style

No-Chella, No-Problems

This year I made the responsible and conscious decision not to attend Coachella. At first it was because my digestive system couldn’t weather a weekend of eating Spicy Pie and for the price of accommodations and artist passes, we could buy an ocean view condo. Also, my people did enough time wandering the fucking desert.

Last year I attended and had 4 mental breakdowns, gained 6 pounds and wore a metal head wreath that I still haven’t forgiven myself for. With every peace sign, crop top and snapchat of trust fund babies pretending to be SuPeR into LCD Soundsystem a bit of my soul dies and reaffirmed my decision to sit this year out. Is it fun? Duh. Does it bring out the worst in people? Yes (please see below).

collage.jpg

People tend to go all Silverlake at Coachella. Bitches (and bros) pretend to know and love obscure bands, dress differently, Nashville filter themselves till their fucking phalanges bleed and all while professing that this weekend “changed their lives”. Shut the fuck up Vanessa Hudgens. It’s a music festival. It’s fun as fuck I get it. But if your life epiphany occurs next to a blow-up neon caterpillar it’s time to get your head out of the asshole you shoved molly inside of and grow the fuck up. I can’t with these people. Maybe the floral crowns and chokers are cutting of blood circulation to the brain?

Also, everyone is on drugs. “Nuh-uh Jackie, I didn’t do drugs! I am there for the music.” Go fuck yourself, EVERYONE IS ON DRUGS. I have no problem with this. I am not a drug person but I hold no judgment to those more free spirited than I. For me it’s the idea of these bitches in body chains shoving vials of cocaine up their vaginas like the Mexican Cartel that concerns but also intrigues me.

Then there are the people who bring their fucking kids. So you’ll spend hundreds of dollars on a ticket (I’m assuming general admission) but can’t drop $40 for a fucking babysitter? You’re baby is getting hot boxed ma’am. I strongly believe there should be a Child Protective Services booth right next to the Heineken Beer Garden. “Little Timmy, finish up your bottle, Diplo is about to start!” No, just no.

Beyond all of this, there is a serious social stratification (big word) that sets the mood as separate but definitely not equal. I’m talking about General Admission, VIP and Artist. The harsh truth is, I would never engage in sexual activity with anybody in General Admission. Mostly because there is a big chance they are sleeping in a fucking tent and shitting in a port-a-potty. VIP allots you shitting in a porcelain throne and you don’t have the same Auschwitz level security entrance. Artist passes are ideal if you want to be escorted in a fucking golf cart and drunkenly sway next to fucking Rihanna. It’s called the Coachella Caste System… one day we will read about this in our grandchildren’s textbooks.

As bitches everywhere comedown from their post-Coachella commas just remember it’s not you, it’s your head wreath. See you next year Coachella.

Things I Kurrently Kan’t With

Sorry I haven’t been actively blogging lately. I have been in a great mood lately and tend to only do my best work when I am angry or super menstrual. Lucky for you and my vagina, I am menstruating (#notpregnant) so I knew it was time to delight my bitches with some updates on my life.

Firstly, I have started wearing Uggs. I feel like I should probably go get a Wal-Mart credit card and go buy some fucking Warm Vanilla Lace body spray because isn’t that what people in Uggs do? This is a true story, I am quoted in my high school yearbook saying, “Uggs are UG” a decade ago (I won ‘Best Style’ #humblebrag and that tidbit was all I could come up with as a style philosophy). At the time, this was very controversial. I lost like 7 friends who swore by a Hollister jean skirt and Ugg boot combo after that was published. So as you can imagine, as I ventured to Starbucks this morning in leggings and my very vintage Uggs I felt like a super cunt traitor but also amazing.

