The Art of Giving

I have been pretty open about not really believing in Karma, feeling it is mostly a scare tactic and have grappled with my own contribution to the universe after many a martini. Last week I had a situation that reaffirmed many of the existential life crises.

After spending the last few weeks traveling (#humblebrag) my Ashkenazi Jew fro had hit maximum brillo pad capacity. Being in desperate need of a deep hydration hair mask, I saddled up my pooch in his illegal service dog vest and walked to my local Rite Aid to load up on some vodka and argan oil treatments. As I approached the entrance I saw a family of 4 standing with a sign that read “Homeless with 2 babies to feed. Anything helps, God Bless”. This isn’t going to come out right but here I go. I avoid homeless people like the plague. Sticks are free, find a tin and make some fucking music. Provide a service for compensation. Begging seems so half assed. This is America.

This homeless mother of 2 infants caught me in a very vulnerable state. “Sorry I don’t have any cash.” As I walked into Rite Aid with my hypoallergenic pup, one of her small children locked eyes with me and was giving me Sara McLachlan beaten puppy eyes. All the sudden I started hearing the familiar “In the arms of the angel… Fly away from here.” Fuck.

I was basically already in the clear, strolling right past them into the fluorescent lighting when I had a very out of character heart pang and decided I was due for a good deed. I begrudgingly turned around, went up to the mother and told her I didn’t have cash but would be happy to buy her some groceries. In my head, I though condoms would be the smart purchase personally. As I led her into the store she immediately grabbed a shopping cart. I was hoping she grabbed it as a possible guesthouse and not to fill with goods on my dime.

I suggested we go to the baby supply aisle because I am a philanthropist and immediately this bitch starting throwing shit in the cart like it was the fucking Supermarket Sweep. I’m not talking generic brand diapers and wet wipes… this poverty stricken asshole was hawking Jessica Alba locally sourced organic burlap diapers and aloe vera infused ass wipes. Um no. I suggested we gravitate towards thing with a yellow sticker but she clearly wasn’t listening. Soon the cart was overflowing with 70lb containers of organic formula, paraben free bottles, even some fucking toys and coloring books.

If I were alone I would have put the kibosh on this immediately. But other shoppers were giving me such nods of approval, one person even offered me a warm shoulder grab and said he was honored to witness such selflessness. That was a first. I considered asking him if he wanted to go halfsies on the final bill but contained the urge.

My attempt at a good deed was now making me resentful. I was gritting my teeth and murmuring things under my breath like “Want to go to the fucking Ivy after this? Do your babies like crab cakes? Perhaps a fresh orchid for your tent?” I grabbed my $38 hair mask feeling less guilty than I had a mere 16 minutes ago and got in line with my new sponsored family. Solely because there were like 6 other people in line I decided this was my mitzvah for the decade and I needed to suck it up and be gracious. Although every time I saw the woman peruse through the bins in the line I gave her wrist a quick slap.

Finally, I was at the register. The cashier started to ring up everything and I looked around at the Rite Aid staff and fellow shoppers and gave them all a nonchalant shrug that said “Hey! I do what I can. Humanitarian by day, good time gal by night. It’s no biggie.” For 32 seconds I was Mother Teresa. I considered buying a pastel sweater set, organizing a can drive and eliminating the word “cunt” from my lexicon… giving back felt so right. “Alright miss, your total is $463.28.”

It was over as soon as it begun. No fucking way. This was a defining life moment. I took a second to gather my thoughts, take a deep breath and figure out how to navigate this situation. Should I hand my card over graciously or am I going to shatter my short-lived image of grace and humanity?

“Oh fuck no. Can you give us a quick second?” I asked the cashier. I pulled the homeless woman aside and explained to her that I too would be homeless if I had to pay for all of these goods. I know found myself bartering with her item by item. “Do you really need this economy sized formula? Can you still produce milk from the tit? I hear it’s better for brain development and then maybe one of your sons can be a brain surgeon and get you a condo in the valley. Also rattles are a luxury item. Void please.”

After we had the store manager void 7 items, I then made the executive decision we needed to exchange our remaining goods for the generic brand which resulted in 5 very embarrassing PA announcements “Manager to register 3, we need to exchange the Honest Company diaper rash cream for the Rite Aid brand equivalent.” This homeless woman was NOT happy about her Supermarket Sweep going generic and had the nerve to tell me that if I didn’t need my $40 hair mask, her children could have new toys.

