How to Be the BEST Bitch You Can Be!

Insults are fun, and more often than not the imagery they portray is better than the look on the face of the person on the receiving end. While it is important to act maturely, and keep your snide comments and snarky quips to the bare minimum, the truth is that some people need to be knocked down a notch once in a great while. When you become a blogger, you do one of two things. You either learn to embrace the insults thrown your way and find some sort of constructive criticsm in them, or you freak out over anything that could be misconstrued in a negative light. Everyone has their own style, so I'm just going to let you in on a few of my secrets.

Remember, insults and bickering are unbecoming of a lady, if you are going to fight do it in pudding.

Feign Superiority.

When insulting someone that you really don't care for, always take the high ground, Cross your arms, roll your eyes, and basically do anything your momma would slap you for. Nothing is more infuriating than someone who laughs at you when you are serious, so laugh at your target. Moral superiority is bogus, but if you can act like you believe it, you will win. People get red hot, right quick when confronted with someone who thinks they are better than them. Take a moment to think of the last time you argued with someone. To really frustrate someone go ahead and feel superior, even if its totally fake.

Keep it short.

Short insults are better insults, plain and simple. Draw it out and your opponent may get glassy eyed. A simple up-front verbal kick to the nads is all it takes. Remind them you know what you are doing.

Speak Clearly.

Do not curse, the moment you use a curse word, you have lost all credibility. This is especially true when debating anything serious, religion, politics, and of course baby-makin. Cursing is a very lazy way to speak, and while I insist that curse words have their time and place, it shouldn't be while insulting someone. Insults are a time to display your vast vocabulary, dwarfing the other person if possible.

Pick your argument. Stick to it.

Even when you are wrong, it's best to just keep treading water. Commitment is a sign of confidence, even if it is artificial.

Hit em where it hurts.

Is it that pretty girl who keeps picking on you, the one you know has the subterranean self esteem? Go for the weak spots, and throw what you know. If someone shows weakness, they are asking to be defeated. Take it, it's yours.

Hot heads lose battles.

Whatever you do, whatever you do in a fight, DO NOT get pissed. The minute you lose your cool, your opponent wins. Getting emotional over an insult is ridiculous, step back and think about where you will be in five years, is this something that you are going to remember, or are you whining about your girlfriend borrowing your favorite sweater, again? If you are REALLY ready to unleash the beast, then go for it. But make sure you are really ready.

There ya go, some pointers to help you be a professional insult artist. But before I go, one more thing.....

Bitch slapping rules:
If your opponent plays the victim card (i.e. you make a cancer joke, and they respond with "My mom died of cancer.") and then continues to fight, 100% of the time, they're lying. If it's true, they will say something like "dude, my mom actually did die of cancer, chill out." THEN cease fire, at least unless you come back at them some more or they won't acknowledge it, because then that would give their opponent more power and ammunition.

Let's do an exercise, and purge all this negative energy from our systems!
Please do be so kind as to add your favorites to this list, since I always love a good come-back.

• You have a mind like a steel trap, anything that gets inside is crushed and mangled.
• You have the personality of a snail on valium.
• Yo momma's so fat Her blood type is Ragu.
• In the shopping mall of the mind, You are in the toy department

Bitches Out There, Hit me with your best shot and Share a story of verbal victory or something incredibly bitchy and insulting that you have uttered from those glossy lips.



This is me NAKED. I decided to write down a few things I felt were truly ME, 100% honest and although I may not like it, still remains true.

The one who will run through the snow barefoot, if need be, to get the last word in as a car pulls away.

The one who discusses philosophy with store clerks, and engages in childish antics with doctors, lawyers and educators.

I am that girl who has an elastic band on her wrist in every formal picture, just waiting for an opportunity to sweep her hair into a ponytail.

The one who can never smile for real in a photograph.

I am that girl who is far too opinionated for her own (or anyone's) good, who struggles every day to reserve her words for situations in which they will actually be helpful.

