Falling In Love With A Gay Guy: So Not Chic

I was working on a political campaign and what kind of white girl would I be if I didn’t flirt with my boss, Arturo? Honestly, I didn’t know it at first. I just thought he had great fashion sense and perfect hair for no reason at all. He wasn’t as tall as I’d like and maybe was a workaholic but it was all innocent fun at this point.

Not to toot my own horn, but I am fucking fab. So when he didn’t engage I should have spotted the red flag immediately. But I was blinded by his white teeth.

So I used my body like my momma taught me. One day, I had a cute LBD on and I was on the floor of our office alphabetizing mail. I made sure my butt was in the air. Thanks yoga instructor! But Arturo walked past me and didn’t even look. Like what? Who doesn’t look at a perfect booty?

I have no shame so I marched up to him and asked what his fucking issue with my ass was, ” if you want me to stare at your ass all day then I will stare at your ass all day,” he said. Well duh, Arturo. I know I’m pretty but I need you to act like all normal straight men or how will I know that you know that I am pretty?

I put on my Prada glasses and investigated like Law and Order taught me when I realized that Arturo didn’t want my body. The office rumor was that Arturo was on Grindr. WHAT? I was heartbroken so naturally I put all my feelings on the table and asked him if he was gay.

But he was tricky, hurt, that I accused him of liking dick as much as me. I still remember his exact words. He told me, “I have had plenty of sexual relations with women that I work with and it never works out well.” UM “sexual relations?” The last time I heard anyone use that term was Bill Clinton arguing the opposite with Monica Lewinsky. And we all know that his cigar had been somewhere nasty.

So he inflated his ego and bragged about himself to our coworkers. He said that I was just upset that he wouldn’t, “sleep with me until the campaign was over.” Like what does that even mean? Should I like quit the campaign and head over to Claudia for a wax or what?

But the next day when we were alone, he looked at me with those puppy dog eyes. He said, “Not all guys want is sex.” It was like he was Prince Philippe and I was the carrot that he was feeding to his horse while Princess Aurora sung in the background. He let me believe in Disney fairytales and love stories.

After the campaign ended, Arturo moved away but we were still friends. Well if he can still be considered my “friend” if he doesn’t text me back unless I send him 10 texts in a row. But he did pooper-scoop my life and fix my bad choices when Juanita was too shit-faced to deal with my problems. Take note girls, gay boys are the only boys who will help you with your problems since other boys are the problem.

Then three months ago he told me he had a crush on this girl he works with but he couldn’t ask her out because they worked together. LOL. Was Samantha Roberta’s foil? And was she as fucked up as me? That’s when I knew 100 % that he was gay, even though I subconsciously always knew. Who names their daughter Samantha? Unless you are an American Girl Doll Samantha is not a real name.

But then it happened. Homberto (Arturo Dad, who is friends with my Mom and a total womanizer) told me during Thanksgiving that Arturo was going through some things. I knew immediately that Arturo had finally come clean about his love for Dick and Cocaine so I gave Homberto a hug and immediately ordered flowers. He picked up his phone and pointed to a photo of Arturo and a handsome brunette. “Do you know about this? I thought he was the dog walker.”

Arturo always makes it about himself, such a narcissist.  He couldn’t even be there in person to come out on my favorite holiday, Thanksgiving. So I purged myself of turkey, mashed potatoes, and all my feelings for Arturo. I promised myself that the next time I met a hot gay guy I would turn him straight.

Hugs,
Roberta

That One Time I Found Out My Mom Did A Voodoo Curse On Me In The Womb

Washington DC. I grew up dreaming of the monuments and history. Then I went there and it totally sucked. Uncle Barack didn’t even have the decency of being in town. Syrian Rebels apparently take precedent. Paging Bill Clinton. I have a blue dress and am not afraid to use it.

