold no judgment to those more free spirited than I. For me it’s the idea of these bitches in body chains shoving vials of cocaine up their vaginas like the Mexican Cartel that concerns but also intrigues me.

Then there are the people who bring their fucking kids. So you’ll spend hundreds of dollars on a ticket (I’m assuming general admission) but can’t drop $40 for a fucking babysitter? You’re baby is getting hot boxed ma’am. I strongly believe there should be a Child Protective Services booth right next to the Heineken Beer Garden. “Little Timmy, finish up your bottle, Diplo is about to start!” No, just no.

Beyond all of this, there is a serious social stratification (big word) that sets the mood as separate but definitely not equal. I’m talking about General Admission, VIP and Artist. The harsh truth is, I would never engage in sexual activity with anybody in General Admission. Mostly because there is a big chance they are sleeping in a fucking tent and shitting in a port-a-potty. VIP allots you shitting in a porcelain throne and you don’t have the same Auschwitz level security entrance. Artist passes are ideal if you want to be escorted in a fucking golf cart and drunkenly sway next to fucking Rihanna. It’s called the Coachella Caste System… one day we will read about this in our grandchildren’s textbooks.

As bitches everywhere comedown from their post-Coachella commas just remember it’s not you, it’s your head wreath. See you next year Coachella.

Spring Break Style

Spring has sprung and brought all of my favorite things; caftan weather, marshmallow peeps and massive anxiety towards “festival season”. I know bitches really lose their mind for fall when they can get off on layering and mediocre knee boots. I couldn’t give two fucks about dressing for the fall/winter season. Mostly because I spend most of December with a rash (I am allergic to 98% of fabrics) and usually with 10 pounds of extra weight… you know, to stay insulated.

Needless to say, the second I can shimmy my pastey ass into a sheer tunic and awkward J.Lo head scarf poolside I become a better bitch. Here are some off my Spring Break/Festival Season picks for the blossoming warm weather loving Bitch.collage

Comment below for details and for more style talk listen to this weeks podcast “Pretty Hurts”  (tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod) with my promiscuous Grandma Gloria and turbo-bitch cousin Joanna xx

NO-CHELLA

Every year I am faced with the perplexing and socially contentious decision whether or not to attend Coachella. In theory the weekend seems appealing. I love a good getaway, generally appreciate day drinking and consider myself a dancing queen. Ironically, every year I think of some bullshit excuse as to why I will not be attending. I am sure most of you (especially you pretentious hipster fucks) will draw the conclusion that I limit myself to top 40 music or don’t appreciate the carefree young, wild and free attitude that Coachellians live by. This is just NOT the case. I mean sure I believe crochet halter tops and gladiator sandals had their moment years ago and would rather be at the Staples center seeing Andre 3000 shake it like a Polaroid picture rather then mosh pitting with a bunch of girls in janky Jeffrey Campbell shoes and fucking wide brim hats on shrooms taking excess Instagram selfies with the Nashville filter (nothing screams Coachella like a mother fucking Nashville filter). This year was an especially difficult decision being that I absolutely loved the line up – in particular my bae Pharell Williams who I have loved forever. N.E.R.D is one of my favorite bands of all time and he is a mocha chocolate milkshake I would like to take a sip of #surfbort. Unfortunately even this HILF (headliner I’d like to fornicate) couldn’t drag my ass to the desert. Generally I say I couldn’t find a ticket, couldn’t take off work, contracted some weird virus or whatever else pops into my head.

So year after year I get to classify myself as someone who celebrates No-Chella and consequently feels judged and labeled “uncool” by my peers and fellow Angelenos. Sitting on the 10 freeway for 6 hours to brave a sandstorm on foot with 200,000 people already has me yearning for a Xanax.

All my friends have insisted I could jut come and “do my own thing” like I am a special needs outpatient. “You can just go back to the house and sleep while we go out! I’m sure they will have Bravo at the house we are renting.” I tried to imagine I could rally, go stay in a beautiful home on a golf course, god willing an infinity pool where I could bust out one of my floor length caftans sip on margaritas all day, take a chartered golf cart to see all the bands/artists I love only to be in bed by 10pm so I could be well rested for a 10am mimosa binge. Then reality set in… That would never fucking happen. Knowing my brood they would probably roofie me, draw penises on my forehead and drag me out all night against my free will before that happened.