The one who has five hundred friends and no friends on any given day.

The one who is motivated by an inextricable conglomeration of love, guilt, peace and unrest.

I am that girl who makes enemies with the same words by which she makes friends, with others and with herself.

The one who can talk for five hours straight to a rediscovered friend, and who can't talk for five minutes straight with the God who never left her side.

The one whose balance tips precariously from blessing to cursing and back again within a single day.

I am that girl who knows herself inside and out, and has only yet begun to discover who she actually is.

The one who can convince herself and anyone else of anything, with an arsenal of words and an ounce of charisma.

The one who lives out assurance and fear with each breath, and declares freedom and bondage with each thought.


Men as Accessories

There are many social opportunities in a twenty something’s life during which it is fitting, even REQUIRED, to bring along a date. I have finally admitted to myself that at times, in these situations, I have employed men as an accessory to my ensemble, as my perceived facade for that evening.

Please do not attempt to argue that the man on your arm says as much about you to the rest of the room as your well thought out handbag. Walk with me on this one, *want a drink?* if I'm going to a friend's rock concert out in Brooklyn, I am not going to wear my Louis Vuitton monogram bag or bring a man that is dressed in buttoned up Ralph Lauren with a hint of Tommy Bahama cologne that only rich people like to smell. Rather, I'll opt for a retro vintage purse and man in tight jeans that hugs the booty perfectly and Converse sneakers for starters.

It’s not a sin. The greatest and most intriguing part of the fun of both fashion and dating is the ability to try new things: the funky chartreuse heels and the new mysterious dark haired boy.

This I believe is becoming especially true as men's interest in fashion has become more mainstream and relevant. It is important to consider his look and wardrobe and how it compliments your own.

All-American and Fresh, Wholesome, Pure, Romantic

Rocker/BadAss/Sexy - Trendy, I Do What I Want, F*#k You Confidence

White Trash (Just as there are fashion flops, there are man accessory flops).

Okay, so it doesn't look that great. But there are some women who can make a potato sack look sexy. Christina happens to be the kind of woman to be able to pull off her husband Jordan and still look sexy.

Brad is Pitt is the handbag equivalent of a one of a kind diamond studded white alligator Chanel bag with a white gold link strap. (Phew HOT)The ultimate accessory


Here's My IDEAL Lineup:

European Getaway Accessory

Baseball Game Accessory

Rock Concert Accessory

Night Club Accessory (Pre-Rihanna Beating)

Cozy Little Bistro Accesory

So what do you think -- is it absolutely terrible to at times consider men as accessories? Or it is simply a single girl having a little fun and considering her perceived fashion persona? Tell me about the man that was the best accessory to compliment your style thus far.

Oooh! And Give me your accessory lineup or let me know if you get hot and bothered when you see these cuties!


You Want Me to Put WHAT? Where?

In my quarter of a century living on this planet, I thought I'd heard just about everything that had to do with birth control and menstruation. Little did I know, there was something that disappeared years ago and is making a comeback - the menstrual cup.

This little contraption replaces tampons and those awful diapers we call pads. On a normal flow, it can last for 12 - count 'em twelve hours. The way it works is that you put it up inside you and it sits low so it doesn't touch your cervix. The cup forms a type of suction and collects all that nastiness. Apparently, during this whole process, you don't feel it at all. All for the low, low price of $35!

Personally, I'm a little skeptical, but I must say, I'm intrigued. The idea of never buying tampons, pads or anything ever again just by paying $35 once is very enticing.

Have any of you tried it? What do you think of it? Would you try it?


I Had An ELLE Moment

I was in the car with a group of my girl friends discussing sexual experiences when I looked down and realized my Blackberry had dialed the family I babysit for and had left a five minute voicemail.

