drugs

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.

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.

Who Is Jesus Christo?

Anyone who knows me personally can attest to the fact that I have the worst flying luck of all time. For the majority of you who only know me through the Internet, let me give a brief and 100% true record of my in-flight history.

In 2003, a Dutch woman physically assaulted me on my way to a family trip to Hawaii. My cousin and I sat behind her and may have thought it was funny to kick her seat every time she fell asleep or break out into song whilst watching Spice World on our portable DVD players #spoiled. She kept shushing us, which only made us sing louder and add some passionate hand gestures that may have interfered with her comfort level. When we got up to de-plane, I shoved my cousin into her for a domino effect and then she literally whipped around and smacked us. But actually. Like straight up turned around and slapped us in the face. The stewardess saw, told our parents (who had abandoned us in coach) and then airport security got involved…  and she wasn’t allowed into the state. MAHALO! She didn’t speak a lick of English, ultimately got deported and we were police escorted to our hotel because we felt “threatened.”

In 2006, on a flight to Miami, I got seated next to a Persian family of four who reeked of lamb kabob and Elizabeth Taylor perfume. Between reapplying their lip liner and speaking at decibel that any extraterrestrial in space could hear, I was traumatized. Okay, it wasn’t that traumatizing but I did have an aversion to shawarma for a few months after that and it was difficult.

In 2013, on my way to Europe an elderly woman had a heart attack (and possibly died) in my fucking lap. Calm down, she was like 127. What I could never understand is why at that age she was sitting in Coach? After a certain age where death is probable, details are important. It would be much chicer for her to die in Business Class where she could fully recline and drink from proper glassware… what the hell was she saving her money for? Spring break in Cancun? The real tragedy is that the bitch interrupted my Gossip Girl marathon and I never got to find out if Chuck and Blair lived happily ever after.

In 2014, I flew to Nashville with a man that could not be contained by armrests and indoctrinated me into the Mile High Blood Pressure club. He had to give himself insulin shots at hourly intervals and ultimately passed out from a saturated fat-induced coma and spent four hours drooling on my shoulder while I cried because I was grossed out and my television remote was hidden under a flap of his skin.

Needless to say, flying is not my strong suit. Despite all these infractions, little did I know that perhaps the worst flight of all was not behind me.

Being the Good Samaritan that I am, as I boarded my flight yesterday in NYC and took to my luxury economy middle seat a sweet little Milano babe asked if I would switch seats with her coworker who was seated in the back of the plane so they could sit together. Her friend was a Naomi Campbell doppelgänger (aka black, tall and, probably would throw a phone at me if I didn’t oblige) so I said yes. Basically I did it for civil rights. Let the entitled white woman sit in the back of the plane… #justice.

As I gallivanted to my new seat I was pleasantly surprised to see both my row and the row next to me was jam packed with hot guys in suits. I love a man in a suit. Sure I have a boyfriend but just cause I’m on a diet doesn’t mean I can’t check out the menu. No ring, no thing. Suits = real jobs = nice dinners = happy Jackie. They looked like a row of suave investment bankers and I was instantly wishing I would have worn a more body conscious top… Guess I’d have to just rely on my quick wit and vast knowledge of real housewife trivia, because men LOVE THAT.

I joyfully sat down in between my row of dapper hotties and gave a mysterious yet coy smile. As I assessed the meat market I realized they all had name tags. Hmm… must be attending a conference! Classy!

They seemed stiff and in desperate need of a cocktail. I looked to my left and read the guys name tag “Elder Joseph” I then looked to my right and read “Elder Patrick”. All of these guys had the first name Elder? Strange. I impulsively tried to make idle chit chat and said to them, “I feel like I am the meat in an Elder sandwich! I have never met anyone by that name! It’s a very trendy name, kind of like Apple or Seraphina. Is your dad Chris Martin?” They looked at me like I was crazy.

I noticed the seemingly 30 year old man to my right named “Elder” had chosen Cinderella as his in flight entertainment and the “Elder” to my left was casually reading the Bible. Huh? I then noticed the small text above their once tantalizing nametags that read Church of Jesus Christo? Who the fuck is that? Jesus Christ’s Hispanic bastard child? Were they doing missionary work in Ensenada? Did the altar boy who go their name tags made have dyslexia? What’s with the misspelling? This wouldn’t be all that awkward if I wasn’t a shameless self-promoting troll whose iPad, laptop and cellphone weren’t DRENCHED in my logo “THE BITCH BIBLE” and sprawled in plain sight for Jesus Christo and his disciples to see… that, and I was drinking a Bloody Mary and watching 50 Shades of Grey like Satan’s wet dream.

