Beauty Tips I Learned From Watching The Real Housewives

When you think of pioneer women of beauty trends, lust worthy weaves and day drinking in faux lashes it’s hard not to immediately think of The Real Housewives. As a passionate and unapologetic aficionado of the franchise, I have learned many a lesson from these dynamic women.

Wigs R Us. One of the great things about being a woman is the opportunity to experiment with our look. Kim Zolciak taught us that wigs are for everyone and a hell of a lot easier than busting our ass on a blow dry. While Kim’s early synthetic wigs were less than appealing, she later redeemed herself with a wig collection to die for. The housewives show us that a weave can make all the difference, just make sure it’s tight. And remember, clip on bangs are NEVER a good idea.

Faux lashes are a girl’s best friend. Apparently being a Real Housewife requires wearing mink lashes to the gym. What kind of lash glue are they using? Carpenter’s glue? The ladies love their lashes and are rarely seen on camera without them. But how does one maintain this level of glam? The secret is sleeping on your back. Whether you have to tie all your limbs to the bed posts like you are having an exorcism or putting bricks on the sides of your body, sleep like a corpse and you will wake up with perfect lashes.

Contouring is the new rhinoplasty. Melissa Gorga vehemently insists that her slenderized nose was NOT the result of going under the knife but proper shading. To be clear, I don’t believe Mrs. Gorga for a fucking meatball. That bitch got one hell of a nose job. However, a proper contour and highlight truly can give you a post-surgery nose sans the procedure bills and hush money to your surgeon.

Tan with caution. While the housewives spend their days lunching alfresco and jet setting to exotic locales, most of us sit under fluorescent lighting quarantined to a cubicle. Housewives live for a good tan. Tanning beds (Danielle Staub), natural sun or the popular spray tan? So many options! If you can’t tone it, tan it. But think Yolanda Foster’s Malibu glow and not Amber Marchese Doritos orange.

A frosty lipstick CAN get you fired. Peggy Tanous, Alexis Bellino and Adrienne Maloof were all pioneer women of the daytime frosty lip. Subsequently, they were all fired. Some would say their termination was due to lack of personality; I blame the opalescent sheen of their lip color. I’ll just say it… it looks tacky. Unless you are dressing up as Romy or Michelle, just say no.

Less is more. Ugh. I know… So boring and wholesome #kimfields. After all the shading, gluing and glossing sometimes the best thing about being a REAL real housewife is the luxury of living au natural. Like Caroline Manzo once prolifically said, “You can put lipstick on a pig, it’s still a pig.” And hopefully that lipstick is not fucking frosted.


Bitches You Shouldn’t Trust

This list is incredibly arbitrary and fueled by rosé and benadryl. I am sorry if this offends anyone. Just kidding I don’t give a flying fuck, I have gained 3 pounds and am suffering from 7 spider bites. Shoot me in the face. Have a lovely day. 

Never trust a bitch whose favorite color is PURPLE. Purple is for Quinceañeras and Barney the rapey dinosaur. Anyone over the age of 8 who loves purple is either a mentally unstable substitute teacher, Justin Bieber or colorblind. It’s a terrible color and should be banned from the rainbow. Lavender is tolerable (although I also don’t trust people who use pretentious color labels like Chartreuse, Mauve, Fuchsia, etc – get over yourself) but straight up PURPLE is appalling.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t like pickles. How does one not enjoy a crisp kosher dill? I have only found one instance that has proven me wrong on this theory. 99.9% of people who don’t like pickles are raging sociopaths and generally unfortunate.

Never trust a bitch who “doesn’t watch television”. Bullfuckingshit. Oh you think you’re so above basic entertainment value? How artsy. What are you doing INSTEAD of ever watching tv? Taxidermy? Murdering your neighbors? It’s just creepy and odd and usually not true.

