There are pop culture milestones that change history forever. Last night the world received a metaphorical edible arrangement in the form of Kim Kardashian vs Taylor Swift. As a squad reject, I have very personal feelings about Taylor Swift. I would rather hang out with ISIS than attend one of her holiday weekend barbeques. I am not thin or rich enough and I doubt she would be cool with my JonBenet Ramsey jokes.

As we all know, Taylor Swift is a nice girl. I have always struggled with the term “nice”. Nice is a behavior not a personality attribute. Just remember there are people who say Osama Bin Laden was NICE. I value authenticity over bullshit pleasantries which is why this story vindicates me so.

As we all know Nina Banks from Father of The Bride 2/ Jenny Humphrey aka Taylor Swift has been very vocal and self-righteous over Kanye West’s “Famous”. She gave a enthrallingly basic/victimized/ babysitters club Grammy speech jabbing at Kanye and insisting she was blindsided by the song. Innocent little cat lady. All the while Kanye West has INSISTED Taylor knew about the song. Pablo let the incident die while he was off taking a pair of scissors to a Fruit of The Loom sweatpants for Yeezy Season 5 until last night when Kim “Harriet the Spy” Kardashian Humphries West exposed T Swift with the light of a trillion Lumee cases.

Kim didn’t give us a cryptic tweet, suggestive caption or a magazine pull quote, she gave us kold hard evidence. That snapchat bomb was epic as fuck. I have never been a Kardashian fan, I find them incredibly uninteresting and tired. Except for Rob, what a strapping young sock mogul. I am kidding, he is the WORST. I must admit, Kim is my favorite.

I like to imagine Taylor Swift was home baking gluten-free banana bread, doodling in her Burn Book, watching yet another Friends rerun and manicly staring at herself in the mirror brushing her smug bob. Then her phone rings (Blank Space is her ringtone) and all hell breaks loose. She starts assaulting her housekeeper, takes a knife to her mattress, screams bloody murder and grits her teeth at her 38 cats while plotting her retaliation. She calls Karlie Kloss to see if with all of her “coding knowledge”she could take down Kim’s snapchat. Ironically, Karlie doesn’t ACTUALLY know how to code (side note: if you aren’t privy to Koding with Karlie please look into it, living for models pretending to be nerds and burger enthusiasts – stfu).

So instead, further perpetuating the victim mentality, Taylor responds by saying she didn’t know he was going to refer to her as “that bitch” and feels violated by being recorded without her knowing. Really? Remember when you professed to have no idea about Kanye’s song and there is a fucking VIDEO of you encouraging creative liberty? Bitch please.

The reason people dislike Taylor is because she seems void of authenticity. It started with the faux suprise everytime she won an award “what? me? no way! I can’t believe it. I am such an underdog!”. Then she took a big preaching shit all over Amy Poehler and Tina Fey after they made a miniscule joke about Taylors dating life. Instead of shaking that shit off (HELLO its an award show, if you get to do what you love and make millions of dollars doing so you can take a joke) Taylor shifted the narrative to feminism and voiced her concern for “pitting women against eachother…” shut the fuck up.

We can’t forget about Nicki Minaj pointing out that all MTV VMA nominations were in favor of slim women and Tay Tay made it ALL about her only to reconcile for an opening performance together. Ugh. Then most recently, Taylor willingly preferred and agreed to have a psuedonym as a writer on “This is What You Came For” and then oh so skillfully manipulated the narrative that she wasn’t getting proper credit. HUH? I just can’t.

Word on the street is that Taylor has a potential lawsuit against Kimye for releasing he phone call/ recording her without her permission. Unfortunately I know the extremities of these privacy infringements because I was almost sued by an emaciated busboy/ DJ (#PumpRules) but luckily he is too poor to prosecute. Taylor, bitch to bitch, if you choose to press charges not only will you have the rhythm of Gumby with Parkinson’s, you will also be a total narc. Darling, you are kinda a nightmare dressed like a day dream.



Dear DJ James Kennedy (Part Duex)

Dear DJ James Kennedy,

Hey girl… it’s me, Jackie. Again. Hope you’re doing well. Just kidding, you are literally the worst. Before I begin my second attempt at contact, I would like to clarify that your hAtErZ are not your MoTivaTeRz because you are a fucking busboy at Sur. Also if you are reading this and telling yourself that shit like this makes you relevant, please know it doesn’t… I am simply low on material and love an easy target that is not intelligent enough to defend themselves and proudly displays their douche-ness to an extent that I am able to comment on it without repercussions.