If you have to be bribed with an early bedtime and basic cable to attend a wildly popular music festival this is a clear indication you should be spending your weekend elsewhere. Listen I am not necessarily proud of my “no-CHELLA” approach and hope this doesn’t come off as self righteous. I will be honest, I have dreamed of being the girl on my boyfriends shoulders singing along to Krewella in denim cut offs and a daisy crown with a glow stick in one hand and a fucking dream catcher in the other but a) I don’t have that kind of upper body strength b) I have too many pollen allergies and c) Krewella actually makes me want to kill myself. For those of you who have attended/ are attending please know that I will be appreciating and double tapping your posts from afar and dreaming of the day when my neurosis permits me to lose my Coachella virginity… without protection.

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

Monday Night TV Recap

Oy vey, Monday Nights are always so emotionally taxing on me. Last night’s line up of television was an emotional roller coaster that thus far in my life could only rival the day I got my period at school and then resorted to wearing my PE shorts for the rest of the day with my ill-inserted tampon dangling from the wrong orifice. First I was happy and excited, then I was scared and confused, then I wanted to cry, then I wanted to put my head in an oven. Between The Bachelor, Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and Vanderpump Rules sometimes I feel like I need to head to Promises to rehabilitate. So obviously it is my favorite night of television. Let’s do a brief play by play…

 THE BACHELOR

Juan Pabs and his brothel of woman head to Vietnam. His first date is with fellow single mother Renee. She seems sweet and genuine but let’s get real… if JP was looking for a single mother his age he could’ve stayed in Miami and joined eharmony.com. They go on a boring ass date shopping for gifts for their children aka baggage, and he explains he doesn’t want to disrespect Ben (her son) or Camilla by kissing her. She takes this as him being respectful and I almost gagged. How delusional…

After dosing off during Renee and JP’s solo date, I was awoken to the face eating marathon that was the group date. Well that no kissing thing didn’t really last long. I am so over Juan Pablo trying to pretend he isn’t a total latin horn dog. Like shut the fuck up with your broken “rules” and let’s get slutty. That’s what the viewers are looking for and after all that virginal Sean and Catherine shit it’s time for some explicit behavior. Do it for America. So basically the date turns into Clare and Juan’s one on one date while the other girls just tag along for free drinks and insecurity boost. May I just say… Clare is a nightmare. She is like that dumb bitch in your high school English class who would raise their hand and remind the teacher they forgot to collect the homework. Whenever she starts talking I get this overwhelming fantasy of punching her in the veneers. She is SO annoying, almost as annoying as her thinking she is cool enough to drop the I out of fucking “Claire” and go by “Clare” – get it together. After their date comes to an end, Clare the Cling-on decides to let herself open up to Juan Pablo (emotionally and I am assuming vaginally). She decides to live out her lifelong dream of swimming in a warm ocean and wants Juan Pablo to join. Woah girl DREAM BIG. Swimming in a warm ocean? Fuck your wild. It’s weird because a dream of mine is also for Clare to swim in a warm ocean… with cinderblocks attached to her ankles. Now call me crazy but I am not buying that their PG ocean make out session is the reason JP thinks she went to far. I am going to make a confident assumption that something may have slipped somewhere it shouldn’t in the dark Vietnamese waters. I hope she love-drunkedly slept in her wet bikini and got a yeast infection. She deserves one.

“There’s this thing that I have with Clare that I don’t have with anyone else in the house.” Yeah Juan, it’s called penetration. Duh.

For his second one on one date, Juan Pablo take Nikki (who looks like she is 14 headed to her first Coachella) propelling down what I assume is a Vietnamese rape cave. These bitches are so stupid. They think going against their will and doing things that literally brings them to TEARS is going to make their bond stronger with Juan Pablo. Ughhhh – shoot me. SO they propel down this dark ominous hole which reminds Juan of Clare’s vagina and then they go to dinner. Cool. Nikki goes on and on about being a nurse and helping the children and opening her heart and at this point I’m so over hearing about the children I just go refill my drink. I am over her and her bad bleach job.

At the rose ceremony, JP tells Clare they went too far and she pulls a total Glenn Close a la Fatal Attraction and all I can envision is her boiling Camilla’s pet Bunny.

