Wedding Details

As some of you might know… I got married. CALM DOWN. I have always said that getting married brings out the worst in people, you get a ring on your finger and all the sudden you think the world revolves around you. Brides are the biggest assholes ever.  Like, don’t even get me started. I wasn’t a bridezilla because I am a simply a lifezilla. Being so, I had a very clear vision for what I wanted our wedding to look like, feel like, sound like, taste like, you get the picture. I thrive in decision making, delegation and spending other peoples money so I really felt in my element during the planning process. In the most non-basic self indulgent bridezilla way, I wanted to share some elements of my wedding with my bitches.

Music | There is nothing worse than a wedding with shitty music. Being that my groom and many of our wedding guests are in the music industry, it was the most important element of our wedding. We curated playlists for pre-ceremony, cocktail hour, reception, after party. Sometimes providing track by track playlists aren’t enough – we also included a list of DO NOT PLAY THESE SONGS OR ELSE THE BRIDE WILL SHANK YOU IN THE THROAT ( anything Jason Mraz, Baby Got Back, YMCA, the fucking song from Twilight, shoot me). My husband produced the music for our processional and it was one of the most special aspects of the wedding.



Personalization | I think a wedding should *feel* like the couple and not some sad replicas of your pinterest board. I love a personalization. Matches, napkins, place cards, specialty cocktails, anything and everything. It’s inexpensive, chic and unique. Just make sure everything is COHESIVE. Fonts are my life. I made sure the fonts and monogram used in my invitation were the same throughout (details bitch).



Monofloral | This was something I felt extremely passionate about. I am 93% positive I have severe OCD (cute) but floral arrangements give me shpilkes (yiddish for nervous energy). I wanted all centerpieces/bouquets arranged by flower type. No mixing. I had a legally binding “use roses and hydrangea sparingly” rule and stuck with mostly modern structured flowers (calalilies, orchids, gladiolus) and it was fresh as fuck.


Acrylic | I love anything non child friendly. It’s clear, it needs to be windexed constantly, its sharp and it’s perfection… it’s acrylic. My save the dates were acrylic with gold imprinting and totally set the tone for the wedding. For our escort board, we had a sexy plexiglass board with all of our guest names printed in a clean block letter (I hate a swirly font – again shpilkes), place cards were acrylic drink stirrers placed in champagne glasses and for reception chairs we used “ghost chairs” that gave our whole decor a super modern look.


Mixed Metals | I love shiny shit. So I would never limit myself to one metallic accent color. I love mixing gold and silver, we had no other color in our wedding scheme. Silver mirrors, gold rimmed china, silver votives. You get the picture.


FUR (because why the fuck not) | This was a controversial decision on my end. When you think a spring wedding in the middle of the piping hot desert, you don’t usually think of white fur… unless your a psycho like me. I ordered 20 white sheepskin throws from an illegal international import website to achieve my dream of casual white fur draped over the outdoor furniture, you know, for “texture”. I am a monster.




Mirrored Err’thang| We used mirrored round table tops and mirrored runners for all the tables. Not only because its fucking pretty but it also reflected the chandeliers, candle light and center pieces to really pump everything up a couple notches.



For more juicy details on the wedding check out my podcast episode “Blushing Bitch” with Lauryn Evarts from The Skinny Confidential here: CLICK ME FOR PODCAST!


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.


I have been on a very spiritual journey lately. One that includes excess fromage, disguising my Ashkenazi hair in this fog (#isis) and learning how to cope with aggressive pigeons sans sedatives. It’s all been very Eat, Pray, Love. Or more like, Eat, Overpay (currency rate probs), Shove. For those of you not stalking me or interested in my whereabouts, I have been in London for the past month.

Since my arrival there have been no shortage of fabulous group activities so during the week I am rewarded with my much needed alone time. The more time I spend alone, the more I realize how socially uncultivated I am. I can go HOURS without any human interaction and feel incredibly mentally stimulated, more so than after a lengthy dinner with friends. At first I thought this may make me bipolar and it’s the voices in my head that keep me entertained. I have since realized that I must be a complete narcissist because I really fucking love hanging out with myself.