As a journalist I find it my civil duty to make contact with you. Like Carrie Mathison risked her and Brody’s livelihood by hunting Abu Nazir and Diane Sawyer ventured to the Middle East for a nationally publicized sit down with Sadam Hussein, I too am reaching out to sit down face to face and go over some of your questionable behavior. My problem is not the fact that you dress like Kate Moss, think you are headlining Coachella (#saharatent) because you can make playlists on Spotify OR the derogatory way you speak to and about women. It’s your inability to acknowledge what an asshole you are. Perspective is everything… did I just give you your album name?

From one slender physiqued young lady to another, help me, help you, help myself, help the world, you’re the help. You is not kind, you is not smart, you is not important. I wish Octavia Spencer delivered a shit pie to your shared apartment. When you told Lisa that you are responsible for her burgeoning business at Pump, I almost vomited. Just because you have a free 30-day trial of Garage Band, a disappointing H&M blazer and a Yelp profile does not mean you are Calvin Harris. “You can read the yelp reviews, they are waiting for a cd.” I literally want to get this tattooed on my forehead. And then stab myself in the forehead.

I understand that you were probably very perplexed upon learning that you inadvertently ate another mans ass… the true shame is that he was a football player and not LA Reid or someone that could get you an internship at a record label. Music executives need their dishes cleaned too, share your gifts James.

Sometimes I think I am being too hard on you James. But then you start speaking and I feel complete permission and validation in my words. Please know you have an invitation to discuss our issues face to face perhaps over some mini bottles of Seagrams. Dance like no ones watching, rap like no ones listening and eat ass like you have never been hurt.

Love always,


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. 


Team Hova

Everyone and their less attractive sister have been losing their SHIT over this Jay Z/ Solange elevator brawl. The good news is that this is Solanges biggest hit in years… Or ever. Who is Solange again? So now she is front page news for going apeshit and attacking Jay when we should be focusing on the real crime here…that jagged bowl cut Tina Knowles gave her. Although I am forever in awe of Yonce, her glowing complexion, impeccable weave and Swarovski encrusted leotards, I am not thrilled with the way she is handling this.  I get this isn’t her “beef” but she is the nucleus of this situation so I am going to need her cooperation.


Why the fuck is she smiling? Super fun night out with my hubby and mentally stable sis! #LAWLS. She just sat in the elevator calm as fuck while her psyche ward escapee sister attacked her husband. Side note: I am so over celebrities professing to be “really private and introverted” – bitch please. Hey Bey, why don’t you call up Sasha Fierce and let her handle this one. Everyone rips me a new asshole when I have expressed this and I get she is being demure, reserved and classy but seriously? Don’t pull that ish with me Bey, I am sure you are “super shy”. That’s why you can perform in front of 20 million people with your labia hanging out. Own your shit and please folks be grown ups and release a statement.

First Solange deleted every photo of her and Beyoncé off of her Instagram and Twitter feed like a 4th grade bitch. First of all, if Beyoncé was MY sister I would never post photos of myself next to her. Obviously… THEN Beyoncé takes the “high road” like more mature 11th grade bitch and posts 300 cryptic Instagram pics with her and Solange being all lovey dovey #thewaywewere. When my sister and I get in arguments we yell at each other at the top of our lungs, take a few low blows, verbally attack each other, slam some doors then go get frozen yogurt… like fucking adults. In reality, them NOT addressing the situation and utilizing social media for people to draw their own conspiracy theories is far more dramatic than the alternative. 

Xanax prescriptions everywhere are being refilled like wildfire over this. How the fuck are we supposed to function properly with so many unanswered questions. Perhaps this all a pharmaceutical sales ploy. LIKE WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED? Could a bitch get some audio? Can’t the government pixelize the footage and hire a CIA trained mouth reader to see what the conversation is? Priorities people. We have all heard the 645 possible stories why Solange attacked. Maybe Hova is cheating, Solange got too “turnt up” (we as a society really need to stop using this phrase) or she was just super pissed that she was dressed as a goldfish all night. I call BULL on all of this. I am convinced that Solange has been dealing with deep-rooted anger management problems since she was never EVER made a member of the ever interchanging Destiny’s Child. They went through like 16 different fourth members. That has got to burn. Maybe “Bug-a-boo” was written about Solange after she begged and pleaded Daddy Knowles to let her in the band? Like not even for one week during the interim of Michelle Williams jumping on board? Like not even as an extra for the “Say My Name” music video?