After 28 minutes of checkout drama, I was able to get my charity bill down to $120 and left Rite Aid with my head held low and truly bitter towards the whole experience. The woman hugged me, blessed me and I was on my merry way. I decided to grab a reflective iced tea at Starbucks and call my mom to brag about what a giver she had raised.

When I walked outside I saw my new rescue family standing on the street with the cart full of merchandise and imagined they were headed to the freeway underpass and got the same familiar heart pang that got me into this whole mess. A real full circle moment.

Until a brand new Honda mini van pulled up curbside, trunk popped (automatic) and her husband started loading all the shit I just bought into their car. My jaw dropped and rage filled my body. The doors slid open (luxury) and this “homeless” hooker started to buckle her kids in their seemingly non pre-owned car seats. I had to get closer.

As I approached the van I noticed Despicable Me playing in the fucking headrest TVs. Yes I said it, HEADREST TVS. What the fuck? They sped away presumably to their Bel Air estate before I could confront her and I sat their feeling helpless and taken advantage of. For my own state of well being I have convinced myself they LIVE in that car hence the leather interiors and built in entertainment system. God, I hope they live in that car… Is that awful? Nope.

Anne Frank once said, “No one has ever become poor from giving.” No offense to Anne, but she didn’t get out much. The moral of this long winded and sure to be polarizing story is to never let someone shame your hair product selections, a small act of kindness is worth more than the grandest intention and always carry cash.


The Sangria Stakeout

I live my life by the following guiding principles:

  1. Slow and steady only wins a Special Olympics race.
  2. Never trust anyone who wears heels and white sunglasses poolside.
  3. It’s not creepy if it’s legal.

I have discussed in major detail my recreational stalking habits. Some girls like yoga, some girls like hacking emails. Apples to apples. I have heard many a cynic tell me that bitches who patrol others personal information are insecure. Untrue, I am inherently a curious human being and take on life with an investigative approach. I wonder about tons of things. Like why is the sky blue? What hairspray did Jon Benet Ramsey use? What is my neighbor’s social security number?

Many assume that my stalking tendencies only target a prospective romantic partner. Wrong again. I stalk anything, anyone ,and anywhere with free fucking wifi. One of my fave traditions is the tried and true “Sangria Stakeout.” The “Sangria Stakeout” is a super fun and celebratory way to confirm your boo’s whereabouts.

For instance, if a guy you are dating claims to be working late, have strep throat or be volunteering for Habitat for Humanity on a Saturday night – a bitch has the right to follow up. A casual drive by is so 2009 and quite frankly, an amateur move. After discussing this on my podcast, I felt I owed my bitches a more detailed explanation of how to execute such a manic milestone of your own.

First things first, you will need a borrowed car with tinted windows (preferably sans license plate) or a classic rape van (preferably with curtained windows and electrical hook ups). Once you have secured a stakeout vessel, you need the right company. Leave your shit stirring buzzkill friend at home. Gays really thrive in this type of social setting. Also invite anybody that knows how to put together a chic charcuterie platter. Atmosphere is crucial during a Sangria Stakeout so make a themed playlist to set the mood.

Here are some suggestions:

  1. “Every Breath You Take” by The Police
  2. “Creep” by TLC
  3. “I Drove All Night” by Celine Dion

In the common chance you find your love interest NOT at home with a yeast infection but instead, pregaming a night on the town with some hussy in a polyblend Bebe dress… you are going to need a cocktail. Sangria is the perfect beverage because it’s lower in alcohol content, travels well, could be mistaken for spa water by the police and just seems festive as fuck. A bitch keeps it simple: White wine, Sprite Zero/Club Soda, peaches, strawberries, lemon slices and mint. VOILÀ.

If you are at all hesitant to round up your bitches, rent a rape van and invest in a good manchego, just remember that knowing a disappointing truth is better than forever wondering… Information is power, people are shady and Sangria Stakeout’s are legal. Think about it.

I Hate Target & So Should You

I have been having a series of epiphanies for the last 3 months. First I realized and accepted the fact that I have never and WILL never think the television show “Friends” is funny. Then I realized that while I often talk about pop culture and celebrity gossip, I am capitalizing off of people who are most likely better looking and more talented than I which makes me hypocritical and also semi-stupid. But yesterday I may have experienced the harshest realization of all… one that not only sequesters myself from humanity but also seems totally unpatriotic. My name is Jackie Schimmel and I fucking HATE Target. If you have already blocked me on Instagram and put me on your hit list right above Abu Nazir, please give me a moment to explain myself.