Luckily, Juanita saved me… cause we fucking create history. It is kind of cute that the boys in DC have such big egos. But I don’t have time for all that drama. The only narcissist in my life is me. And Juanita. She’s sometimes worse than me. But I’ll forgive her.
So during our visit to DC, Juanita and I headed to Georgetown for much needed shopping. Best prescription that my therapist ever prescribed me—when having a bad day, spend 10K. But, we didn’t have 10K. More like $10. I can only go “real” shopping with my parents because otherwise they guilt trip me and tell me to “pay for it myself.” Like who does that to their children? Eww.
So we did the next best thing, $5 palm readings. Juanita warned me that psychics profile you. I told her not to worry her pretty little head off. Worrying causes frown lines and wrinkles.
When we got to the psychic, the smelly old hag immediately noticed Juanita’s Neiman Marcus bag, which I was fucking holding for her. But no worries, she sale shopped. We don’t pay full price, that’s what daddy’s checkbook is for. DUH.
Juanita gave me the “I told you so” resting-bitch face. That caused even more wrinkles. Luckily, botox is seriously the best invention of modern medicine. Who says vaccines are important when everyone knows that good looks are what gets you through hard times. No pun intended. It was ironic though, cause I thought profiling was just for cops (more on that later.)
Turns out the $5 dollar palm reading didn’t include a whole reading. We opted for the $25 upgrade. Life is just like flying, always upgrade. That is a mantra of my life.
Juanita, the skeptic, went for her reading first to get it over with. When she went into the room, I worried that she was being murdered. But she came out and she was glowing. Then it was my turn. And I didn’t get to hear about her reading first, so I went into it blind. I guess the future was calling.
First, I had to hold a crystal stick to determine how much energy I have. Apparently I have a lot. But Monica, the psychic said my energy is the wrong kind. I have a curse. I got it from my momma. In the womb. Allegedly, someone did black magic or voodoo on my mom because my mom had a conflict with a woman in her family while she while she was pregnant with me. And this curse will be passed to my children. Fuck. But it got worse.

Monica said I will find love but not until I am healed since I am on a path to failure. The bitch also said that when I walk into a room people can read my bad energy. Excuse me? I thought I had a radiant energy, what kind of psychic school did Monica go to anyway?

I guess she could sense how upset I was, so she tried to sugar coat things. She said that I have faced a lot of obstacles early in life, and that I care more about helping others than myself. She then went on to say that lot of people take advantage of me, and there’s only a handful of people that I can trust. Thanks, for the memories of my shitty childhood, Monica.

But it got spookier. She said that recently there was a man who disappointed me and that we would have a conflict in 2 weeks. Earth to the Monica, a man disappoints me on a regular basis. Welcome to being a girl. If you are Roberta or Juanita, you attract trouble.

Monica’s solution to my curse was to work with me at her office doing meditation and yoga to “heal me.” And guess what? This was the only solution for me to be on the path for a “good life and success.” She even told me she would give me a discount so it would ONLY cost $375. There’s no magic pill to make you lose three inches off your waist, so I figured psychic energy must be the same. So, I smiled, took her card and tipped her because I’m a classy bitch.

Then when I left, I found out that Juanita had the fucking best reading of her life. She was laughing at me, too. And I was the one profiled because I was carrying my lazy friend’s Neiman Marcus bag. What a whore. All Juanita wanted to do was read me her reading of her perfect life.

So I burst into tears because my fucking BFF was telling me how this was all going to come true. This is the hoe who didn’t believe in psychics an hour ago. What a hypocrite. There I was crying in Paper Source on M street and she didn’t even get me a “get well” card for my curse. It’s not like chlamydia. I can’t just take an antibiotic and get “all better.”

I finally got the brilliant idea to look up yelp reviews of the psychic because Juanita was going on and on about how she is going to travel in March because Monica told her so. Well guess what? I am not the first one she cursed. The scammer profiled us and many others. Even telling someone that their curse was as bad as stage four cancer. News alert: Monica’s in DC are trashy low-lifes who have a reputation for taking advantage of powerful people. My future is just beginning and Monicas will never stand in my way. Thank you, Bill-motherfucking-Clinton.