Daddy at 13 Years Old

13 year old boy and 15 year old girl have a baby after "one" night of unprotected sex. the boy looks like a 6 yr old!!! Parents -put a fucking leash on your children so they don't create more little ones before puberty ends and before they can financially support it themselves.

Think about THAT while you're having sex tonight.

This is completely disturbing to me. Any thoughts?

Read about it HERE


Let's Talk About Sex

Here are some interesting/disturbing/titilating facts about S-E-X. Think you know it all? Use these for small-talk or to better strategize your love life!

What you Don’t Know about .... Porno.

- There are over 4.2 million porn websites in the world.

- In 1995 American Gary Kremen secured the rights for the domain He sold the rights in 2006 for 14 million dollars.

- People who regularly watch pornos find their partners in real life increasingly less sexy, regardless of how attractive they are. (Zillmann/Bryant)

The Truth About Men

- Three out of four men fantasize about their work colleagues. (Playboy)

- 72 percent of men get a complex when they see the good looking men on the cover pages of magazines.

- 73 percent of men are still potent at the age of 70.

- The internet site asked its readers whether, if it was legal, they would like to have two wives. 29 percent said yes.

- Only one in six men give their girlfriends or wives underwear.

- Men who help with housework have better sex. (Riverside University)

- One in twenty men has fallen asleep during sex. (FHM)

God Bless America!

- Amercians have the most sex, at 132 times a year. ( Durex)

- Sex lasts an average of 17.6 minutes for Americans.

- 16 percent of young Americans have had sex as an act of revenge.

The History of “Sexy Time”

- When the Egyptians destroyed Libya in the 13th century B.C. they took 13.230 penises of the conquered enemies as trophies

- A group of students were shown pictures of couples having sex. At the same time scientists recorded what part of the pictures the test subjects looked at first. The men more often looked at the women's faces, whereas the women tended to focus their attention on the genitals. Only women who were on the pill focused on the way the room was decorated. (Kinsey Institute)

- Around 100 B.C. in Babylon all women had to go to the temple of the Fertility Godess Mylitta to have sex with a stranger. Only then were the women allowed to marry. The stranger, in return, had to donate money to the temple. (The History of Prostitution)

- The first condoms were made from sheep intestines and other animal membranes.

Some Truths About the Ladies

- 41 percent of women have fantasized about having sex with two men at the same time. (Review of general psychology)

- The tip of the clitoris has about 8000 nerve endings - more than anywhere else on the human body. In comparison: A penis only has 4000. (Cosmpolitan)

- 90 percent of all women have faked an orgasm. (Charite)

- On average women have 11 bras in their drawer and 22 panties. (IMAS)

- Ninety percent of women would choose a hug over sex.

- Visuals are very important for men during sex. Emotions and touch are what count for women (Eli LIlly/Ipsos Sante)

- 31 percent of women think that men chould be a little rougher with them in bed. (GQ)

- Straight women get just as turned on watching two women having sex as by watching a man and a woman having sex.

- Three percent of women plan household chores while having sex. (TNS-Emnid/Lisa)

Other Facts & Figures

- Seven out of ten people kiss with their nose to the right.

- A few strange desires: Plushophilia = sexual attraction to soft toys. Dendrophilia = sexual attraction to trees. Staturphilia = sexual attraction to statues.

- The most condoms are sold in July and August. (The Book pf Sex Lists)

- A single sperm has to wiggle its tail 800 times to move forward one centimetre. (BZGA)

- A study in New Zealand revealed that young women with piercings (besides earrings) change sexual partners more often than other women. (University of Otago Medical School)

- Sexsomnia is the term US scientists use for people who perform sexual activities unconciously during sleep. The spectrum ranges from masturbation to sexual intercourse - in the event that the sexsomnia patient comes across a partner.

- About 80 percent of the sexsomnia cases occur with men. (Journal of Clinical Forensic Medicine)

- In an international survey Germans ranked as the worst lovers in the world becuase they only think about their own pleasure in bed. Also not too popular were Turks (too sweaty), Swedes (too quick), Dutch (too rough), Americans (too dominating), British (too fat) and Russians (too hairy). The winners, again, were the Italians.