The first thing that aroused my Target-hatred was my deep confusion with the checkout process at fucking Target. WHAT DICKHEAD DESIGNED THE DOUBLE CASHIER LANES? Am I in line for register 1 or 3? Why is there only gross Aquafina available in the drink cooler? How many chain restaurant gift cards, Eos chapsticks and travel packed Wet Wipes am I supposed to be distracted with before I realize that I have been waiting 37 minutes to buy a subpar Sonia Kashuk makeup brush?

Another thing that grinds my gears are the endless Designer collaborations. The whole reason you BUY actual designer clothing is to insure it’s not made of polyester and on a shelf next to a pair of Mossimo mom jeans. I will admit I was a consenting victim to the Missoni for Target riot of 2010. I pulled my labia after shoving an innocent housewife out of my way for the chevron coffee mugs. Now Nate Berkus gets to hawk $25 gold office staplers and people think they are fashion forward and progressive because they own something designed by Oprahs token homo. No, just no.

Sometimes you can’t just hate the game, you can also hate the players.. Targets customer demographic is one that I have tried to avoid like a Nigerian plague. It’s not that I hate white people in stretch pants with excess fat children, it’s just that I hate everything they stand for. Every time I drive up to a Target and see the surplus of mini vans and women in orthopedic footwear, a part of my soul dies and I consider leaving the country. People, if you are in Target buying economy sized barrels of Cheese Puffs which you allow your offspring to start eating in the checkout line, you need to seriously re-evaluate your life choices.

And beyond all this bullshit, nothing is that good of a deal. I can say with full confidence that all alcohol, toiletries, home decor and electronics are equal to or exceed the price of any other major retailers. Last week I spent $1.79 on fucking GREEN ONIONS at Target. Mossimo can go fuck themselves with their $29.99 cotton zip up hoodies and Merona should burn in hell for even thinking that thin brimmed fedoras are still marketable.

Target is the enemy. Target is insulting our integrity and intelligence. Target is everything that’s wrong with America in a big red box. Target even gave their own fucking mascot a black (red) eye.


Expect less, pay more.

You’re An Asshole

My friend Heidi and I were discussing the benefits (branding wise) I could attain if I contracted or faked some small non-life threatening disease. We decided an STD would be too hard to pull off and probably a bad look long term. Although a Chlamydia endorsement could be super lucrative. Syphilis seems cute too. Maybe a new strain of hepatitis? Maybe not. We decided Fibromyalgia would be perfect for me and despite having no clue what it is, I’m pretty positive I have it. So you should all feel bad for me and subscribe to my podcast series to help me with my disease. Bless you.

I’ve been thinking a lot about assholes lately. Not the orifice but the notable group of people who are a constant life suck. I could probably find a better diagnosis with some psychoanalysis and then conclude what factors in their life MADE them such an asshole but that seems like a waste of my time and also totally impertinent #DEFLECTING.

Recently, an ex friend of mine reached out to grab drinks. While I pondered getting my hair professionally done and telling her how much better my life is without her trying to bang my boyfriends, I decided that she was and always will be an asshole and my barely dirty martini with blue cheese olives would have to be consumed at home. Assholes tend to blame their overall suck to various people, places or things. They didn’t get hugged as a child, they have no money, Selena’s death really ruined their faith in mankind, whatever, bidi bidi bom bom. The truth is, while many of these life factors are influential and upsetting, they are all irrelevant and invalidated as an excuse for being an asshole.

If you’ve had problems with almost every person in your life, you are an asshole. If you only had 3 people (minus Tom) on your Myspace Top 8, you are an asshole. If Jesus is the only person who is regularly forgiving you, you are an asshole.  No offense to God but salvation and atonement should start in the home. Hiding behind something that is legitimately sacred and cherished by non-assholes shouldn’t be abused by people who can’t get their shit together. It’s like carrying a fake designer handbag, don’t ruin it for the rest of us please and thank you. My ex-friend would puke in your purse, bang your boyfriend and then go on a Church retreat and tell me she was forgiven. That’s chic but I still think you are an asshole.

Another huge aspect of general asshole-ness is victimization. So you’ve pissed everyone in your life off and now you feel bad for yourself and everyone else should too. Poor little a-hole. Unfortunately, that’s not how life works. Pity parties are the fucking worst and usually include a very short guest list and a cash bar. Clearly empathy has never been my strong suit but it’s pretty difficult for me to feel sorry for people who’s woes are all self inflicted. I feel sorry to the kids starving in Africa, people killed due to genocide and Yolanda Foster #lymebrain.