Hugs,

Roberta

mavs_voodoob.jpg

How To Fake Being Rich When Your Credit Score Is Under 630

It’s true. My credit score is abysmal. My mother has always said that I have a “hole in my pocket,” but she was wrong. It’s more than just a” hole in my pocket”, it’s a deep dark void of theoretical mass. A black-hole that leaches money from my account. I’m pretty sure “the cloud” is stealing it. Seriously WTF is “the cloud” and why do we talk about it like it’s a person/place/thing. The cloud is invisible. It is universal. It is everywhere and nowhere. It is basically God. We worship the cloud and it steals from my bank account.

Okay so the cloud isn’t really stealing my money (any thief who steals from me is an idiot because I’m pretty much a poor peasant since I’ve been cut-off from my financial oasis aka mom and dad). It’s me. I buy shit constantly. Literally shit. Shit that I never use but at that instance adamantly believe I will die without it.

Here’s a list of weird random shit that I have bought recently much of which I’ve rarely/never used.

  • A children’s book from my childhood that features 26 children and how they die
  • 300 beads that I never used. (I wanted to get into “healing crystals” but the beads were too tiny to be strung on any strings. I bought: Rose quart faceted rondelles, Ametrine chips, Peridot faceted briolettes, moss Aquamarine faceted rondelles, Rhodonite chips, Kunzite smooth rounds, Aquamarine faceted briolettes).
  • A complete set of beach themed sticky notes.
  • A bronze sculpture of an octopus holding a mirror.
  • Ten different figurines of pottery from my local pottery studio so I could come back and not pay the studio fee each time (I haven’t been back)
  • A four-step skin care regimen and eyelash growth serum that amounted to around $350
  • $60 worth of Lush products I already probably own
  • Dog treats (I don’t have a dog).
  • Stupid skin care exfoliater “infused with gold” that I was basically guilt-tripped into buying by the hot Israeli salesperson who gave me a “discount”
  • $200+ worth of random Target items. You really should go to Target high, it’s magical.
  • A desk that doesn’t fit in my room.
  • $150 to join a soccer league (that I never went to)

I also don’t return things… So I end up with random stuff I don’t need. Hoarding is a disease I think, are there drugs I can take?

Anyway, it’s easy to spot someone who doesn’t have money. While not completely accurate, a lot of higher-class women take extremely good care of themselves. They can afford monthly IPL’s from their world famous dermatologist; their eye-brows are always waxed and flawless; their hair is perfectly blown out each week and beautifully cut/dyed every six weeks; their clothes are clean and stylish (and usually expensive); their skin is tan from vacations (or the local tanning salon); their bodies are perfectly toned (since they can afford a personal chef and motivational personal trainer).

But there are some things you can fake until you make. Afterall, it doesn’t really matter what your credit score is. As long as your hubby’s is 750+ you’re golden. But in order to attract a million bucks, you need to be a million bucks. Here are things you should do in order of importance.