Never trust a bitch who doesn’t let their children wear two piece swimsuits. This is just a quirk of mine. I used to work at a summer camp and always categorized the mothers in accordance to what swimwear they put their kids in. Bikinis? Cool. Tankinis? Traditional. Heinous Speedo tiedye one pieces? Basically Amish. Rash guards and zinc? Social Services.

Never trust a bitch who always wears false lashes (in particular STRIP lashes) I am talking to you Lilly Ghalichi. If I was on the precipice of life or death and my one task was to successfully apply faux lashes to grant me life, I would die a torturous death.

Never trust a bitch with no long-term friends. If you haven’t known and stayed friends with at least one person you went to elementary school with, you are probably an untrustworthy asshole. If you haven’t stayed close with someone you have known for over 2/3 of your life something ain’t right.

Never trust a bitch with a “Facebook Stage Name”. If your name is Christina Rosenberg, you don’t need to go by Chrissy Rose. Use your own fucking name, this isn’t the Spearmint Rhino. 

Crazy, Not Sexy, Cool

If you don’t get the TLC reference happening know I am super disappointed. This weeks podcast is pretty ridiculous so you should listen to it while you are stuck in traffic, hating your life or just with your sugar daddy over a buttery glass of chardonnay…

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.

High & Triple Distilled Spirits

I am a very routine bitch. I wake up, check my Instagram followers and make a to do list for the day. I tend to do my marketing around 11am post breakfast after a failed attempt at delivering my food baby, an average of 4 hours watching Bravo and cloaked in both shame and water retention. The parking lot is open, the cheese selection hasn’t been picked over and the staff seems in a chipper mood. For the first time ever I braved the carpool mom cluster fuck that IS Trader HOES at 5pm. The whole market just smelt of baby formula, cheese puffs and regret.

Within 34 seconds of entering the market, a kid spit on me. It wasn’t like he hacked a loogie on me, it was more of an aggressive drool. Thank god I have a serious gravitation towards Asian children or I may have cut a bitch. I am not an ageist … babies can be real assholes.

As I headed towards my happy place aka the liquor aisle I was hit with an immediate wave of social anxiety. All of these medicated carpool moms were clearly 20 minutes away from getting the shakes and running rampant. Children were left abandoned as their mothers grabbed crates of Two Buck Chuck. The sight alone was the best birth control I have ever experienced. I needed to get the fuck out of there. As I went to grab my routine bottle of Goose on the top shelf I found myself perplexed as the bottle in my hand started to crackle… because it was made of fucking plastic.

It read “Vodka of The Gods” and was $9.99 for a handle. The description boasted it was “perfect for mixed drinks” which is like when someone describes a bitch as looking “healthy” after she has gained a few lbs. You can’t bullshit a bullshitter. I would sooner ferment my own potatoes or find a Russian sugar daddy with great Vodka inventory before I bought this shit. I practically dropkicked the nearest employee and demanded they check the back for some decent vodka.

College wasn’t my shtick but I can imagine how those 4 minutes of waiting for Salvador to return and determine the fate of my evening has to be eerily similar to waiting for a University acceptance letter. As I saw my little chalupa emerge from the back without any happy juice in tow my heart sank. “So sorry ma’am. It’s been a very busy afternoon. Have you ever tried Vodka of The Gods?” “Fuck you Salvador.”

I had spent 40 minutes navigating this infested market, helped an elderly pick out a new orchid and swapped germs with enough children to cast a United Colors of Benetton ad. It was time to get sketchy.

Out of the corner of my eye I spotted a yoga pant-wearing woman chatting away on her Bluetooth. She had abandoned her little boy in the shopping cart and was perusing various meatless products. I quickly scanned the contents of her cart: 1) Her mediocre child 2) No animal byproducts 3) A bottle of fucking Grey Goose. Clearly this bitch was a vegan. Can they even DRINK vodka? “Seriously tempeh tastes better than steak Cheryl, you MUST try it” … Now all bets were off. Her kid was playing on his iPad, she was gabbing away about her philanthropic dietary restrictions (side note: if everyone was a fucking vegan the ecosystem would CRASH #teamfoodchain) and I was getting thirstier by the minute. I knew if I could just position myself about 45 degrees to the left of her malnourished child I could grab the bottle of Goose and make a bolt for the cashier. It really seemed like I would be doing her a favor… I mean drinking something that possibly could have come from a Goose seems conflicting with her lifestyle choices.