- People have a tendency to choose partners whose body fat percentage is similar to their own. (Rowett Research Institute)

- Certain foods are said to be good for boosting ones sex life: lean meat, oysters, grains, wheat, seafood.

- Men have about nine erections during a night's sleep - regardless of what they dream.

- Sexual intercourse takes place about 2778 times around the world every 5 seconds.

See, now that you visited my blog, even if you didn't enjoy it, you can say you at least learned something!



Tag: The Handbag Game

Rosemarie Tagged ME!!! I'll be a good girl and keep the LABEL LOVE goin!

The Rules:

1) Post a picture of whatever bag you are carrying as of late. No, you cannot go up to your closet and pull out that cute little purse that's your fav. We want to know what you carried today or the last time you left the house. No cheating!
2) List how much it cost. And this is not to judge. :) This is for entertainment purposes only. So spill it. And if there is a story to go along with how you obtained it, we’d love to hear it.
3) Tag some chicks. And link back to this post so people know why the heck you’re showing everyone your bag.

My Balenciaga (on MY comfy reading/drinking/laughing/etc. chair that I love to pieces), compliments of an ex boyfriend that was - well - at least had good taste in handbags. I am unaware of its' sale price, and like not knowing. I use him everyday and he is a bottomless Mary Poppins of a bag! Luckily I just cleaned out the crap from my bag, and this photo looks like I supposedly have my life organized along with the contents of my purse. NOT! But there you have it.

Now with a pat on the booty
, I pass this on to:

Marissa - (Visit Her Blog)


Lulu - (Visit Her Blog)


Note From Elle:

Thought this was funny! I should have included it before!

Lolita: Is that a doughnut keychain or something?

Elle:YES! It's a Betsey Johnson keychain!! The other side is pink with flowers and glitter! So tacky but so delicious! My cousin gave it to me, a running joke in the family because I am a chocolate frosted donut fiend! I'll give a cop a run for their money any day in a donut eating contest. And donuts with coffee? Fugghetaboutit!! So yes, I carry around a plastic donut on my keys! It makes me ME!

Balenciaga Love & Donut Flavored Kisses,


You Jump, I Jump

One thing you should probably know about me is that I am ridiculously obsessed with the movie Titanic. I don't have cable, and I've only got about 20 movies in my apartment, and Titanic is one of them, so suffice to say, it's on a lot. Often, if there's nothing else going on, I'll just put it on and let it play in the background while I cook, or clean, or do homework. It's on right now. If you're reading this and for some reason, you've never seen the film, stop reading, go and watch it, and then come back.

Aside from the fact that Kate Winslet is one of my favorite actresses of all time, I just love the story. It's all just really beautiful, incredibly touching, and unbearably sad. I can never get through the whole film without crying because there are just so many beautiful, and heartbreaking moments. I love the romantic notion of caring about someone as much as Jack and Rose care about each other. I love the kind of people that they are. I admire their courage.

Quite possibly my favorite moment in the entire film comes towards the end, when Jack and Cal have convinced Rose to get into a lifeboat, and the boat is being lowered into the water. Rose is in the boat, she's safe. She'll survive, and she'll be okay. But that's not good enough. Surviving is not good enough. Instead of staying where she knows she'll be safe, she risks everything. She gets up, and she jumps from the lifeboat, from safety, from the closest thing she's got to a guarantee of surviving. She jumps back onto the sinking ship.

And I cry every single time I watch her do it.

I cry because it's romantic. I cry because it's tragic. And I cry because she's right; surviving is not good enough.