  1. Be fit. I can’t express this enough. Fat people don’t look rich. It’s sad but they are extremely discriminated against. Fat rich people can also choose surgeries to thin up (gastric bypass anyone?) and fat camps for their children (like the one where Lolita went). Being thin is about 90% what you eat. But being fit is about exercise. We recommend that women who want to lose weight stop snacking altogether (especially while high, this is when I eat 85% of my calories); drink alcoholic drinks with low calorie counts; choose either to decrease how much fat you eat or how many carbs. Being fit is a life-style, you’ll have to really focus on what you’re eating. Anorexia is the only way to get skinny. But it’s terrible for your body and not sustainable (Roberta and I know). So start with what you’re putting into your body (penises are always allowed). Next is exercise. Exercise is imperative to be hot. But without a personal trainer and a gym membership you have to get creative. Start doing some yoga (will help your sex life too, trust); run with a friend (just make sure you don’t sweat in front of anyone attractive); do the monkey bars at a local playground (unless you’re really fat and look like a predator); and find something to lift – even if it’s your full nalgene. The three things involved in being fit are: diet, cardio, strength. But easier said than done. Bonus points if you post your “weight-loss” journey on social media to show off your new hot bod.
  2. Hair. Your hair is the most noticeable thing about your appearance. I don’t care if you have to do it yourself but it must be dyed and highlighted (not a universal color, ew). You can go to your local beauty supply store and buy bleach to highlight your hair. If you know what your doing and understand the bleach process you can do a great job yourself. You hair should also be cut regularly (no split ends), and should always be styled. If I see frizz I assume the worst. You can also get a good groupon.
  3. Nails. Do your nails yourself and find a good top-coat. I swear this is the easiest fucking thing to do and it makes an enormous difference. Chipped nails = Orphan Annie. So not chic.
  4. Clothes. This is arguably the most important thing. You don’t need to wear all designers to look rich, but stay away from knock-offs (we can tell 99% of the time). Buy non-designer clothes from stores that are not heavily branded. I don’t want to know you shop at Old Navy. It’s not 1995, being a catalogue model is not chic. Subscribe to your favorite brands to be notified when their items are discounted. Shop the 70% clearance racks at the end of each season in your local department store (wear sunglasses so you’re not recognized). Go to “thrift” stores and find designer clothes for less (I have friends who do this but personally I find it gross). I also recommend you watch the trends on makeup/hair/clothes/bags/accessories closely. Know what’s in for next season and start looking for bold pieces that are on-trend. This is the only time we approve of shopping at H&M and Forever 21. A good rule of thumb is: splurge on staples but be fickle with your fortune when it comes to fast-trends.

Hope this’ll help elevate your status to seduce the man with the perfect pedigree!

Kisses,
Juanita

 

 

 

Who Needs The Gym When You Can Shop?

Since I was young, my mom has always joked that I better marry rich, The OG Jewish American Princess (JAP), my mom knows how to shop for days. I have always made fun of her, saying that I could never be that vain – that I know the value of money, etc. Well, let this be my confession – I fear I have become first world spoiled – and I want more.

Yesterday, I looked in the mirror and realized that I finally have the body of a woman and not a pre-Bat Mitzvah pubescent. Unfortunately, that means my tiny boobs becoming almost Cs (let’s be honest – they’re still Bs) has also been accompanied by 10x more fat being deposited elsewhere. And yes, weight is just a number, but 15 pounds on a 5’ frame is a lot and I will never resort to lipo. Ew.

Anyways, excited about the prospect of a hot summer bod, I raced to Athleta – the better version of Lululemon, in my opinion. Shanice, the saleswoman, and I became fast friends.

Each time I came out of the dressing room, I peered around trying to get her eye contact and approval. “I don’t think this fits me right – I’ve got this armpit fat here, you know what I’m talking about? I hate that” I complained to her. The ever amazing Shanice, my spirit animal, replied back, “Girl, don’t I know it! Mhm!” (Not that race matters, but I know you were all wondering, and yes she’s sassy and black). Needless to say, I left the store with two full bags and a new credit card. Although in my defense, I got a discount with my new credit card; so I’m really being responsible, right?

I raced home, put on my new outfit and pumped myself up about going to work out. But it was already 1 PM so I convinced myself that I should get lunch first. I mean – a girl has got to eat her 6 meals a day, you know? I get really cranky when I’m angry and if I’m cranky I am not working out. So I went to the ritzy downtown nearby my parent’s house and got myself some chicken fajitas (tacos are so 2016). I even opted out of my usual marg and got a water glass – clearly I was slaying this weight loss thing. I’m so proud.

Belly full, I hopped on out of the restaurant and thought to myself, “Don’t all those ladies lose weight walking and shit? I should do that. Then I can become skinny and keep shopping!” Pleased with my own logic, I walked all the way up and down the street stopping at each store. I pretended I was wearing a fit bit – I should definitely buy one of those – and was confident that my excursion was productive. Nothing makes me happier than my favorite store  where the ladies all coo and give you champagne while you try on clothes. I feel like royalty there – let’s face it I’m pretty much royalty everywhere.