I think people assume that when you uproot your life and move (temporarily) to a foreign country it is polite to try and include said import in social plans and activities. Being that we have a very present social group here in London I have come to the harsh realization that my antisocial nature has followed me internationally.

According to the internet we are the FOMO generation. Honestly, fuck off. I hate FOMO and anyone who uses that term seriously. Fear of missing out? Did you not get hugged as a child? Why do people rely so heavily on social outings and being in the know? I would like to propose a new way of living… JOMO. Joy of missing out. I have been the poster child for JOMO since I crawled from the flaming pits of hell as a small adorable baby. I hate being invited places. The truth is if I want to go anywhere, I will just show up. I find that it has a very high success rate and I always bring a bottle of something.

When someone initiates social plans one of two things happen. Depending on my level of comfortability I will either immediately decline (my closest friends can attest) with a curt “NO” or consider the outing with a tepid “Do I have to? Will there be valet and/or snacks provided?” My other less desirable option is coming up with a very elaborate excuse. I normally lean towards a family death involving a very distant relative (less questions) which can be a real nightmare. I have accidentally had my Great Aunt Shirley die twice during a desperate scheduling conflict. With every cash bar invitation, conveniently my 98-year-old Aunt Shirley bites the big one. Time after time.

I don’t know how to put this delicately, so I wont. Every time you find yourself hungrily trying to confirm “where and when and what time and who?” with the perseverance of starved hyena, take a long hard look in the mirror and ask yourself this; why am I acting like such dependently needy asshole? Has anyone suffering from this “disease” ever considered that the reason they aren’t being invited places is because they are annoying as fuck. Brew on that for a second.

You know why an aged cheese is more expensive? Because it’s fully developed into the delectable version of it’s best self. It’s not afraid to showcase its mold or pungent smell. The cheese has spent time alone and matured. IT DOESN’T NEED CRACKERS OR A FIG SPREAD. I apologize for this cheese tangent… I have been in a sexual relationship with blue stilton for the past week. Sorry, back to the point.

The harsh truth is that if the mere thought of being alone sends you into a Lexapro prescription, FOMO is just the band-aid on the actual wound of a much bigger ailment. Go to dinner, take a trip, see a movie, go shopping, go for a bike ride ALONE. Jomo is the new Fomo.

High Hopes, Low Expectations

For my gentile readers who may not have known, we are amidst the Jewish New Year formally known as Rosh Hashanah. It is one of the only days where frizzy haired Jews head to the nearest synagogue to husband hunt, swap rhinoplasty stories and judge each other’s temple ensembles. It is also the beginning of a 10 day period of reflection and repentance.

It has always been my favorite holiday because it gives me a January 1st redo and this bitch LIVES for a good list, this being the faux-intentioned resolution list I get to make for myself and others not once, but TWICE a year. Naturally I have zero intention of following any of these but those who can’t reflect, deflect. So….