Also on an entirely unrelated note… someone called me a pedophile on twitter. Just because I innocently called Hilary Duff’s 4 year old son hott. I would like to go on record and say that I stand by that statement. Seriously though have you seen him? Hottest 4 year old I have ever seen. If the one upside of sexism is that as a woman it’s less pedophilic to call kids hott, then please let me take advantage of that. Kaia Gerber is hott as fuck. She gets Cindy Crawford genealogy AND a lifetime of Casamigos Tequila. Romeo Beckham… please call me when you are 18. Or 17. Or 12.

Fuck “friends day”. The best part about making harsh statements against these fabricated Facebook holidays is that people get so offended and immediately start to defend themselves for taking part in the propaganda. If you are a regular cyber stalker like yours truly, you don’t need a sappy computer generated slideshow to reminisce. Firstly, you don’t even like 60% of the people pictured and secondly, no one gives a fuck. Publicly celebrating FrIeNdS dAy is like publicly celebrating your menstrual cycle after a pregnancy scare. Or like a Ramona Singer “New Beginnings” party. It’s self indulgent as fuck.

And lastly, on this day February 3, 2016, I initiate yet another Kardashian Kleanse. Because after 3 painful episodes of Kocktails with Khloe, 26 disgruntled reader emails attacking me for calling Caitlyn Jenner an asshole and 487 hours of watching Kylie Jenner’s snapchat and crying myself to sleep – I just kan’t do it anymore.

I miss Lace.

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.

Eff 2016

Most people say the Holidays are the season of love, joy and spirit. If there is ever a part of my year that makes me hate everyone and everything it’s this very time. Something about a festive acrylic nail, caramel popcorn, and the misuse of sequins compasses the opposite effect for me.

So we made it through Hanukkah/Christmas. I only had to acquire like 4 gift receipts, an art of which I have mastered … for distant relatives a simple “I love this discounted Warm Vanilla Sugar bath set that will make me smell like I’m from a broken home in Riverside – but I am allergic to jojoba oil” always does the trick.

After my exchanges are made, I have digested the 542 latkes impregnating me AND made a quick visit to my therapist to work through a serious altercation with my neighbor who has yet to take down her glittered Jack-o-lanterns from Halloween AND decided to put both a nativity scene and a fucking LIGHT UP REINDEER on our communal grass area (I hope you read this, I hate you so much) – New Years was lurking.

I have and always will have a serious distaste for New Years.  New Years is a real dick because it kickstarts this faux soul searching that I just can’t with. You should know that with every polyblend bandage dress, plagiarized inspirational quote and 2015 collage a part of my soul dies. If you suck, your year is going to suck. That’s a bit harsh, medical traumas excluded – that shit isn’t your fault. But honestly, save your inspirational quotes for a sad plank of wood to hang in your kitchen right next to your bowl of potpourri (horrible).

People who are really into New Years Eve are the same people that have a default picture that was taken 6 years ago and try to consign their Juicy sweatpants because they “still have value”. For the record, I chopped up my Juicy tracksuits over a decade ago and made the terrycloth wardrobe travesty into rags that I use when I bleach my bathtub and toilets.

To be honest, I still think of years in terms of school years so the pomp and celebratory nature of bringing in the New Year is totally lost on me. Firstly, I had a great year so I am not looking to entirely re-jig my format. Granted, I could work on some type of public filtering system (like not using the adjective “cunty” with strangers) and it wouldn’t kill me to try and be more social… I’m fucking kidding, my anti-social nature is my favorite thing about myself #neverchange.

Here’s the truth, some people wake up everyday and give it 100% and I prefer to hover at an attainable 83% so by the time January 1st rolls around I feel content in my slightly above average functionality. Set the bar low, and how far you can go!

Another thing that I will never understand is people who let a manufactured holiday initiate a Ramona Singer inspired renewal. People start issuing insincere apologies and faux forgiveness so they can bust into 2016 tOteZ dRaMz FrEe, Korbel in hand. Some pseudo religious life ruiner said that forgiveness is unconditional… only assholes say shit like that. Here’s an idea … don’t fuck up badly enough that people WON’T forgive you. If someone chooses not to forgive you, it’s probably still your fault.

