Here Comes the Bitch…


Hi everyone. Sorry it has been a while since my last post. I have been volunteering my services to the Hilary Clinton presidential campaign and learning Mandarin. But actually, I have been doing nothing and couldn’t be happier. Recently, after only four death threats and one failed attempt to join Raya, my boyfriend proposed. I’m getting fucking married and it has catapulted me into a Bridezilla/Basic Bitch/ Existential life crisis.

While this is arguably the most exciting thing that has ever happened to me except for the time I bought something at Bloomingdales and talked my way into exchanging it at Neiman Marcus (and people think I have no talent). Since I have started planning I realized I am haunted by basic brides that have resurrected before me. Is it possible to plan a wedding and NOT be a self involved, fluffy haired, asshole? I fucking hope so. People get married and think they become the epicenter of the universe. The harsh truth is, no one gives a real fuck about your impending nuptials except you and like 8 other people. So while you hold people hostage like the fucking Taliban and ask whether they prefer ivory or eggshell, remember to stay self-aware, step away from pinterest and embrace these truths.

Just because you have solidified a life partner, does not mean you are the new authority on eternal happiness. Getting a Zale’s cushion cut diamond wrangled on your phalange doesn’t give you the right to judge your free spirited slutty friends. We get it. You have found the love of your life. Maybe your friend’s love of their life is a bag of Chex Mix and her Valtrex prescription.

Not to be a Debbie Downer but statistically almost 60% are destined for a second marriage or maybe a Goldie Hawn/Kurt Russell situation. So while your ironing your white button down polo shirts for your extremely basic engagement shoot, remember that before you express pity for your single friends that you have to clean underwear that is not yours for the rest of your life. Live and let live.

Getting hitched does not mean you have to start dressing like a midwestern substitute teacher who collects potpourri and ceramic figurines. I know people that could have been the spokesperson for Vegas attire. Bandage dresses (kill me), platform pumps and a clip in synthetic weave that could start a wildfire. Magically upon matrimony, they start dressing so “Churchy” and complaining about a heel height of a fucking tic-tac. Really bitch? You lived in hooker heels (#madeinchina) for a decade – don’t try.

If anything, you need to get sluttier after “settling down”. Just because you are on a diet doesn’t mean you can’t check out the fucking menu. Newsflash… guys have penises. Penises are fueled by testosterone. Testosterone makes men into primal animals. Animals that subconsciously WANT and NEED men other than themselves to want to bang their future wife because then they feel like they have a prized possession. I am not saying women are possessions just calm the fuck down, it’s a METAPHOR. The sooner bitches understand this biology, the sooner we will truly run the world.

Despite my grievances, I am SUPER excited to navigate the bitchy bridal rapids with a bedazzled life jacket, Dramamine (or Xanax) and an unsigned prenupt as my sail.


Wedding Crashers

This holiday weekend I went down to one of my favorite places, Palm Springs. It’s a go-to vacation for me because it is always hot, the dry air does wonders for my hair and it only takes about 2 hours to get there. Unfortunately, leaving at 4:00pm on a Friday afternoon of a holiday weekend was not the best move. After 4 hours of sitting in traffic alone while seeing the cars in the carpool lane wiz by, I decided to get crafty. Meet my new passenger Cassandra…

Cute fedora girl.
Cute fedora girl.

Finally after almost 5 hours of driving, I arrived to our hotel. My parents, sister, boyfriend, Aunt and Uncle and cousins stayed in 2 houses at the La Quinta Resort right across from each other. We aren’t the most demure group so it was evident that we would get ourselves into some rowdiness. MVP of the trip was my cousin Andrew who now goes by the street name “Ruckus”. Ruckus made La Quinta his bitch by showcasing his dance moves, getting into a verbal altercation with a bar singer (not Ruckus’s fault) and investigating the property’s events calendar for some post-dinner activities. Ruckus got word of a wedding going down and decided it would be appropriate for us to attend. We quickly changed out of our PJ’s and worked with what we had to attend a black tie wedding. Here is our video documentation of the family-oriented Haute Mess event crash. Enjoy…