REAL HOUSEWIVES OF BEVERLY HILLS

All I care to say about this episode is that Carlton is an aggressive C-U-Next –Tuesday and needs a deep conditioning treatment. Side note: her husband looks like a retired Vegas magician. I also laughed my ass off watching the parallel of Yolanda and her daughter packing for college in their Hermes belts and Kim and her daughter getting fucking butterfly tattoos in the valley and trying to pretend it’s meaningful. There is nothing I hate more in this world than butterfly and dolphin tattoos. Bakersfield called, they want their tattoos back. But seriously, Carlton… you are such an asshole. Hex me bitch.

 VANDERPUMP RULES

I won’t lie – when Stassi slapped Kristen last week I was pretty happy inside. Stassi is a total bitch but definitely the most articulate and entertaining. Her yellow hair in her interviews really distracts me from a lot of the things she says but the slap was hard to miss… especially since I have re-watched it 17 times.

I am going to only focus on the things that matter to me from last night’s episode. The photo shoot… what the fuck? Aren’t there some type of health regulations with nudity and restaurant servers (who def are harboring some STD’s )? I don’t get it… I love how they think their jobs are so glamorous… like you may get to do fancy photo shoot once a year but you are still polishing silverware and serving me mediocre tuna tartare the other 364. Then Scheana Marie has her engagement party/private performance of her new hit single “Good as Gold”  which I emotionally can’t even comment on. Then Kristen struts in, much to everyone’s surprise, dressed like a 56 year old woman. Nice try with the pearl earrings Krissy – you’re still a dirty whore. When she admitted to sleeping with Jax my jaw fell to the floor. WHO ARE THESE PEOPLE? I had to restrain myself from jumping into my car driving to Sur and asking anyone there about 3,000,000 questions. Tom beats the shit out of Jax. Scheana plays the victim and cries in Lisa’s arms and Stassi looks fierce in her navy high slit gown as I cried with happiness at the reality television magic I was witnessing. That is how you do a Season Finale…. And I am spent.

My Anxiety Triggers

  • Carnations– Two words. Filler flower.
  • Tankinis– I’m just confused by them. I live my life by going big or going home, the tankini seems very non committal to me. Are you a one piece or a bikini? Pick a style.
  • Crying in Public– I know I may seem like a she-devil based on the tone of most of my posts but I really am all bark and no bite. I cry at fucking Sylvan commercials, however, I would be caught dead before crying in public. Maybe I have some issues (duh) but public displays of sadness make me so fermisht. Do I offer emotional support? Do I pretend to not hear the tears from the neighboring bathroom stall? Should I slide a Xanax under the bathroom divider? It tests my compassion limits and that makes me…uncomfortable.
  • Music Festivals– I so desperately want to be the girl at Coachella wearing a crop top and floral headpiece, camping in a tent, popping Molly (do you pop Molly? I don’t know) and crowd surfing all while posting massive pics on Instagram with the Nashville filter… but I just don’t think it is my deal.  All those people, all the commotion, for me it just screams anxiety. The mere thought of EDC makes me want to schedule an appointment with my hypnosis therapist. I could never pull off a bra/tutu ensemble and edible jewelry anyways. Whenever I see pics it always looks like so much fun and I am working on overcoming my complexes with the festival scene. Baby steps… #socialanxiety
  • Acrylic Nails – No explanation necessary.
  • Miracle Whip – Is it mayo? Is it butter? Is it frosting? Is it whipped cream? WHAT IS IT?
  • “How I Met Your Mother”- This show is one of the highest rated shows on television and stars Neil Patrick Harris who I am pretty obsessed with. If I was famous I imagine I would vacation with him and his husband in Lake Como, drink Rose and spend Thanksgiving together…moving on. I have watched it and pushed out a few fake laughs. I don’t get the concept and am too embarrassed to ask any of my superfan friends.
  • Kristen Stewart – Oy. When I watch her in interviews I literally find myself holding my breath because I am so nervous for her. Between the twitching, slumping and completely awkward disposition I get so uncomfortable. Every time she answers a question in a complete sentence I let out a deep breath. Girl, cut the “I’m too indie” for press shit. You were in TWILIGHT. Brush your hair, slap on a smile and act like you are grateful. No one forced you to be a movie star, if you hate it so much “but love the craft” go do community theater in some red state.
  • “We Can’t Stop” Music Video (or just Miley Cyrus in general) – First there was the haircut, then the twerking video, then the image re-haul, then this fucking music video. I am not mad at it, i’m not happy with it. Just…uncomfortable.
  • Sponges – I have always felt that sponges hurt more than they help. They seem ironic to me. They are used as a cleaning tool but absorb all the bacteria from whatever they touch? Think about it…