  1. Ban the following articles from my wardrobe; maxi dresses, peplum, crochet monokinis, any embellished headbands, moccasins, wedge sneakers, mesh insert dresses, vests and anything made of vegan fabric… ew.
  2. Stop body shaming my boyfriend. One amazing trick to a happy and healthy relationship is to keep your better half humble. I like to slowly but surely create completely false insecurities to keep people I love appreciative and indebted to me for my brutal honesty and understanding. I often refer to my significant as “pear shaped” when in reality is eggplant shaped and hott as fuck. I still find this to be hilarious but also really want him to put the money he may invest in thigh gap lipo towards an engagement ring so I guess I will stop.
  3. Learn the difference between a city, state and country. I was too busy trying to reconstruct the texture of my jew-fro and cultivating charisma in middle school to pay attention in Geography. It’s called Google Maps bitch. HOWEVER, I thought Hawaii was it’s own country up until 7 weeks ago which is not ideal. I also thought Isis was a new upscale snow cone shop.
  4. Instill a lifelong Kardashian Kleanse. I will no longer be discussing them. I am trying to be a fucking intellect over here and they no longer fit into my new cerebral life #growth.
  5. Incorporate some form of physical activity in my day to day life. I hate people who say they “love to exercise” I think anyone who says that is a dirty liar. I personally love eating whatever I want without consequences a fuck lot more then busting my ass on a treadmill. I don’t drink water because I am being respectful of the drought and I avoid anything gluten free because I have a fucking SOUL. Regardless, it would be nice to be able to make it up a flight of stairs without a side cramp.
  6. Stop cussing so fucking much.
  7. No longer use my digestive system as a go-to topic of conversation at social gatherings. As much as the bartender making my dirty martini is wildly riveted by my state of constipation, I think it is time for me to be more selective and mysterious in regards to my bowel movements. I like to think acknowledging my food baby is a great way to bond with a stranger but apparently some people think it’s uncomfortable.

Wish me luck and Shana Tova bitches.

Bitchy Bellini

It’s Memorial Day and that means paying respect to our troops who defend our country and keep us safe … and day drinking #AMERICA. If you are like me and like to be asleep by 8:30pm, getting your drink on begins at 11am. Nothing says good morning like a fruity and frisky bellini. With fresh peaches and juice, it’s basically a fucking smoothie.


  • Peaches
  • Orange or Grapefruit Juice
  • Mint
  • Champagne (or Prosecco)

Directions: Puree fresh diced peaches in a blender with dash of juice, blend until smooth and then strain to get rid of any chunks/skin (gross). Let chill then add one healthy spoonful to bottom of Champagne flute and top with the good stuff. Garnish with fruit and mint. Cheers bitch!



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.

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.

The Mile High (Blood Pressure) Club

Howdy bitches!

I have been in Nashville past few days eating fried gator, drinking beer and hiding my Judaism. Unfortunately my hotel doesn’t have Bravo (already complained to management) and there will be no recap this week. On a lighter note, Jim Marchese tweeted me and I was able to tell him personally about my distaste for his light wash denim #troll.

True to form my pilgrimage to get here was… interesting. Anyone who knows me knows I have the shittiest luck on planes. There was the time when I was 12 and got hit by a Dutch woman for kicking her seat, the time the crypt keeper 95 year old had a heart attack in my lap on my way home from London AND MOST RECENTLY the time I sat next to Shamu’s obese fire-crotched cousin on my flight to Nashville.

I get that obesity is kind of a disease and this is politically incorrect (I can already hear the aggressive emails flooding my inbox) BUT as human beings we must be mindful of our pros and cons. For instance, I am fully aware a con of mine is my incessant need to share my digestive issues with strangers. And I probably should stop saying “fuck” so much.

Because of these truths, I try to limit my exposure to small children, Mormons and holistic practitioners. If one more fucker tries to insist exercise will help my bowel movements I am going to flip… doesn’t anyone get that I am the pioneer woman for “Say NO To Cardio”?

I should clarify I have no problem with fat people. I appreciate their lifestyle and plan to be amongst their body type one day.

As I settled into my chic economy middle seat, I was incredibly pleased with my seatmate to the left (a mid-30s New Yorker with 3 phones, a Balenciaga bag full of sleeping pills and a standoffish personality – no potential for idle chit chat). The plane was very full and mere seconds away from take off. And sweet – I am next to an open seat!

As soon as a smile of relief spread across my face, the plane shook disturbingly. I choked on the smell of bacon and diabetes as a behemoth took his first step down the aisle. I looked up hesitantly…Fuck. Sure enough, he sat right next to me. Fuck. He had worn sweatpants and was armed with a bag of McDonalds – ready to rumble.