The hardest part about BEING an asshole is accepting that you’re an asshole. And to be honest, assholes usually stay assholes until they die an asshole and then have a super assholey afterlife. Right? Right. Assholes are like assholes, everyone’s got one.

To end things delicately, a poem:
If you’re still upset that as a kid, your daddy missed you make your first goal,
Or while all the other kids got Barbie dream houses, Santa only gave you coal,
And while all your peers went to college, and instead you chose the pole,
Realize it’s not anyone else’s fault, that you became an asshole.



Side Bitch 101

We need to address an epidemic sweeping the nation and compromising our gender morale… the social outbreak of the SIDE BITCH. In life you either want to be the USDA prime filet mignon (a la cart) or the basic baked potato. It doesn’t matter HOW MANY BACON BITS AND CHIVES YOU DROWN YOURSELF IN, you aren’t the mother fucking entree. This reads harsh because it seems wildly obvious and baffles me how many side bitches live in denial.
“He works so much”, “His great aunt’s dog died”, “He has a yeast infection” the truth is, if he isn’t taking you to dinner, has never seen you in daylight and still has a parenthesis in your contact info… For example: Jackie Schimmel (neurotic bitch with blonde hair), you are the sidest bitch on the block.

I can speak informatively on this subject because I have been a side bitch. It was brief and it was brutal. He only offered me his roommates alcohol,  only saw me after 9pm on Wednesdays and I am almost positive thought my name was Jade. He would occasionally bring me to work events because I am sociable, can clean up well with a professional blowdry and know how to handle my alcohol. I was poor and would date about anyone I could steal fruit snacks from. I eventually pretended he was hit by a truck and ignored his late night calls. SIDENOTE: Anthony if you are reading this, you are short, rude and smell like latex and failed entrepreneurship. Phew, that felt good.

So let’s assume you are a few chromosomes short and are unsure if you too are the lukewarm creamed spinach in the meal of your romantic life. For your convenience here is an idiot proof list.

You only hang out on weekdays, specifically ones with none of his selected television programs. Plans are usually made an hour in advance and typically take place at his apartment or god willingly his condo, I love a man with real estate. Saturdays simply don’t exist in a side bitches world.

You’ve never met any of his friends, or if you have it was in a very large and very casual group setting. Very few details are shared regarding your relationship and sober affection is virtually non existent.

You don’t do dinner. This has a loophole for manorexics who simply are gearing up for their summer bod, but usually is because they don’t want to have the intimacy that comes with sharing a meal together. Dinner=dating=monogamy=girlfriend=death.

You aren’t friends on Facebook. I’ve said it once and I’ll say it again, nothing matters in life unless it’s FBO (Facebook Official) not your education, not your career, not your love life. You think you’re above Facebook proclamations? Or is that the side bitch universal code of conduct…. Think about it.

You can’t get him to accompany you to ANY event. Asking him to be your plus one at your friends wedding is basically like asking him if you can murder his whole family and then sell their organs on the black market. You find yourself bribing him to be with you. This is a low point.

You’ve heard it once, you’ve heard it 400 times… “he doesn’t do labels”. Let me be very clear, if a guy is into you he doesn’t want you to be with anyone else. It’s an animalistic testosterone thing. I am not a biologist but it’s the truth. Guys who “don’t want to rush things, don’t like labels and aren’t ready for a girlfriend” are fucking other people and probably on a Saturday.

You are reading this list and are having a mega epiphany that all of the above runs scarily parallel to your current situation. Mazel Tov, you are a side bitch. Although this is hard to accept and even harder to free up your Wednesday late night rendevous, remember it is always better to be the Filet Mignon (or Tofu Steak if you’re a sad vegan) than the fucking baked potato #ENTREELIFE


The only thing sadder then living as a side bitch is that I spent 15 minutes out of my day creating the visual above. For more tough love download, subscribe and share The Bitch Bible podcast series here:

Why Every Bitch Needs a Gusband

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

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

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

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

4. BRUNCH. No explanation necessary.

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

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

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


10 Signs You’re Dating a Bunny Boiler

  1. Excess Flattery. Bitches love a compliment. Psychos will have their nose so far up your ass you are blinded by your own inflated ego. You are the smartest, most beautiful, funny, charming, domestic, business savvy bitch he has EVER met. And while that might all be true – the sentiment is less than sincere adoration.
  2. What you love, he loves. Amazingly, your new bunny boiling boo is so simpatico with you! You love reality television? So does he! You collect Spice Girl memorabilia? So does he! You want 17 kids and a three-legged dog with one testicle? SO DOES HE. This is the psycho’s way of making you believe you are perfect for each other.
  3. Welcome to the Pity Party. You will hear it all, his ex is crazy, his father abandoned him, he was bullied in high school. Waaah waaah, cry me a fucking river. A psycho will try to appeal to your emotions by victimizing himself and confiding in you. This is a ploy to garner empathy from you. If stories he shares with you run parallel to any plotline on Vanderpump Rules – RUN bitch, run.
  4. Medical Mayhem. Since the crazy bastard loves a good pity party, medical trauma is inevitable. A simple mole is probably skin cancer, a hangover is most definitely a brain tumor and he most likely has some hereditary ailment just WAITING to rear its undiagnosed head. Make sure those life-saving medications aren’t candy coated.
  5. Psycho in the streets, Fabio in the sheets. It is standard for a bunny boiler to go out of his way to keep his prey pleased. This is just another way of him trying to get you hooked or a reason to put up with his crazy.
  6. Unexpected outbursts. If you are shopping for new silverware at Bed, Bath and Beyond and your possibly unstable lover randomly announces, “he collects knifes” he is either a closet sushi chef or has accidentally exposed himself. Psychos can only save face for so long before they show cracks in the mask.
  7. The Silent Treatment. After they get you hooked and the idealization love bomb phase concludes, a psychopath will begin to devalue you. This is an attempt to pull the rug out from beneath you sparking insecurity. You then begin to doubt yourself and wonder why he is no longer worshipping you, making you instantly more hooked.
  8. Jealousy. This is their way of manipulating and catapulting you into a jealous frenzy. They may introduce you to an abnormally attractive co-worker, take a lunch with his ex or stock up on Victoria’s Secret catalogs. This is to make you both feel unworthy of his attention and lustful for the initial worship you once had.
  9. The Chuck. He has found a new unsuspecting victim or he needs to flee the country and your psychopath has already taken you on his sick and emotionally taxing rollercoaster. If he doesn’t end up turning you into chop suey, this is when you and your new Lexapro prescription are chucked to the wayside.
  10. Hovering. Just because he is done with you doesn’t mean his ego is ready to relinquish your admiration. Even if he has moved on, he will still make sure you are missing him. Expect an awkward email or random invitations to happy hour… hopefully in a well-lit and public venue.

Bitch Life Hacks

BYOB… Everywhere. Water bottles are the smart bitch’s flask of the future. Clear alcohol= standard water bottle. Colored alcohol = Perrier (colored plastic) when all else fails double ziploc your happy juice and shove it in your bra (perfect for amusement parks).

For the non-domestic bitch looking to impress your boo: buy a premade rotisserie chicken from the market. Cut it up, add some garlic cloves, lemon slices, rosemary up the ass cavity, stick it in the oven cover with foil and everyone will think you’re a fucking goddess.


Unless it’s your best bitch or boyfriend, don’t be a double (or worse triple) text kind of bitch. In the same realm, if you send a text that takes up length of the phone screen you need to get your shit together.

BYOB… Everywhere. Water bottles are the smart bitches flask of the future. Clear alcohol= standard water bottle. Colored alcohol = Perrier (colored plastic) when all else fails double ziploc your happy juice and shove it in your bra (perfect for amusement parks).

Preparing a cheese plate can really suck the life out of you. There you stand, at Trader Joe’s, paralyzed by the abundant selection. Just remember the 3-S rule: Sharp, Stinky and Soft. For example: Gouda, Stilton, Brie. Fucking duh.unnamed

Always carry mace in every handbag and/or orifice. And don’t be afraid to use it, it’s legal. Just please make sure the safety lock is engaged if it’s up your v.

If you are wearing hot pink or sultry red dress, don’t wear a black shoe. Go nude or metallic. Trust me.

Learn the skinny arm and implement it whenever humanly possible. In conjunction with a protruding clavicle you WILL be your best self.


Buy your olive oil at TJ Maxx. But seriously, that shit is expensive. I buy all major condiments and hair products there. ITS HALF PRICE. Nothing gives me a lady-boner harder than discount truffle oil and a hair mask for under $10… NOTHING.

Get coats at discount shops like H&M or Forever 21 and change the buttons. Oldest trick in the book.

When traveling, ALWAYS tell the hotel you are celebrating an anniversary (even if you are alone) it has a 84% success rate for free champagne.