I am not proud of all my actions this year, back in October I had a 3 week klepto stint at CVS. It’s not my fault if they have a malfunctioning self checkout system and a Sally Hansen Quick Dry nail polish slips into my shopping bag. And maybe some travel sized deep conditioner. But I am not apologizing and in return don’t expect forgiveness from the Beauty Department Supervisor.

So as we embrace 2016 with open arms, abused livers and as you dust off your Bebe dress and return it to it’s garment bag (NOT) in the back of your closet, just remember if you were an asshole in 2015, you will probably still be an asshole in 2016. Happy New Year.

Victoria’s Secret Show

 

The truth is, it’s super hard to articulate my feelings about the Victoria Secret Fashion Show without sounding like a bitter, diabetic, troll. In theory (and some people’s reality) the opportunity to even aesthetically qualify to strut down a runway in a jewel encrusted vagina cloth with a bouncy blowdry and a 2 foot long thigh gap is super flattering. God knows, no one is asking me. But we all have to recognize that women gathering around the television to watch these female specimens in a fashion show (where you can’t actually purchase the “fashions”) is ridiculous.

Firstly, everyone calm the fuck down. This isn’t going to be some proclamation of feminism just stating the obvious. My absolute favorite part of watching the Victoria’s Secret Show is watching the behind the scene clips of the models being “so goofy and relatable”. Supermodels, they’re just like us. Except better looking and hungry. Taking selfies, lip syncing, being bff with all the other models. I wan’t just one supermodel to look into camera and say “I love cocaine, hate everyone here, have only eaten ice chips and an occasional Splenda packet #cheatday, fuck off.” But NO! Being an angel is all giggles, cheap body spray, glitter and acrylic underwear.

When the angels are not prancing around in pink robes and dancing backstage, they are also getting supes sentimental. Martin Luther King had a dream… and so did Kendall Jenner and Gigi Hadid. Even if being a supermodel is your “lifelong dream” how can anyone even rationalize saying that out loud. My dream is to have like 18 houses, more jewelry than Jaja Gibore and bi-quarterly tapeworm so I can stay thin sans exercise but for social decency sake, I am not going to fucking admit that. I’d make some shit up like “I just want to be a strong voice for my generation” or like “help needy children and rescue stray cats in Somalia”. No thanks. Just lie.

My second favorite thing about the VS Fashion Show is the obvious angels that were simply hired to comply with some racial quota. Like the overly spirited Asian girl who never quite nailed her end of the runway pose. Are you winking, are you kissy facing, having a cerebral palsy situation? Poor girl. I am going to go on a limb and assume that 43% of these bitches don’t even speak English.  So you really can’t blame the girls for awkwardly lip syncing to all the performers music. They could be singing Hitler’s manifesto and they would have no fucking idea because they are just PeRkY aS fUcK.

The 24 hours after the show is what I like to refer to as Basic Bitch Dooms Day. Everyone complains how they never want to eat again, vow to get an ass like Adriana Lima or celebrate their “normalness” by posting pictures of themselves eating a pizza in rebellion. This is fucking stupid. Shut the fuck up. I get the attempt at irony but it’s as sad and redundant. 

Also, poor Ellie Goulding, here she is fully clothed singing her little heart out and is background blur to some Scandinavian amazon with big pink balloons taped to her ass slow-mo blowing kisses to a camera man with a boner. Granted, I would sell my sister to a brothel for abs like Behati Prinsloo but like… it’s just never going to happen and I am okay with that. These woman are obviously beautiful and I live for embellishment so I get the allure, but let’s all live and let live.

Whatever your feelings are post-show just remember that we live in a world where Facetune is $1.99, Spanx are crotchless, lighting is everything and Victoria’s lingerie is made of fucking polyester… that bitch.