Life is not about surviving. Life is about living. And sometimes living means jumping out of your lifeboat, and doing something that is a genuinely stupid idea. I have spent my whole life sitting in that lifeboat looking back at chances I wish I had taken fade away. I have chosen to protect myself, and so I have sat there in that lifeboat, safe, secure, and alone. And you know what? I'll survive if I don't jump. I'll be okay. But you know what else?

Jumping out of that lifeboat might just be the best thing I ever did for myself.

I'm not saying that we should all run around and do things that are dangerous and reckless - that's not what I mean at all. What I mean is that sometimes, we have to give up the guarantee at surviving to have a chance at living. We all have the ability to go through life safely. We can take fewer risks, and we can get through relatively unscathed. We can get in the lifeboat, with the hopes that we'll never be hurt, or we can jump, accepting the fact that we will be hurt, and deciding that maybe there's something else that is more important.

It reminds me of a line from the movie Hitch. I forget the exact words, but it's something along the lines of "That's what people do - they jump, and hope they can fly, because if they can't, they fall the whole way down thinking 'Why in the hell did I jump?'"

I didn't jump because I thought it was a smart idea. I didn't jump because I thought it would keep me safe. I jumped because I'd rather know happiness for a little while, and deal with the pain when it comes. I jumped because from where I'm standing, it's worth it. And I am willing to accept the fact that someday, I might be the one wondering why the hell I jumped.

Can you think of a time when you jumped out of your metaphorical lifeboat? Do you tend to play it safe, or are you more of a risk-taker? Do you think we should play it safe more often, or do you think we should take more chances?
Love and Kisses,

Quilted Chan-Elle Bag

My Brain Quilt! Before I go to bed I figured I'd dump my final thoughts/ideas/feelings on you. A picture is worth a thousand words. (Feel free to use the graphics below.)


Part Three: Big Girl Panties/You Let It Go

She wants to say she never believed him, that she only wanted to. That she'd known better, when he'd whispered 'I love you' and slipped inside her. She wants to wish away those nights they'd fallen asleep next to one another, those long car rides home, her head on his shoulder. To burn the snapshots from her retinas; steering wheels and headlights, you and me under those same stars.

More importantly, she wants to know when. When loving her turned into that lesser artistic representation he always strove to avoid. In the end, when you pressed your hands against my flesh, did you even see me or the woman you wished I was?

And why. Always, why. Why he'd pulled her through the loops and verses of everyday living, knowing he'd already replaced her in every way but one. I couldn't have loved you better.

As if he knows she's gone rather suddenly blank, he rushes to her rescue. In some dim, distant part of her brain, she's grateful that he's still capable of reading her mind, her cues. Even if he's forsaken the right to do so. "It wasn't you. You didn't do anything wrong. I didn't stop, and I didn't go looking. It happened, and I made a choice."

The right choice. She doesn't need to read his mind to hear the unspoken words. Whatever vestige of love he has left for her, entirely eclipsed by the woman who'd stolen him away. What do you do with love like that?

You let it go. You pour a drink. And tomorrow, you begin a life with no restraints on your heart.

So I'm sitting here, snuggled by myself in my warm bed, watching DVDs and painting my nails, sipping on some extra sweet Chardonnay. Raise your glass with me tonight world! Elle put on her big girl panties and decided to let go.


Part Two: Return of the Ex

A few hours later - and a few minutes late, so as not to seem lame - she calmly struts her thang into the coffee shop. Dressed in a reasonable reproduction of his favorite outfit - a replication of style more than a true faith to his preferred view of her. An update, upgrade - still the woman you loved, but better. Her butt looks great and her smile is explosive, portraying a new sense of functionality and a bubbly, completed soul. Determined to look him square in the eye and, for once, not flinch.

But as she counts the footsteps toward their usual table, familiarity tugs at the hem of her skirt. (Mind you the hem was way, way up to her thigh), Closes its fingers around hers and yanks her in every direction at once. She's unprepared for this, for the fall to remembering. Most of all, she's unprepared for the depth of color in his eyes.

"Hey, you."