The only conclusion I have drawn from this little scuffle is that I am totally Team Hova. Not only was HE the victim here, HE is also the only one not being a little passive aggressive biatch all over the internet. There is some serious vakakta feminism shit spread all over this situation but I am not nearly smart or articulate enough to comment on it. Jay, I am super down to be your vanilla boo. And if my goldfish ratchet bowl cut sister ever attacked you, I wouldn’t be chilling in my Givenchy gown spectating like a pussy. I am sure I am going to get colossally stung by the Bey Hive … but long hair don’t care. Bitches be cray, I love you Jay. #mrscarter 



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

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

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

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

Bitchy Holidays

Holy jingle balls. How come nobody told me Thanksgivukkah (Thanksgiving + Hanukkah = Thanksgivukkah duh) is next week?  And then Christmas? And then New Years? And then my all-time favorite Martin Luther King day? I tend to have a love hate relationship with the holiday season. The obvious upside for me is the gift giving. I fucking love getting presents, I also surprisingly love to give presents (especially ones that benefit me simultaneously). Family time is irrelevant because I am with my immediate and extended family all the fucking time. But seriously, I see my third cousins more than most people see their significant others. I semi enjoy the whole “spirit” of Christmas and the other holidays. I asked one of my gentile friends why she gets such a lady boner for the holiday season and this is her reasoning…”It’s just so festive. You get a tree, light the fire, dress all cozy, listen to the Christmas music, have big family dinner. It’s all just so fun and warm!”  No offense, but that doesn’t seem all that exciting. What a sad way to live that THAT’S the highlight of your year? Making small talk with distant relatives, dodging your creepy sixth cousin and awkwardly inquiring for gift receipts after said distant relative gives you a giftcard to fucking Hollister. Just a side note people- a giftcard from Abercrombie and Fitch, JC Penney, Hollister, Brighton or Bebe is not a gift…it’s a burden.

 I would like to go on record and say I take personal offense in Christmas themed apparel. Yesterday I saw a woman with LIGHT UP reindeer earrings on and I literally got nauseous and fought the urge to rip them straight from the lobe. Firstly, can we get through fucking Thanksgivukkah before we start busting out Sears finest Santa sweaters and heinous reindeer ear headbands? When I pass people with any form of seasonal memorabilia on I have to restrain myself from tackling them to the ground. Especially in fucking November. Pump the breaks bitch. I love a little pomp and circumstance, but walking around in some poly-blend sweater with a reindeer or Jesus or mother fucking Santa Clause will always make you look like an asshole.

Another aspect of the holidays that throws me into a serious downward spiral is the music. A song here and there on Christmas Eve or Christmas Day I can totally do. I’m not like the damn Grinch trying to shit all over Christmas. I actually love Christmas, my Grandma makes her world famous egg soufflés, my dad spikes the coffee with Baileys and we exchange gifts. And all to the sweet sounds of Mariah Carey’s Christmas album. Get it girl. When people start playing Christmas music 2 months before the actual holiday, it’s just debilitating. Shopping is a recreational pastime of mine. A way to decompress and fill any internal voids by making unnecessary purchases and certain department stores really do act as my safe place. This past week I decided to peruse the shoe department at Saks to see what new shoes I would blow my annual bonus on. As I approached these life altering pair of snakeskin sandals all of the sudden I heard “ JUST HEAR THOSE SLEIGH BELLS JINGLING RING TING TINGLING TOO” in a techno remix. I was instantly ejected from my shoe haze and wanted to find the annoying sales girl who put this shit on and cut her like bad bangs. Way to ruin what could’ve been a really financially irresponsible yet mentally rewarding afternoon for me. You festive bitch.