SANGRIA STAKEOUT

On this weeks podcast with Kingsley I allude to my first documented Sangria Stakeout. Equipped only with binoculars, subpar disguises and a front row ticket to homeboys balcony we dedicated 2 hours to confirming his whereabouts. Here is the condensed footage from our excursion. Enjoy, and James please don’t file a restraining order… Hope your grandma is doing better.

Obitchuary

This is a new weekly post where things that are irritating me come to die. They may be resurrected a la Jesus Christ at a latter time, but in this very instance I wholeheartedly stand by my personal decision to pull the metaphorical plug if you will.

Rosé I fucking love rosé. Not some gross shit from a bag, box or bottle of 2 Buck Chuck #sulfites. I am talking REAL rosé. Without emulating Gwyneth Paltrow, real rosé is from Provence and doesn’t leave you with red rashy rosacea face like other cheap shit. As much as it pains me to say, rosé season is over. The good news is that once rosé season is over, so is bikini season so it’s time to let yourself go again. Insulate for the winter, eat a pizza, have a beer.

The Bing Bang Theory Okay. Does anyone ACTUALLY think this shit is funny? Jimmy Nuetron called and wants his graphic designer back. Watching actors in mock turtlenecks playing “nerds” while being paid a million dollars an episode seems exploitive to my intelligence. LAUGH TRACKS MAKE ME SO UNCOMFORTABLE. I can’t, I haven’t, I won’t. Ever. (But I really love Kaley Cuoco.. be friends with me?)

Yeezy x Adidas  If Jodie Sawyer from Center Stage gained 100 lbs and ended up being severely depressed and admitted to a mental institution, then whilst in solitary confinement found a stray pencil and started sketching fat binding androgynous dancewear as a solemn creative outlet – you would have Kanye’s fall collection. It’s sad, it’s manic, it’s fat binding and it’s a camel toe nightmare. These are not clothes, these are mesh full body condoms.

Paris Shit Paris is the most beautiful city in the world. I love the rude people, I love the food, I love almost everything about it… except the memorabilia. If you walk into a bitches house and she has 3 or more home décor items with a Parisian theme… grab your shit and head for the hills. When I see someone with a black and white picture of an Eiffel Tower I instantly think #daddydrama and/or Lexapro. I also hate people who caption their Instagram posts with things like “j’adore” or “je’taime”… because it’s “je’stupid”. Makes me want to punch myself in the trachea and drown myself in the Seine after engorging myself with a wheel of local brie.

Faux Senior-Citizen Hair Maybe I am just jealous that my mane doesn’t have the flexibility to change colors without deep reconstructive treatments. My hair is the blend of a pipe cleaner and a dead weed. There is not enough frizz serum and moisture masks in the world to allow me to casually die my hair grey. I will admit, I had some pink extensions put in after a run-in with Lisa Vanderpump, but shortly realized I was not pulling that shit off. So essentially I drank the kool-aid and then dipped my head in it. Why the fuck would anyone want to voluntarily look geriatric? Jamie Lee Curtis called and wants her look back.

Rest in peace.

J Law & A Schum Are Writing a Movie

I hate people who awkwardly love a celebrity they have never met solely based on their public persona. I realize this makes me a major hypocrite because I would give away all of my organs to attend just ONE themed dinner at Vicki Gunvalsons house. White girls love three things indefinitely; iced coffee, Sex and The City and celebrity bffs. Bitches everywhere lost their box bleached MINDS when photos surfaced of Jennifer Lawrence and Amy Schumer vacationing together.

OMFG. People in the same industry hanging out together? Mind blown. Now I sound like a cynical asshole. I mean obviously deep down I wish I was the third blonde on the back of that jet ski or after a digestively succesful week, I could have replaced JLAW on the top of that pyramid. God knows that would never happen, I don’t poo on vacation. Anyways, word just came out that now the duo is writing a fucking movie together. This makes me nervous for a plethora of reasons.