It’s one thing to fly coach, it’s another thing to fly next to someone you could skin, inflate and live inside of. For the first time in my life, I became a victim of the armrest boundary free passenger program. I am not someone who is great sharing personal space and most definitely not a bitch who was ready to be a human pillow for a 4-hour flight. The flight attendant assured me I would have to retract my armrest so that my flight mate could fit in his (and my) seat. Pardon?  Booboo passed out after his 8th Big Mac and I was stuck watching the Main Menu and scrambling the letters to make words because he was drooling on my shoulder and blocking my armrest remote with his fucking tricep.

In reality he had 1 1/2 seats for himself and I had only half of my own seat and a near panic attack. Despite my frugality, I tried flagging the stewardess and begging her for the open seat in first class. Trying to arrange this without waking (and offending) the beast was a struggle and ultimately not an option.

I probably wouldn’t have written about this if he was a nice person I could empathize with but he was a life ruiner.

About 2 hours in, I needed a Bloody Mary or I was going to jump out of an emergency exit. To paint a picture – big boy was lounging across our seats, spread eagle, straddling both his and my leg area, and SNORING. His ham hock of a foot (shoes off by the way) was plopped down on my travel bag. I wanted to shank myself. I had to get my credit card out to pay and needed him to get his sweaty ass foot off my shit.

I gave him a gentle tap… no response. I tapped more aggressively.

“Hi sir, so sorry to bother you, just needed to grab my wallet. Again, so sorry to bother you.”

I know via written word I seem like I would be one ballsy bitch but the truth is I am a total pussy in real life.

He looked at me like I had just eaten the last petal of his Awesome Blossom. He let out an irritated sigh accompanied with an eye roll.


The stewardess handed me my beverage with an empathetic smile and I quickly sucked it down. I really had no choice, I was unable to put my tray down without chaffing Ginger Snaps’ nipple. I swallowed my pride and let Rotundra abuse my personal space. I am now a proud member of the mile high blood pressure club.

American Airlines – you owe me a free flight and at least 67 drink coupons. Kisses.


I need to get something off my chest…up until last night I thought Ebola was a type of yoga or an alternate name for a fetus. This is why I don’t watch the fucking news – can you imagine my Google search letdown? I am too neurotic to keep up with current events and diseases. Also – still a bit unsure about what ISIS is – I get the gist but my serotonin levels really can’t handle another punch.

The beauty of my naiveté is that I am 100% able to keep up in conversations concerning all of the above. Sure, for the first 24 seconds I was pretty sure ISIS was a new Apple gadget or specialty snow cone store, but I have a special gift that I am here to share with you. This, ladies and gentleman, is the precious art of faking it.

The Cold War, sexual harassment policies, Obamacare, Burning Man, Child Labor Laws – all are things I could discuss for hours despite having no clue what they are. I’m assuming the Cold War was over a heating unit? I can go from Elle Woods to Rachel Maddow in a jiffy.

These past few weeks have been crazy. I’ve been lucky enough to be in some seriously undeserving meetings with important people I have no business working with. Honestly, I am still shocked I get more then 4 readers a day (1. Mom 2. Best friend 3. Myself 4. Myself again).

The whole experience has been humbling… Well, it’s actually been the opposite of humbling but I am trying to seem likeable. Why do people even use that expression in extremely complimentary situations? Have you noticed every time someone wins an Oscar they say how humbled they are? Awky.

These situations plus irrelevant faux friends I went to school with who are coming out of the woodworks thinking I have something to offer them (I don’t) and trying to mend our relationship has been fucking fantastic. I still remember you said I was ugly in 7th grade so no, I do not need a Social Media Assistant. #byefelicia

I’ve been feeling so high (naturally – pot gives me anxiety #shocker) I even deleted my Instafollow app which tracks who unfollows me on my social media outlets. If that isn’t growth I don’t know what is. I figure fuck it, if you don’t like my shit at least I have a lot of strangers that do and isn’t that what life’s really all about?