Exhausted from my full lap (walking is way harder than it looks) and confident with my new clothes, I skipped to my car and drove home to nap (you burn more calories sleeping than watching Netflix so I made the right choice). And yes, while I maxxed out my credit card from my heavy spending, I just got another one. No biggie. They give them out like beer at a frat party, and just like beer at a frat party you don’t know you’ve been roofied until it’s too late.

Anyway, I know I probably didn’t lose any weight today. But hey – if I’m going to look like this, I better have hot clothes right? Isn’t that what all this female empowerment and “love the skin you’re in” movement is all about? Psht, and it’s not like I need to work that hard. I’m pretty enough to marry rich and have like 10 children and be one of those moms that sits around and bitches to other moms with her wine filled 24-7 #goals – but that’s a conversation for another post.

Hugs and Kisses,
Katarina

Rape Cake

Mexicans love me. I don’t know whether it’s my iridescent skin tone or 5’7 frame that reminds them of their genetic inferiority but whatever it is I can’t tell you how many green card marriages I’ve had to deny.

It doesn’t help that since I was raised to be nice to everyone, my kindness is often mistaken as flirty. As my youth fades I realize just how seductive my feminine wiles are and how weak men are to the temptation that is Roberta.

Flirtation is my downfall, as was evident on NYE  2016 when Juanita and I innocently snuck into the kitchens at the restaurant where we were partying to request some specialty dishes (they ran out of sliders and we were very disappointed). We went into this elaborate story about how I had breast cancer and it was my last month to live so I really wanted to have a good New Years and thought nothing of their intrepid desire to make us chocolate cake.

Karma was catching up with us.

“Chocolate cake,” I said thinking about the one marvelous bite I’d allow myself to have and all the likes I’d get for instagraming a chef special. We resumed the festivities and waited for our suitors to notify us when their creation was complete. We were honestly a bit surprised when the bus-boy came back upstairs to tell us that the cake was ready. Wow. We just got a custom ordered chocolate cake. This was a new record for us.

Licking our lips, we went downstairs. Roberta/Juanita side-by-side. Juanita’s boyfriend of the month, Roberto, came along for protection (and truly it was protection that was needed, though Roberto wasn’t that helpful).

The moment we entered the kitchen we knew there was something wrong. “Where’s the chocolate cake,” I asked. To which the Mexican feigned surprised and began looking through cabinets and drawers. This was odd, but I was too inebriated to think clearly and began to help him search in our quest for Chocolate cake. Like any well mannered white-girl, I wanted to help. Why wasn’t Juanita being helpful? I wondered since she’s always first to crack a joke when something’s lost. But when I looked over Juanita seemed less than pleased. She looked almost frightened and motioned for me to walk towards the door.

But chocolate cake! I couldn’t leave without chocolate cake. And then he grabbed me. The bus-boy fucking grabbed me, only I must assume he was a bus-man because anything else would be statutory  in almost fifty-states and possibly Puerto Rico (do they follow federal laws too?).

Honestly, everything from that point on was in slow-motion. All I knew was that some fucking random guy that I definitely did not want to be kissing was grabbing me and sticking his tongue down my throat. Juanita help. I tried to scream but my voice was gone. I wondered if getting raped in a kitchen on NYE was a bad omen for the year to come.

The lights went off and Juanita later told me that the chef had turned them off and was attempting to kick Roberto and her out of the kitchen. Roberto left because he’s a pussy but Juanita, in shock of what to do, got out her phone fleshlight sorry flashlight and shined it on us.

Like a deer in the headlights I stared at her. I couldn’t move. He was touching me in places reserved for hot-men and myself. Juanita help. But she stared at me, confused, and just as shocked as I was. Juanita later told me that she had no idea what to do since she didn’t know if I wanted to kiss him (ew no) because I didn’t slap him or push him away. But truthfully, I couldn’t I was frozen in fear and used to men taking advantage of me.