Use popsicles instead of ice cubes for cocktails. Shimmy a watermelon popsicle into a shaker, add some vodka and mint and everyone will think you are a pretentious mixologist from Los Feliz.


Get a journal or a therapist. Finding support in solace in your friends and family is great, but sometimes working through some of your issues privately makes you a strong bitch. It’s good to have a gauge of when you are exhausting your support systems and save those resources for a real shit storm.

If you want the Ariana Grande ponytail without having to clip one on like she does, you must learn the double ponytail. It will change your life and probably make you a better singer.


In a pinch, know you are legally allowed to sleep overnight at any Walmart parking lot. Seriously… they can’t kick you out. This is what would be considered an all time low but at least a bitch has options.

20 Things To Do in Your 20’s


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

2015 Conscious Uncoupling

They say you are the company you keep. This is a precedent I always hold dear on the brink of a New Year. I like to reflect on the past 12 months, the peaks and the pits and the people I have surrounded myself by. In these tender moments I realize that it is time to clean up shop just in time to glide gracefully into 2015

The Frenemy – They love you, they hate you. They insist on Instagraming a collage of you on your birthday with only photos from your fat phase. They profess to be one of your closest friends yet secretly are hoping you contract an STD and may want to bang your boyfriend. Waste of space, time and energy. Bye Felicia!

The Mooch – This is the first point in my life where people have started to unauthentically pursue friendships with ulterior motives. Why the sudden out reach? These are people I call parasites or as my grandmother would say “schnoras” (Google it). You haven’t spent more then 4 minutes with the person and they instantly “love” you and are insisting they send you their new Vitamin D infused bikini line. It’s not a crime to try and surround yourself with people who can excel you. The hustle is real. But if you feel like someone’s only incentive in your relationship is to take advantage of you, send their business elsewhere.

The Yenta – Despite my insatiable need for all things Real Housewives and Vanderpump Rules, I am surprisingly not attracted to drama in my real life. I know 99% of people who profess to “hate drama” are usually the nucleus of it, but I can promise and provide references that in my case it’s just not true. I’m shallow and depthless; I like small talk and outsider approval. So sue me. Gossip is boring, I’d rather talk about myself. If they are talking shit TO YOU, they are undoubtedly talking shit ABOUT YOU. People who find satisfaction in others demise and private details need to get a life and/or a Lexapro prescription.

The Ex – We are never, ever, ever spending 2015 together. Staying friends was cute in 2014, but it’s a new year. It’s really idealistic to pull a Ross and Rachel and expect it all to be smooth sailing. When someone has broke your heart, staying friends warrants an un-platonic agenda. You can’t set sail with an anchor planted so cut that bitch off and tread forward Admiral. ( <– The worst metaphor of my barely professional life)

The Downer – Maybe it’s a coworker, a childhood friend or just a bitter cousin with self diagnosed Celiac disease. The food is never good, the temperature never comfortable or the conversation never stimulating enough. For the record, the only downers I have around me are prescribed by a shady doctor. Surround yourself with happy people who sparely complain about overhead lighting and weight fluctuation #wetblanket.



Questionable Tidbits of “Wisdom”

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

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

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

Manic & Menstrual

I was trying to keep my posts semi inspirational and heart warming since I am going to speak at my high school tomorrow and want to give off the appeal that I am a well adjusted young professional but …. It’s raining and I am menstrual. Sorry kids! I figured I would spare the sappy shit and stay true to myself and discuss some things really grinding my gears (I am positive that saying has just aged me 30 years #maturity).

YONCE– I ain’t tryna get stung by the Beyhive but I miss the days when Beyoncé would sing good ol pop music with a professionally made music video and a fan blowing through her hair while she dances. Stop trying to get all HOVA-fied and just fucking sing. OR call those wet blankets Kelly and Michelle and get Tina to crank out some coordinating sequined outfits and kick it old school. I’m over this low budge shit. I blame Blue Ivy…

INSTA-DOUCHE – If 65% of a guy’s Instagram pics are in black and white, captioned by urban song lyrics OR harbor the hashtag #riseandgrind they should be put down. We get it… you drive a super tight Mitsubishi with black rims, have a SICK faux leather jacket and are on your way to that #jetsetlyfe taking over your father’s kabob chain. LEAVE ME AND MY INNOCENT HEART ALONE.

UNMEDICATED CHILDREN – Some kids just need to be put on a leash. Calm down.