Soon I could feel them congregating and whispering about me. What started as a potential Elder mile high love triangle very quickly became a full throttle attempted exorcism up in the sky. Nothing burns like the judgmental glare of a pushy Mormon. I made a selfless seat change in attempts to be a good person and in trade got dick slapped by Jesus Christo. I considered jumping out of an emergency exit and calling it a day, but saw the light and know I have much more awkward airplane encounters to live for.

It was rough. But nothing in this life is fair, especially in economy.

Friday Frustrations

Willow Smith – Oy. Where do I even begin? I know on some level it is really wrong to publicly express my distaste for a child but can we even classify her as a child? She’s 13 and if she were a Jew she would already be considered an adult so I say it’s fair game. Scientology not looking so good for you know eh lil Willow? No 13 year old should have had the hairstyle evolution she has had or the self-confidence. It’s unnatural and unappealing – it’s called an awkward stage, embrace it boo. I will admit “Whip My Hair” was my fucking jam but after hearing Willow try and explain the symbolism of the song (at age 9) it really killed my vibe.

 “Whip My Hair means don’t be afraid to be yourself, and don’t let anybody tell you that that’s wrong. Because the best thing is you.”

Wow, someone book this pre-teen for a Harvard commencement speech. Go play with your polly pocket and stop acting like your 30.

Birds – This is not a huge shock to anyone who knows me or reads my blog, but I fucking hate birds. I have no problem in saying I want them all to die. They are the rats of the sky and serve no purpose. They peck your feet, shit on your fresh blow dry and seriously fuck up my dining al fresco. Since I was a child I would wish every year for their eminent extinction while blowing out my birthday candles. When I see a road kill pigeon I get warm and tingly inside and I totally don’t care who knows it.

Lea Michele’s Bangs – Hugely unnecessary.

LinkedIn – Can someone please explain to me what the fuck LinkedIn even is? Not to sound like a complete moron but I legitimately only used it for the purpose of stalking my ex-boyfriends and tracking their professional success (or lack thereof). Any portal to track people and their career seems like something that would be totally up my alley but the whole layout is just so not appealing to me. I also am not fond of the fact that it tells you who has looked at your profile, not discreet.

Raves– I feel like a major trader to my generation but I seriously do not understand the whole rave scene. I live and breathe for a dance party do not get me wrong, LIVE AND BREATHE, but something about furry animal hats, bra’s (even embellished ones), candy necklaces and tutus makes me very veklpemt. If I am going to do a bunch of drugs I want to be in my favorite thermal pajama romper and aromatherapy socks with my best friends listening to Chumbawumba on REPEAT. Being in an arena with people sweating on me and touching me all while being cloaked in clothing from Hot Topic gives me a panic attack just THINKING about it.

Rehab – What is with everyone going to rehab? Zac Efron, Demi Lovato, Ke$ha, Lilo, Mischa Barton, Eva Mendes, Amanda Bynes, Britney Spears, Gerard Butler, Kirsten Dunst. Way to be a quitter (just kidding…kinda). I obviously understand the need for rehab given addiction or substance abuse issue that threatens your life but going to rehab for exhaustion? I call bullshit on that one. I have contemplated faking a substance abuse problem to take some paid time off work and spend a week at Promises in Malibu. The facilities look lovely and hopefully I would be able to upgrade to an ocean view room. The only downside would be the nature walks and I would be forced to listen to other people’s issues which isn’t really my deal.

Iceberg Lettuce – It is just water with a crunch. I am not a big salad fan to begin with. Salads as a main dish are for people on diets or people who are boring. I have made an active decision to cut people out of my life that order salads for every meal. YOU’RE BORING ME, get a steak bitch.

Jeggings – Just no. Camel toes and non-committal bottoms are a bad mix. Pick a fucking side jegging are you a denim or a legging? I don’t get you and I don’t support you.

Vanilla Ice Cream – Ugh. I get getting a craving for Vanilla here and there. It’s basic, traditional and dependable. It is a great foundation for toppings and can be a nice palate cleanser. HOWEVER, your go-to ice cream flavor says a lot about who you are in this world and no one should ever want to be a “vanilla” person. If you go on a date and the guy orders vanilla ice cream you might as well face the inevitable and get him some tampons, a Cher CD and a Grinder account.