Okay so I was majorly jealous my family didn’t go balls to the walls with Christmas decorations as a kid. Since my mother converted, she likes to overcompensate for her first 25 years on earth by playing the super jew. We are not a particularly religious family, we are more cultural so I am pretty shocked my mom never let us get a proper Christmas tree. Instead we had the Hanukkah ficus tree. Way to be mediocre. My mother did however let us put lights on the house but ONLY if they were white. I remember as a kid being very adamant about using colored lights and even pushed investing in some light up reindeers to put on our front yard. That was definitely a no go. To quote my mother “Colored Christmas lights are for people on permanent welfare have horrible taste or don’t live in an area with a home owners association.” She has later clarified that people who live in chic Moroccan inspired homes can pull off a colored light and they are totally acceptable for a party if its theme appropriate. Phew. As I have (kinda) matured into my womanhood, I agree entirely with this declaration. I fucking hate colored Christmas lights. I live for a white twinkly light honey, but those big bulbed, multicolored, green wire Christmas lights are straight up ratchet.  And having an illuminated nativity scene on your front lawn is just aggressive.

**Editors Note: After reading this back I sound like I have really got my tinsel in a tangle.  I ultimately enjoy the holiday season quite a bit but still support the above frustrations.

Britney Mothafuckin’ Jean

I hope most of you agree, Britney Spears is a straight up haute mess ICON. Everytime she completes a full sentence with a subject predicate and proper verb usage I get SO excited for her. This may sound selfish but all I have ever wanted from Britty is to bust out pop songs the same way she busts out shitty hair extensions and slither on a stage with her 6 pack stomach and a live cobra around her neck just like the good old days. I have stood by Britney through everything. Her head shaving fiasco, fast food binging, baseball bat incident, K-Fed and her unbelievably bad hair extensions ( I am sorry I just can’t get over them).  I even supported this…

What can I say? I’m a giver. Despite all of her low points Britney is the queen of comebacks. This morning as I begrudgingly got out of bed and started my 12 hour countdown for the Real Housewives of Beverly Hills premiere (recap to follow) I turned on the radio in my car and was given the gift of Miss Britney Jeans new single “Perfume”. Now listen, I am not just another Britney soldier. Despite not having any form of actual relationship with her, I still feel incredibly close with her. Firstly, we both have serious appreciation for the culinary offerings of gas stations. She likes slurpies, I like slurpies. She snacks on Cheetohs and so do I. She  has no aversion to public restrooms and neither do I. I prefer the anonymity of a public restroom… makes me feel more relaxed. So clearly, we have a lot in common. Just 2 peas in fucking pod. The only thing that I hold against her is her alleged restrictions on surrounding herself with people who drink or smoke since she doesn’t want any temptation. Sobriety seems so boring. Good luck with that one in Vegas boo. The only “perfume” you will smell there is the inspiring scent of alcohol, cigarettes and broken dreams. For those living under a rock here is my girl Britney Jean’s new song… I think it is steamy, sticky and marketing genius since that bitch has more perfumes on the market than Jo Malone. What can you expect? It’s Britney Bitch.


It may seem like I am living vicariously through my best friend (@ruthannemusic) who co-wrote the new Britney Spears song “Work Bitch”. That assumption would be entirely correct. This song may be the only thing that has ever made me want to go for a run, but seriously. Can we also take a second to appreciate how she is putting the Brit in faux BRITish accents? I am kind of obsessed with celebrities developing British accents, it’s so trendy right now. Madonna, Gwyneth and now Britty boo. I may start using one too, except anytime I try different dialects it always slowly turns into an Vietnamese/Spanish blend and that could just be weird.  Anyways for anyone living under a rock, take a listen to the song that will be playing on repeat at every gay bar and group fitness class worldwide.

Now get to work bitch.

Duff Love

On the tail end of the Miley Cyrus gag fest ( I literally have watched the performance 68 times AND had a dream-nightmare about latex bathing suits and teddy bears which is NOT a coincidence) I thought we should take a moment and celebrate another Disney star that did it right. I am talking about the one and only Hilary Duff. Talk about having your shit together. The only negativity she has received by the media is the Aaron Carter LOVE TRIANGLE of 2004 and when she traded in her old chiclets in for some new veneer chompers (a move I TOTALLY approved of). How can you not weep while watching her impeccable performance of Italian superstar Isabella in “The Lizzie McGuire Movie” #oscarsnub. True or False, I listened to Hilary Duff’s “Sweet Sixteen” on repeat on my 16th birthday? TRUE. True or False, I own the movie “Material Girls” on DVD? TRUE. True or False, “So Yesterday” was my break up anthem and even inspired me to take multiple photos with new guys and post them on Facebook? FUCKING TRUE. No shame from this Duff lover.hilduff