I inched closer pretending to red the nutritional info on a nearby box of Snap Pea Crisps and ever so delicately let my left arm fall into Vegan Victoria’s shopping cart. Without breaking eye contact from the Snap Peas, I located the bottleneck and slowly started to lift it out of the cart. With merely centimeters to go … “MOM MY IPAD DIED!” what a little shithead. The mother whipped around and caught me awkwardly holding the bottle of vodka behind my back while I clutched the snap peas. “Oh… UM. I am so sorry I thought this was my cart? Haha!”  #LAWLZ Yeah fucking right. I am pretty sure I didn’t also have an overindulged little asshole riding shotgun in MY cart. She looked over at my nearby basket filled with ground lamb, 46 kinds of cheese and enough frozen fish to subsidize for Fukushima and things only got more awky.

She looked at me in total disgust. Back off me bitch, things could be worse. It wasn’t like I was trying to kidnap your child. Some may call this occurrence a personal low point… I prefer to think I had great initiative and high spirits. I headed to the checkout sans Vodka and many of my maternal instincts. Since this incident I have been popping birth control pills like wintergreen Tic Tacs. I have made a vow never to come face to face with these vicious Trader Hoes ever again and to forever more buy all alcohol at Costco where the dilfs and samples are plentiful.

A Mother’s Love (& Impending Therapy Bills)

Yesterday, I had the delight of being forced into a Ladies of Leisure outing with my mother and Aunt Jodie. These outings are common and usually quite enjoyable. My mother loves about five things unconditionally: sushi, horror movies, Ronald Reagan, Chardonnay, and her American Express. When she can intersect at least three of these things in one day she really loses her shit.

She proposed the three of us go for a nice sushi lunch and then go to see a movie. Uni on someone else’s dime can pretty much guarantee my presence to anything. “Jackie, want to come to my anal bleaching appointment and then to put my dog down? I’ll take you to Matsuhisa after.” “Sounds like a blast, I am there!”

It was only after my mother baited me with overpriced yellowtail that she broke the news that her movie selection was fucking Annabelle. OH HELL NO BITCH. I am scared of EVERYTHING. As a child I was terrified of Bert & Ernie from Sesame Street for fuck’s sake – I thought they seemed sketchy and rapey. Once I matriculated to elementary school I developed a fear of invisible whales and would drop turkey in the pool to see if it disappeared – Free Willy really fucked my ass up.

I refuse to go to haunted houses, hope all black cats go extinct, and contribute 40% of my religious beliefs in Judaism to the fact that NO WEIRD SHIT GOES DOWN AT A SYNAGOGUE. Think about it… most horror films have something to do with a church, a priest and the Devil. No one ever started levitating at a Shabbat Dinner over kosher wine and Bubby’s brisket. Just saying…

Anyways, nothing about my spirit bode well with seeing an ACTUAL horror film. My mother ordered me hot sake and told me she would get me some popcorn, Raisinettes and a random Neiman Marcus gift card she found in her car.

Further catapulting this already frightening situation…. My mother thought it would be hilarious to bring this Halloween prop in her purse to bust out in the middle of the movie.



Midway through the movie, I had lost six pounds, was covering my eyes and plugging my ears while simultaneously bobbing my head blindly into a bucket of popcorn. I kept looking over at my mother and mouthing “I HATE YOU.” My real life Mommy Dearest was clearly enjoying my despair and decided during the height of the movie to bust out her little prop. She slyly wrapped her arm around me from behind and casually rested the prosthetic limb gently on my shoulder. I looked and immediately shot up from my seat screaming “WHAT THE FUCK!”