As far as all these new life changes go, I have had to rely on faking it more then ever. Without any desire to really learn new traits, what is a bitch SUPPOSED to do? Learn? Grow? Evolve? Uh… no thank you. As much as I’m DYING to add “Proficient in Excel” to my LinkedIn skills I’ve never wanted to come off too administratively strong. I have often said I’m the most driven and hardworking underachiever in the game and I mean that whole-heartedly.

In my head, I am always one search bar away from knowing just as much as the Yale grad with an Emmy to my left so there is nothing to be trepidatious about. In fact, I don’t even know what the word trepidatious means and does it really matter?


Nod your head, make an offbeat joke, agree with whatever the majority is saying and go home and Google your little heart out. Sometimes it’s not about what you know – it’s about how well you can conceal what you don’t know.

Skinny Bitch Piña Colada

I was going to do a VMA recap but… I don’t fucking feel like it. Recaps are so annoying. I will say Ariana Grande is too talented to keep dressing like the spokesperson for Wet Seal lingerie, Taylor Swift moves like a limp green bean with a minor case of cerebral palsy (although Shake it Off is my jam) and Yonce is STILL on my mouth like liquor…. Every female in the music industry should be EMBARASSED #queenbey.

If you don’t follow me on Instagram you are really missing out… I am like the Martin Scorcese of fucky 15 second instavids (@jackieschimmel #plug). Yesterday, continuing my pain in the ass world tour – vacation edition, I was lusting for a poolside pina colada in a big way. It is rare I have these fruity cocktail cravings since the only thing I drink is dirty martinis. Until yesterday I had been convinced a “Phil Collins” was just a super popular gin drink… awkward. Now I eat like a diabetic truck driver but I WILL turn down for liquid calories. 500 calories for one fucking drink? No thanks, I would rather have a burger. I have to keep my shit together, I have my television debut in a few weeks (I will be on Watch What Happens Live on Bravo 9/14 #doubleplug) and have no intention of doing any type of exercise. One of my cocktail making tricks is the importance of a good shaker. I make ALL my drinks in a shaker, it’s like an irresponsible arm work out. Another trick is swapping out ice cubes (which tend to dilute the happy juice) for fresh fruit popsicle chunks. I don’t mean loading up your drink with some syrupy bullshit – I am talking either real frozen fruit or some 100% juice popsicles. My faves are a watermelon mint popsicle (48 mutha fuckin calories) found at specialty markets and coconut water fruit floes from Trader Joes (perfect for this recipe). Here is my super easy Skinny Bitch Pina Colada recipe that will not result in a muffin top or a hangover.

This is hands down the most awkward video of all time. Bottoms up bitches.

Generation WHY?

I am confused… when did our generation get such a bad rep? We are told we can’t get into good colleges, are bad at relationships, have entitlement issues, can’t make as good of a living as our parents, don’t value love and a whole bunch of other shit I have no interest in doing the research to name (for the record, the only thing I read on the internet is my own fucking blog and my ex boyfriends newsfeeds…duh). Although it seems super convenient to blame our generation for all of these factors the truth is we are all in control of our own lives. If we are ever unhappy with the way things are going, don’t we have full authority to change our course? Instead of complaining about being a victim to the “hook up culture” (whatever the fuck that is) and delusionaly finding solace in dumb articles we read on our newsfeeds why don’t we just look for people who want the same things? Sounds pretty simple right? That’s because it is. Sure I have had a fun night with a guy who drives a bright yellow sports car and gives everyone he meets a double cheek kiss despite the fact that he is from Calabasas not the South of France (gag). Did I think this guy was suddenly going to want to be in a committed relationship with me? Fuck no.