Firstly, nothing breeds mediocrity like a doting friend. Some celebrities like to surround themselves with “yes people” which makes sense since most of their crew is on payroll. Whoever gave the movie “Tammy” written by Melissa McCarthy the green light should actually be fired and then shot. Secondly, mixing business with friendship is always a bad idea. You shouldn’t shit where you go to watch The Bachelorette… does that make any sense at all? Thirdly, I will probably get nailed for saying this but… I didn’t think Trainwreck was funny. It felt like a sad rip off of 12 different romantic comedies and was dark in an uninspiring way that added no depth to the plotline. I am not saying I could write anything better but I am allowed to be a judgemental coward through my computer screen #troll.

Just because you CAN do something, doesn’t mean you SHOULD. Like Sarah Jessica Parker for example… have you seen her shoe collection? If kitten heels and every fabric swatch from Chicos had dirty unprotected sex, there you’d have it. Or Hilary Duff’s music career revival. It wasn’t working for Lizzie and it isn’t working for you. Like just come out with a line for Macy’s and call it a fucking day. I secretly hope their movie is amazing because #girlpower and I end up feeling like a bitter old bitch but after “Tammy” I need to protect myself. Jen and Amy, I wish you the best of luck on your endeavor and will be awaiting my invite to the next tropical girls trip, metamucil in tow. Love you.

bff

Quarter Life Crisis Vibes

Today is my mother fucking birthday. Many would assume that I relish in all things that are centrally focused on me. This is 100% accurate in almost all aspects of my life with the exception of my day of birth. As a child I LIVED for my birthday, I wore a tiara for the major part of August, registered myself at all major department stores and would have big jam-packed birthday parties with a $25 gift minimum.

After I turned 20, something changed. What once was my favorite day of the year became 24 hours I wished I could fast forward. Jackie Schimmel, the introvert? Has hell frozen over? I have no clue what happened but for the past 5 years my birthday has been a real self-inflicted bust.

For some reason, people seem to think turning 25 is a big deal. I guess it’s the start of a quarter life crisis and you officially are no longer a member of the early-twenties club. I’m like actually considered an adult. Fuck, is this the last year my parents are paying for my health insurance? I still don’t even know what Obama Care is? Am I going to have to look into this? Shit.

So in commemoration of my early twenties self I thought I could compile a list of things I will have to retire as of today…

I feel like I need to be more mindful of my nail art. Ladies in their late twenties don’t have the flexibility to test out as many decals as a 22-year-old. Also, chipped nail polish seems completely unacceptable now that I am legally able to rent a car.

It’s probably time I stop toilet papering my grandparents house. For the past 25 years, I have spent many an uneventful Saturday night going to CVS for an economy sized pack of 1-ply toilet paper and tee-peeing my relatives homes. I happen to think this is really hilarious and keeps them youthful so I may have to hold on to this pastime for a few more years. Sorry Papa…

Become the laundress of my dreams. Whoever started telling people it’s a big fucking deal to separate whites from colors is a borderline tard. I have quarter of a century (or really only like 4 years) experience of NEVER separating jackshit and all my clothes have maintained their shapes and saturation just fine. It’s a Clorox conspiracy theory. My perfect laundry philosophy; keep the water cold and instantly fold. You’re welcome!

Exercise for “my health”. Ew I’m kidding, physical activity is the worst. As long as I can keep my neurotic yet oh so endearing demeanor and maintain my average of 5 mega calorie-burning panic attacks a month I should be able to keep my figure. I love people who say they only work out for their “health”. You don’t want a muffin top and I get it.

Become a humanitarian. As a real adult and hopefully a future part time cast member on the Real Housewives I should probably find my cause. I could be basic and go with some popular disease but I’m unique. I’m leaning towards fibromyalgia, gluten allergies or AIDS. Actually, AIDS can’t be my cause… Too real. I would need a light-hearted std to fundraise. Synchronized Swimming for Syphilis DOES have an amazing ring to it, no?