Hillary Duff is an inspiration and a pioneer for all haute messes. She got married to NHL star, had a beautiful baby (and in that order), and spent her teen years as a Disney superstar all while never making a cameo at Promises. Did I forget to mention she is bonafied music superstar? I won’t lie I have all of her hits on my iPod – even the most recent ones circa 2010. That shit is catchy. Every morning while I skim my daily blogs I see pics of her and her cute son Luca having breakfast, picking up flowers at Bristol Farms, headed to Gymboree. Ugh what a dream. Then she will spontaneously post pics of her and her husband on date night drinking margaritas and looking blissfully in love and adorable. Hey now, hey now… this is what dreams are made of. Miley… take a fucking page from this girls book (I forgot Hil also writes ACTUAL books! #mogul) You go girl, I will forever be a #dufflover

Haute Mess Lesson: Miley… please cover your muff, you will never be Hillary Duff.

Gift Giving Guide

They say “it’s the thought that count’s” when giving a gift. I believe whoever made that up was probably a shitty gift giver. If someone knits you a blanket from their own hair  or a fucking paper mache statue of you versus a Rolls Royce, I think it’s pretty obvious which you’d be most excited about (the paper mache statue obvs). Let’s keep it real. It’s not always the thought that counts. With Mother’s Day behind us and Father’s Day on the horizon I have been thinking about what would be a great present. The one person I have always found the hardest to buy for is my mother. Firstly, anything she would really want she would just go buy for herself. Secondly, if you do buy her something she feel’s bad and will try and re-imburse you. So what do you give the ungiftable woman?

One of the perks of being a top-notch rhymer and having a live in music man is I have been able to give the invaluable gift of song.  For her birthday last year, we gifted her “Glass of Chardonnay” it quickly became a family anthem. We played it at Thanksgiving, Hanukkah, at BBQ’s, whenever and wherever. After the positive fan feedback from our first hit, I knew for Mother’s Day I had to “drop my next track”.  A few things you should know before listening…

  1. This is without a doubt my most embarrassing post.
  2. For some God forsaken reason, my grandparents gave my mother the middle name “Gay”. (She know uses my father’s middle name Loren… whats with my family and these terrible middle names?)
  3. My mother lives and breathes for a chilled glass of Chardonnay.

I apologize. Happy Saturday.

Me, Myself and I

In life I think you are one of two people. Let’s say you’re walking across the street and trip, do you save face and keep walking eyes straight or do you look around acknowledge any witnesses and laugh at/with yourself?

As a young adult (I use the term adult very loosely) I think one of the most important things you can do is really get to know yourself.  Sounds fairly simple and like most things, is not. How do you get to know yourself (or anyone for that matter) is by spending good ol’ quality time solo. I have always loved to be alone. It’s kind of been my thing since I was younger.  Seeing movies alone, going to restaurants alone, shopping alone etc. Don’t get me wrong I have always been very social. Tight group of friends, boyfriends, 3,000 family members within a 2 mile radius (literally). But some of my favorite moments have happened while I was alone. I used to think I was a complete freak of nature but as I have grown up I think it’s something everyone should be able to do. I came to the realization that if I don’t want to hang out with me, why the hell would anybody else? Being alone forces you to make decisions that we often leave to compromise with others. Feel like a burger? Get one. Want to go to the beach? Go.

The ideology behind doing what you want often gets labeled as “selfish” but why? As long as it is not at the expense of another person what’s the ish? You are and should be the most important person in your life. Duhhh. Take a day and do whatever the fuck you want. See how it feels. And now I leave you with a gratuitous Carrie Bradshaw quote (you knew it was coming eventually)…

“The most exciting, challenging and significant relationship of all is the one you have with yourself. And if you can find someone to love the you you love, well, that’s just fabulous.”

Haute Mess Lesson: Do you girl.

Take a listen to another post appropriate Haute Mess anthem written/recorded by the very talented and equally good looking Andrew Haas ( my boo)  John Ryan, Ian Pollack  and Josh Jones.

**Editor’s note: Can you tell I am trying to class up my site? Only one f-bomb … #maturity

Bitch Bible Anthem

One of my best friends and haute mess extraordinaire gives herself a 2 hour limit to write/sing/record and arrange a new song everyday. Her latest song really hits home for me and feels very personal….

Happy Saturday.