I feel as a generation we not only allow but perpetuate this vakakta sterotype. Sure getting into school was harder then it was for our grandparents, making 6 figures out of college is almost impossible and finding a guy that doesn’t want to bang you along with 6 other girls may be a struggle. But the more we fuel these stupid labels, the more we validate them. I read an article yesterday that had 4 different scientific studies with various percentages and research to support the “theory of the hook up culture”. It’s not that I entirely disagree with these theories. Guys have always been horny fucks – duh. Monogamy is tough shit. But don’t we have more important shit to take care of? Last time I checked there still isn’t a cure for cancer. I am pretty sure that should take precedent over running a survey on home many douchey fratboys you banged and never heard from again? Here is some groundbreaking conclusions. Don’t seriously date guys that don’t want a relationship. Don’t blame your generation for not getting into the same college as your Indian lab partner with a 4.7 GPA. Don’t find comfort in bullshit statistics and articles written by people who aren’t even apart of our generation and don’t know what tinder is.

This is not a cultural epidemic, not some plague to anyone born in the 80’s-90’s. The only plague spread through that time was Dickie overalls and the butterfly hairclip craze (let’s take about a REAL tragedy, shall we?) Our generations supply of Gerber baby food wasn’t contaminated with anti-commitment parasites that have made relationships any less important then they were 500 years ago. Has no one seen Game of Thrones? There shit wasn’t kosher either. The blame game is convenient, blaming a whole generation is even more convenient. If life is a ship (yes I am going there) we’re our own captain. We can compare our fleet to our elders but shit’s different now. If we hit an iceberg it’s our fault, if we follow another ship’s navigation we may get fucked (figuratively not physically) or end up on a fabulous private island – who knows? I am not entirely sure where I am going with this… I have been trying to work in a “boats and hoes” or seamen joke for about 20 minutes now so I am going to move on. What do you want from me? I didn’t go to college and that I blame solely on MYSELF #underachiever.

All I am saying is let’s not GENERALIZE our GENERATION and take a bit more accountability before we morph into the stereotype willingly.

Easy Summer Recipes

I am not going to sit here and go on and on how I get a huge hipster boner for fresh summer produce and flourishing farmer markets. I don’t bring my own bags to the supermarket, wear gladiator sandals and a farmers hat to peruse locally sourced eggplant and insincerely grope lemons for 35 minutes to find one that is “just right”. That is just not me.

I do however enjoy the free samples and imported cheese selection at MY local farmer’s market so once in a blue moon I stray from my usual Gelson’s or Bristol Farms and head  to roam amongst the granola crew. When I am cooking a meal my main focus is presentation, easy ingredients (inexpensive doesn’t hurt either) and obviously yummy. I really hate the word yummy and apologize for using it so carelessly. As I wandered the aisles of fresh fruits and hemp accessories I was inspired to make a dinner solely using ingredients bought at the farmer’s market (and by inspired I mean I was running low on gas and felt too lazy to stop at another store).

I got seduced by an Israeli man with more herbs than Whoopi Goldberg so I got swindled into buying almost everything under the sun. Basil, dill, italian parsley, green onions, rosemary, you name it. I tried to incorporate all of these into my dinner. I decided to make lavender lemon martini’s, a burrata caprese salad, herb salmon and grilled peaches with vanilla ice cream. It was a total stomach boner if I do say so myself and so colorful!



Lavender Cocktaillemon juice, simple syrup (equal parts sugar and water boiled) infused with fresh lavender, vodka. Add to shaker with ice, shake, serve and sip responsibly… or don’t no judgements.

Caprese Salad burrata cheese (buffalo mozzarella works too), heirloom tomatoes, basil, olive oil, balsamic vinegar (or glaze). Slice and layer, top with oil and vinegar, salt and pepper.

Herb Salmon salmon filet(s), lemon, fresh italian parsley, dill, green onion and whatever else you have. Coat salmon in olive oil, lemon juice, salt and pepper and top with chopped herbs. Drizzle more olive oil over herbs so they don’t burn. Bake in 375 degree oven for 15-20 minutes.

Grilled Peaches with Vanilla Ice Cream – peaches, honey, vegetable oil, vanilla ice cream, mint (I used basil instead). Brush peaches with oil and grill until soft with pretty grill marks, top with vanilla ice cream (after peaches have cooled) drizzle with honey (optional) and garnish with mint. 

Bon Appétit bitches.