Delete my fucking Linkedin profile. I am a young unprofessional, I have no business being on there. What kind of sick fucks designed a business networking site that SHOWS who’s been creeping on your shit? Not my vibe. I have managed to avoid a real job for a few years now and am enjoying the ride. Also, no legitimate place of business would ever have me so it’s time to delete.

Utilize both Google and Webster’s Dictionary. Confusing chlorophyll and chloroform is both inappropriate and dangerous in a group setting. Also, truffle butter is NOT a luxury condiment. So thanks for that awkward conversation at Spago Nicki Minaj… Bitch.

Let the quarter life crisis ensue!

Things I Am Bye Felicia-ing

Hiking – It’s not that I dislike nature, I actually quite enjoy it. Granted, I can think of 72 things I enjoy MORE than general foliage. My issue currently is the Instagram rape my pupils suffer daily with the overflux photos of bitches hiking. First came the juices, then came the acai bowls, now it’s the Simba in the Lion King basic ass hiking picture. Congratulations, you climbed a big pile of dirt at 6am and burned 650 calories before dawn. I stayed horizontal, watched Kathie Lee and Hoda and lessened my chances of getting Lyme disease or bitten by a snake. Who is the real winner here?

Hilary Duffs Music Career – I mean… this was cute when she had her old teeth, now it’s time to give up. Some people say you should never give up on your dreams. I am not one of those people… if things don’t come to fruition after a solid 10 tries, pursue elsewhere. Find a new dream. Become a freelance jeweler or take up welding. I love you Hilary, always have and always will but this seems So Yesterday.

Frappucinos – Apparently there are 76 new flavors. A cotton candy frappucino? What kind of sick ass bitch would order something like that? I have a few new flavor suggestions for you Starbucks, these are on the house: Diabetic Dreamin, MuffinTop Mocha, Die Alone & Cream. Listen, I can wrap my head around liquid calories that are alcoholic. But a buzz-free beverage that is nearly 50% of your suggested calorie intake is gross.

FOMO – Fuck fomo. If I hear one more bitch whine about having FOMO, I am going to hurl my body through a window, find the largest shard of glass and engrave tic tac toe boards into my own flesh until I bleed out. How do I put this gently? YOU SOUND LIKE A MENTALLY UNSTABLE, INSECURE, WHINEY DUMBASS. I feel better. You say FOMO, I say Lexapro. Wah wah, get over it. Anyone with 1/7 of a brain knows you can never judge a party by it’s pictures… a cluster of girls “candidly” huddled on a patio laughing with an aggressive X-Pro filter probably means they were only serving Svedka with store brand soda (no garnishes) and the party sucked ass – no one takes pictures when they are having shitloads of fun, think about it.

High-Low Hemlines – I shouldn’t have to explain this… in fact I won’t.

Have an amazing weekend. See you on the other side of my menstrual cycle when I am being a less angry bitter old troll.

Welcome Bitch!

Hello kitty, my name is Jackie Schimmel and I am potentially your new best friend or worst nightmare. If you are here because you saw me on Watch What Happens Live, welcome and brace yourself. This is my sick little twisted world where I vent and offend people. Here you can find misguided life advice, strongly worded letters to Gwyneth Paltrow and even a few recipes because I am wholesome and approachable… right?

If Britney Spears has taught us ANYTHING in this world, it is that hair extensions are a slippery slope and they cant ALL be hits (#Perfume). Because of this Britney Jean life lesson, I have compiled some Bitch Bible posts to lure you into my bitchy stratosphere. That sentence sounds super rapey and I am okay with it. Enjoy and follow me on Twitter, Instagram, Snapchat, Grindr, Craigslist and YouPorn.com or just on the street… Having a stalker is very chic.