Ultimately, after what felt like hours but in reality was less than a couple minutes, Juanita grabbed my hand and pulled me away from the mexican-bus-man-rapist. We went upstairs to debrief. Juanita was confused. She had no idea that he’d touched my lady parts and she was horrified. Worst of all, mexican-bus-man-rapist came upstairs and asked me to dance.

I hadn’t learned my lesson and was still unable to “just say no.” So instead Juanita feigned hysterical crying and screamed at the man to “go the fuck away” because she wanted “to be with her dying best friend” (me).

And that’s the story of Rape Cake (trade mark pending).

Hugs,
Roberta

Disney Princesses Ranked By Sluttiness

Whether we like it or not, Disney’s been priming us to be whores since we left the womb. Next time you go on a tinder-bender and would like to adamantly deny screwing a six, blame Walt. These are the role-models he provided us with:

10. Cinderella. It’s not so easy to snag a prince. She needs some serious moves if she wants to keep her Title (Roberta knows). We’re sure Cindy spices things up with her Prince by bringing in some ladies in waiting for shared duties. Royal threesome much?

9. Anna. So naïve and quick to fall in love. She’s the kinda girl to believe anything a guy tells her, “you can’t get pregnant standing up” or “it’s not sex if it’s in the butt.” Without any parental role-models (or really any adult supervision) you bet she’s the village bicycle.

8. Moana. The whole “single” Disney Princess who “doesn’t need a male protagonist” thing doesn’t fool us. We know it’s only because Moana doesn’t need to be tied down to a man. She doesn’t want you to call her after a one-night stand either.

7. Aurora. Honey, you’re not in perpetual slumber from some dumb witch. It’s called a hangover. Or a Xanax coma. Either way we’ve all been there. A’s constant partying was bound to catch up to her eventually (what else is there to do when you’re quarantined in the middle of nowhere)? Not to mention the fairies baby-sitting our sleeping beauty aren’t too sharp either. They’re completely oblivious of A’s frequent night-caps with her woodland creatures.

6. Megara. This bitch has serious daddy issues (we can relate). Why else would she sell her soul to Hades and face eternal damnation? She’s a total sub and there’s no denying it. But we think Meg’s pretty bad ass. We love her wit and sarcasm. Her best line: “You know how men are. They think “No” means “Yes” and “Get lost” means “Take me, I’m yours.” Preach mama preach.

5. Belle. We know for sure Belle is a freak in bed. How so? Gaston’s cock couldn’t satisfy her so she needed a fucking Beast. Bestiality much? They totally do-it all over the castle and with so many enchanted objects around you know Beauty and her Beast are totally into voyeurism. Were their sex toys human at one point too?

4. Mulan. Masquerading as a man in the middle of a Chinese army means she’s surrounded by penises. The nights are lonely so far from home. We’re pretty sure she perked her butt up for a few soldiers who probably thought she was just a lady-boy.

3. Ariel. Even though she traded her beautiful voice for dumb legs, Ariel’s spent sixteen years in the ocean. She can definitely hold her breath underwater longer than any human. You know what that means: blow jobs. The Prince wants loads of them, and since Ariel can’t talk she’s every man’s dream.

2. Jasmine. She has more suitors than facebook friends, there’s no way she doesn’t like to get a sneak peak at some of the goods before turning them away. Aladdin must be HUNG, and that genie is definitely getting in on some action (after being cooped up in a lamp for 10,000 years you bet he was ready to bust a nut). Not to mention Jas has a literal tiger as a pet. Can you say Kinky or what?

1. Snow White. She lives in a house with seven men, need we say more? Not to mention all that cooking and cleaning she does puts her more in the category of whore opposed to slut. Not that either of those are bad, just that we like to call a spade a spade and this spade enjoys getting fucked.

Hope we didn’t ruin your childhood too much but next time you see someone in a slutty Disney costume remember that they may be more accurate than you think.

Hugs and Kisses,
RJ