The only thing that kept me from going into full cardiac arrest was the fact that the hand seemed partially African-American and I down with the swirl. My mother was laughing so hard she could barely breathe. This incident has caused quite a strain in our relationship and I still have not recovered. I can’t sleep, refuse to forgive my mother and will never go within 5 miles of an American Girl Doll store. However, if there is a one-armed Milano dreamboat out in the world, hit a bitch up.

Bitchy Epiphany

Today was the closest thing to an epiphany I have ever had except for the time I saw Mischa Barton at the supermarket and my whole world was turned upside down because I came to the harsh realization that my former girl crush Marissa Cooper, now had thighs that chaffed. Growing up is difficult. I went to a meeting this morning and had to stifle my inappropriate language, pretend to be charming and eloquent and pimp the shit out of my little bitchy blog. It was like a scene out of a movie. I waltzed into the big fancy office with my writing portfolio, deflated chutzpah and 3 too many statement pieces in my outfit. I repeated the mantra I had assigned myself for the event “No cussing, no crude hand gestures. Charming and chipper. Charming and chipper.” I have since realized that mantras aren’t really my thing.

As I sat before a powerful and ultra intimidating woman (hey gurl) I immediately was overwhelmed with nerves and anxiety. In a seemingly cut throat business where favors are non-existent and sugar-coating is only limited to the donuts in the office kitchen, I was thrown off by his first question. “So Jackie, who is the bitch behind The Bitch Bible? What does she stand for?” Ummm…. “Me? You? Everyone? Love. Life. Glitter. Human Rights?” Fuck my life. She inquisitively nodded her head, evaluating my answer. “What kind of girl are you?” Immediately I wanted to bust into a Britney ballad and start belting out “I’m not a girl, not yet a womaaaaan (not now woah) ALL I NEED IS TIME (and an agent) A MOMENT THAT IS MINE, WHIIIILE IM IN BETWEEN.” In hindsight that probably would have best described what kind of girl I actually am but I digress. But seriously, what kind of fucking question is that? And what kind of girl AM I? Naturally I came up with some vague, clever and undeniably punny answer which seemed to go over pretty well. I can shmooze with the best of them. The rest of the meeting was a blur… I tend to tune people out once the conversation is no longer about me. We shook hands, exchanged contact info and assured we would talk soon. Fab.

I took myself for a pre-emptive celebration lunch and couldn’t help but be plagued by my new UNSOLICITED mantra “what kind of girl are you?” I don’t fucking know what kind of girl I am… am I even a girl anymore? I have had my menstrual cycle for double-digit years and pay my own car insurance, that HAS to count for something right? Am I a “girls girl” because I like sparkly clothing, Bravo and brunch with my besties? Am I a “guys girl” because I am unemotional and anything Nicholas Sparks touches makes me want to spoon my own retinas out? Do I have to pick one or the other? OY VEY SMERE. “Who is the bitch behind The Bitch Bible. What does she believe in, what does she stand for?” Fucking world peace? Banning kitten heels? Daytime sequins? Is that something I am even equipped to answer? I only allow myself 30 minutes of deep thought daily so I had to move on and finish my hamburger. I further contemplated and came to the conclusion that I am not the type of girl that can be pigeon holed to some stupid ass label. I am the type of girl that answers questions immediately with applicable 90’s pop song lyrics. So boss lady… If you are really wondering what type of “girl” I am I will leave you this; I can understand how you’d be so confused, I don’t envy you. I am a little bit of errthang all rolled into one. I’m a bitch, I’m a lover, I’m a child, I’m a mother (hi Leo), I’m a sinner, I’m a saint. I do not feel ashamed. I’m your hell (not really please sign me) I’m your dream. I’m nothing in between, you know you wouldn’t want it any other way.