How To Handle a Breakup Like a Bitch

Thirsty Thursday

Awkward Encounters: The New Girlfriend

Woes of a College Dropout

Conscious Uncoupling

My First Roommate

The Almost Boyfriend

And if you aren’t sick of me yet, please subscribe to my podcast series aptly named “The Bitch Bible” available on iTunes, Soundcloud, Stitcher or wherever you get your pod fix!

HAGS BITCH

Summer is high season for the basic bitch. This is when they get to bust out their high-heeled sandals, polish off their sad Tiffany kidney bean necklace and pick up their terry cloth Juicy Couture tube dress from the dry cleaners. Is that SPF 4 Hawaiian Tropic oil stained Michael Kors watch I smell? Ah yes. School’s out and so are the basic bitches social graces. In fear of appearing pretentious and GOOP-esque with a sad “Summer Must Have” list I thought it would be better to have a list of things NOT to rock this summer.

Poolside Heels Crystal Hefner called and wants her look back. I have never understood the psychology behind wearing a platformed stiletto next to a slippery pool. In conjunction with a side tied sarong and you might as well go get that butterfly tramp stamp and get into the adult film industry. It’s tacky and quite frankly just dangerous.

montag-4_3

Tropical Beach Towel This seems a bit dramatic but nothing pisses me off more than a brightly colored, low absorbency, tropical themed beach towel. It doesn’t matter how strong your cover up and accessory game is, being the bitch that walks in with a hot pink towel with a fucking dolphin on it is a bad look. Just fucking air-dry or stick to solids

5

Glasses like this… No explanation necessary.

apparel-blur-optics-casual-sunglasses-men-blitz-white-grey

Ruffle Skirts and/or Mullet Skirts These had their moment a decade ago. If you find yourself wearing something that even looks vaguely similar to an outfit worn by Paris Hilton on “The Simple Life” it’s time to hand off to your housekeeper.

ruffled_skirts

Flower Nail Art The Hawaiian flower with the rhinestone on your big toenail is not nail art, it is a nail tragedy. Unless you are 4 years old or your boyfriend bought you a season pass to Six Flags as an anniversary present this is no longer socially acceptable. So next time your Vietnamese nail technician points her jade bangled hand at your toe and says, “You won flowah and esstra fiteen min muhssage?” JUST SAY NO. You’re welcome.

Beautiful Flower Nail Art

Your High School Bae This one goes out to my bitches that just graduated high school, I know you think you and little Timmy are going to effortlessly continue a long distance relationship while he stays home and attends community college while simultaneously being the best damn sandwich artist Subway has ever seen and you head off to ASU to pursue Public Relations while simultaneously learning how to make Jell-O shots in your dorm room, but it’s not going to work.

high_school_musical2-copy

A Custom Ringtone If every time your phone rings, Maroon 5’s “Sugar” or Taylor Swift’s “Blank Space” plays it is time to re-evaluate your life decisions. Opt for a tasteful vibrate or any other default ringtone. I would rather hear the cry of a dying childhood pet than a personalized ringtone. Well, maybe not my dying dog. I could deal with a cat cry, they are assholes.

HAGS B.

Bad Blood

Taylor Swift is premiering her new music video this Sunday and every celebrity and Serayah (who is that?) are in this fucking video. I can barely get my 84-year-old Grandma to do my half hour podcast series and Tay Tay’s locked down the entire CAA client list. Rumor is the song is about Katy Perry and I’m hoping for full-blown passive aggressive awesomeness. Secretly I think Taylor is sending a message a la Regina George like “Lol Katy, all these celebrities hate you too! Go hang out with Demi Lovato and be miserable! “

Famous people should literally never complain about anything. You are the luckiest sons of bitches on the planet. Someone recognized me at Target 3 weeks ago so I’m basically a local celebrity but still have managed to stay super down to earth despite my wild success. Let’s be clear, I would do a lot of weird shit to further my career. I’m not above it. I’d fake an illness, lose a limb, gain 400 lbs, smuggle some drugs. Hustle has no moral compass and I’m comfortable with that. I curse the day I was born without any serious physical defects… I’d probably have an endorsement deal by now. OR get cast in this music video.