GLUTEN FREE – I literally could not care less about anything. Celiac disease is 75% trendy and 100% a waste of my time. If I have to listen to some Fox News correspondent discuss the DANGER OF GLUTEN while prancing around in a size 0 Ann Taylor Loft shift dress I am going to stab myself in the eye balls with uncooked spaghetti.

CHRISTMAS MUSIC – I don’t want to seem like a scrooge BUT all this Christmas music is expediting my impending Lexapro prescription. Between the hymns, the rancid Cinnamon Sugar candles, poinsettias and Mall Santa’s (hand selected from the Megan’s Law roster) a bitch is one jingle bell away from snapping.

TURKEY – I know this may seem a bit irrelevant now that Turkey day has passed but … Turkey is the redheaded stepchild of festive proteins. The best a turkey can be is “not dry” and anything you need to soak in flavored water for 2 days before cooking seems disappointing.

PUMP RULES – For those of you not watching this show, you are missing out on a whole life-altering world of sub-par accessorizing, cottage cheese ceiling studio apartments, failed acting careers and Sauvignon Blanc out of puffy painted wine glasses. It is a beautiful nightmare that consumes me and last week someone asked me for a picture that I nearly shit myself out of excitement; only to find out they thought I was Stassi fucking Schroeder.

Deep breaths.

These Hoes Ain’t Loyal

During my first year of college, I experienced the brunt of young female relationships. After being dumped, I secluded myself to the confines of my student apartment with my lesbian roommate and her cage-less chinchilla… and the occasional Food 4 Less outing. I wish I was joking about the latter. I spent more time at Food 4 Less on a daily basis than any of my classes combined. Bagel Bites for a buck fifty? You had me at bagel. Once I had wallowed in my self pity, I decided it was time to start socializing but only in the pursuit of an accidental run-in with my ex boyfriend where I looked BLISSFULLY HAPPY.

I began spending time with a girl I had gone to high school with. She was the type of girl who ALWAYS brought baked goods to class during the holidays and wore knee length dresses to homecoming. A real Pollyanna Purebred.

I found her to be stable and nurturing during my transition period. We would go on hikes, enjoy the pasta buffet at the dining hall, and watch Gossip Girl together. We would joke that I was Serena and she was Blair, and then consequently head to the local disappointment of a shopping center and find low budget outfits to embrace our fictitious lives. It was all so simple and sad.

(Side note: Serena and Blair were a global travesty to female relationships everywhere. They were terrible friends and should never be admired as a duo… they fucked each other’s boyfriends, spoke horribly of one another, and constantly were one-upping each other’s accessory game.)

Soon my Blair started losing her wholesome charm and spreading her legs to anyone with a handle of Popov vodka and an unlimited meal plan. I should be clear the devolution of our friendship had nothing to do with her promiscuity. I live for a slutty friend and envy their free spiritedness. She became awkwardly competitive with me and soon all of our outings became a mission for her to out-dress, out-drink, out-slut, and out-smart me. She always came out 2 for 4 which I thought was a healthy balance. It was only after a classy night at a local frat party where she proclaimed across the room that it must suck to be friends with her because that would make me the token ugly friend. Without sounding like an asshole, I must once again clarify this is not fucking true. I am sure all of my close friends are rolling their eyes and guffawing, given that I will tell the extended version of this story any chance I can (not that any of them really read my blog). Because I am a HUGE pussy, I never confronted her on her questionable character and thus had my very first frenemy. I would cancel plans, screen her calls, and slowly downgrade her from my Myspace Top 8 all while insisting we should “totally get lunch soon.”

Six months later she had defriended me on Facebook (burn), tried to punch and simultaneously bang my ex-boyfriend, rotated through about 63 new best friends and never returned my favorite sequined sweater which is the most tragic of all.

It’s one thing to dislike a person. It’s another thing to dislike a person and then continuing to sustain a façade of a friendship. If life is a game of poker, I find it best to know your players before you reveal your cards. I really am not sure what that means but it sounds deep as shit. Whether or not I reveal my hand, I am acutely aware of who loves me, who needs me, who’s kissing my ass or who’s secretly hoping I gain 47 pounds and end up working the take out window at The Olive Garden in a pair of orthopedic loafers with Type 2 diabetes.

Now that I have matured (slightly), I have learned that it would have been much better for Serena and Blair to have a civil parting of ways before their first semester at Constance. They could have designated separate hang out areas on the Met steps; Blair could have collected any headbands she may have left at the Vanderwoodsen Plaza penthouse and Serena could retrieve the keratin hair mask she kept at B’s.