Maybe I am delusional but I feel like Taylor would really love me. She’d be hesitant at first because I cuss so much and exercise casual racism for shock value but soon she’d use me as an external outlet to say all the things her publicist won’t let her. She’d become super dependent on me and I’d allow it while I secretly poison her cats and decide it was worth the emotional turmoil because we only fly private which I love.

So far we have Gigi Hadid, Cara Delevigne, Jessica Alba, Lena Dunham, Ellie Goulding, Hayley Williams, Ellen Pompeo, Serayah McNeill, Lily Aldridge, Kendrick Lamar, Karlie Kloss​, Zendaya​, Martha Hunt and Hailee Steinfeld​. WHAT THE FUCK IS MARISKA HARGITAY AND ELLEN POMPEO DOING IN HER VIDEO. Who’s next? Fucking Vivica Fox? At least that would make sense cause she would be filling a racial quota. Who the hell do I need to rescue a cat from and bake with to get in this video? I’m coming for you Lorde.

The Fault In Our (Reality) Stars

A side ponied Lauren Conrad once prolifically stated, “I want to forgive you and I want to forget you.” Most of my life lessons were acquired through reality television, particularly from “The Hills.” For example: don’t bang a guy with two first names #justinbobby, buy waterproof mascara, and ALWAYS CHOOSE PARIS OVER THAT FUCKHEAD JASON.

One thing LC and I never saw eye to eye on was the moronic idea of forgiveness. Although I greatly admire her career longevity and polyblend dresses at Kohls, I think it is better to embrace the fairness in non-forgiveness, then to reprieve disingenuously. SO MANY BIG WORDS.

Why does a bitch need to forgive in order to move on? I personally blame Lauren Conrad and pseudo religious bullshit. We are barraged with the idea that one MUST forgive in order to truly move on. Last time I checked, someone else’s feelings on forgiveness shouldn’t define your internal feelings and how you choose to resolve them. All I’m saying is if somebody stabbed and ate my dog, I would never forgive them. Like ever. And that shouldn’t make ME the bad person. Right?

Some shit is just unforgiveable.  I think living in a world where forgiveness isn’t inevitable makes a bitch less prone to do something douchey in the first place. If I watch one more HLN murder case where the victim’s family “forgives” the murderer I am going to lose my shit. Forgiveness is a privilege that should be earned, no? While searching for articles to plagiarize, I found the below bible quote…

Colossians 3:13
Bear with each other and forgive whatever grievances you may have against one another. Forgive as the Lord forgave you.

Forgive me for what?  I never shoplifted a sheep from Noah’s Ark or stole Mary Magdalene’s morning after pills. Essentially we are only taught to forgive out of obedience and this homegirl ain’t down. Fuck, I can be so deep when I put my mind and my liquor to it. Don’t say sorry if you don’t mean it, don’t forgive someone if you don’t mean it and please don’t ever spend $450 on a Paper Crown dress.

Spring Break Style

Spring has sprung and brought all of my favorite things; caftan weather, marshmallow peeps and massive anxiety towards “festival season”. I know bitches really lose their mind for fall when they can get off on layering and mediocre knee boots. I couldn’t give two fucks about dressing for the fall/winter season. Mostly because I spend most of December with a rash (I am allergic to 98% of fabrics) and usually with 10 pounds of extra weight… you know, to stay insulated.

Needless to say, the second I can shimmy my pastey ass into a sheer tunic and awkward J.Lo head scarf poolside I become a better bitch. Here are some off my Spring Break/Festival Season picks for the blossoming warm weather loving Bitch.collage

Comment below for details and for more style talk listen to this weeks podcast “Pretty Hurts”  (tinyurl.com/thebitchbiblepod) with my promiscuous Grandma Gloria and turbo-bitch cousin Joanna xx