Keeping friends is best, losing them is sad, but the worst is holding on to a friendship you never really had.

Rhyme so hard, mothafuckers wanna fine me.

How To Tell Your Friend They Are Dating an Asshole

Surprisingly I initially like most people. Especially if they really like me. If Vladimir Putin told me I had high cheekbones and a protruding clavicle I would probably invite him over for Shabbat dinner and set him up with one of my slutty girlfriends to tickle his Russian pickle. As a Leo, I am incredibly protective over the people I love and have unfortunately run into the situation of hating a few of my friends significant others. My cousin (who is more like a sister) was dating this guy who I lovingly referred to as Fuckface for a couple years. The first time I met him in his college apartment I knew I wanted to bury him alive and dance to Daft Punk on his grave with a bottle of Vueve Cliquot and a bendy straw. He was arrogant, condescending and spoke like a closeted homosexual Subway Sandwich artist supporting his way through school to become a Planetary Scientist. Fucking asshole. Naturally upon my first impression he was wearing a gold chain (red flag #1) and made me split a Gatorade when I asked for something to drink cause he “only had a few left”. I tried my hardest to swallow my pride and pretend to like him. Three hours in I had hit my limit.

He insisted we go to a local Teppanyaki restaurant for their “super dank half off lunch specials” (red flag #2). He started verbally harassing my cousin when she insisted on ordering from the full price menu (red flag #3). It wasn’t just one comment… the fucker went on and on, he was relentlessly rude. She brushed this off and excused herself to the bathroom. As soon as she was out of sight I leaned over the cook top table, grabbed Fuckface’s wrist and looked him dead in the eye and said, “If you ever speak to her like that again I will get all of my goliath family members and the sketchy Cholo custodian at my office to drive down here and beat the shit out of you… Also are you done with your fried rice?” I was dead serious and I am almost positive he shit his pants.

My smidge of a death threat was a huge wake up call. My cousin finally saw what a total dick the guy was and they split shortly after. Unfortunately, these confrontations usually don’t turn out as ideally. So what is a bitch to do? The upside of sharing your reservations about said asshole is honest communication and you may be saving your friend from a crazy breakup and possible restraining order. The downside is that your friend will most likely not listen and it will cause a strain in your friendship. The first step in dealing with a situation like this is addressing WHY he is an asshole and the LEVEL of harm he may be causing your friend. Is this a Justin Bobby short-term tryst or a Spencer Pratt long-term holy matrimony… it makes a huge difference.

The rule to interjecting in a friend’s relationship is that you can never take it back and you have to expect that your girl will side with the shmuck. Also know the guy WILL be told you dislike him and then it’s game on. Ultimatums are dramatic and prompt early menstrual cycles. Calm your ovaries and think like a rational bitch. Is it worth the drama? Side note: Jealousy is transparent. If you are a needy Nancy and only dislike your friends new love interest because it conflicts with your Bachelor and wine nights – you are the asshole. The truth is if you are in a serious and happy relationship, your partner usually becomes your best friend and that is totally fine.

So you have assessed the damage and you are positive the asshole has surpassed Spencer Pratt and is verging on Tiger Woods. You know he is penetrating her sister, embezzling money from her checking account and may have dabbled in drug dealing. How do you tell her? “Hey love can I come by and borrow that sequined sweater of yours? We still down for Soul Cycle tonight? Oh and one last thing, your boyfriend is an asshole, everyone hates him and yesterday I threw a penny in a fountain and wished he would contract a immune system crushing disease. Love ya!”

Honestly, that’s probably how I would do it. As easy as that seems it is not the best way to go unless you’re prepared to move forward without a sequin sweater to borrow, an unfollow on Instagram (the harshest of all) and a fractured friendship. Last side note: I have said this a million times, I track everyone who unfollows me. Once you make that decision you are dead to me. Don’t conveniently pretend we are cool. To put it in song: “We are never ever ever going for drinks together. You go talk to your friends take your selfies and unfollow me (bitch) but weeee will never ever ever ever have martinis together.” That’s my Taylor Swift bad bitch remix. Sorry for the passive aggressive tangent.

Meddling in your friend’s relationship is a very slippery slope. A good friend always wants to protect their bitches from the pitfalls of dating an asshole but unless they are headed for a seriously life and heart threatening future it is always best to let a bitch come to these conclusions by herself. Unless the fucker is in a gold chain, makes you go halfsies on an orange flavored Gatorade AND thinks daytime Teppanyaki is socially acceptable.