Oh, his voice. Concentrated, meant for her ears alone. "Hey, you."

They exchange overformal pleasantries as he passes her her latte - the ratio of sugar to cream to coffee, as always, just as she likes it. How many mornings had they spent like this? How many afternoons? How many conversations about the weird guy in the corner, or the new movies coming out this weekend?

After a heartbeat or two of painful yet passionately pleasurable silence, she rests her chin in her hand (a short French manicure… class without being fussy) and taps her fingers against her coffee cup. Decides to seek empowerment by way of forthright, that’s right Girl Power, ‘F*ck you I’m not playing games’ accusation. "So. To what do I owe the pleasure?" Of your company. Your attentions. Of eye contact, and the bump of your knee against mine. It's GAME TIME!!! And I am so not here to lose, to YOU and your mind games or pathetic excuses!

"We're sorry, you know." As if singular pronouns no longer applied and he was no longer an independent entity. She bites down on a vindictive response and just nods cleverly, waiting for him to continue. She's DYING to know if he realizes what he should be sorry for. "This isn't really how we wanted it to turn out."

Again, that we. I’m going to Barf. She's suddenly struck with the image of their foreheads pressed together while they designed their happily ever after at her expense. She grants that this might be unfair, but the fact remains. For all his apologies - and her apologies, by extension - he's still looking at her like a complete stranger. "Sorry?" She hopes the words come out with the right amount of detached venom in them; she's aiming for distant, bemused sarcasm but is quite sure of failing miserably. "And I suppose this is where I forgive you?"

From the quick raise of his eyebrow, he doesn't miss the slight lean she places on 'you'. Purposely, if subtly, disregarding the third party in their cruel orbit of one another. "Of course, you don't have to," he allows. "I just assumed you'd rather be civil than not. After all this time. I mean, we should be capable."

After all this time. Shared secrets, and heartbreaks. Enough time to be considered shared history. It strikes her that she's unsure of life without him only because she can barely remember life before him. And because she can't fathom their quick downshift: from domestic bliss, to his lips pressed against another woman's bare stomach. How quickly could you fall out of love? Fall in love again?

And why?

"You cheated on me." It's all she can think to say, words plucked from the white noise of blood in her head. She didn't mean to bring it up, nor did she mean for the words to be accompanied by a rather vivid mental picture of fingers and tongue and teeth. But there it is: essentially, the deal-breaker. Whatever salvation he was after, how does he expect her to look past that?

"I did, yes." At least he pays her the courtesy of ducking his head. Shamed, but not entirely regretful. It occurs to her, for the first time, that he's happy. Without her. The thought had crossed her mind from time-to-time, but had never held any truth value. She'd always assumed he'd thrown away forever for the predictable, obvious appeal of sex and heat - she'd seen this woman. You didn't fall in love with woman like that. "But not for the mere fun of it." An important distinction, in his eyes.


Part One: You Have One New Voice Message

"Dear you. I know it's been awhile since we last talked. I'm sorry girl. Coffee, to make it up to you? The usual spot, the usual time. Love, me."

On its fifth replay, she finds the message no less confusing than the first. In fact, with each looped playback she's washed further from the shores of sanity - first through last, some new digitized detail emerging from the embers of her memory. His affectionate inflections, the familiarity of his colloquialisms. By the seventh time through, she stalls repeatedly on the message's end: did that 'love' carry the same weight it once did, or is she imagining things that aren't there?

She could just pretend to have never gotten the message. Reject his peace offering in silence and get out of whatever he has planned by way of 'making it up to her'. There's an charming unfussiness to dodging people, and ignorance; he can't hold her responsible, if she doesn't know. But even as she ponders the option, she knows it isn't one. While he's moved on to his happily ever after *with his little Energizer Slutbunny * she's no further away from him than she's ever been. Still stuck evaluating the importance of his proposed meeting place, and time: regretful amusement, or incisive undertone? How much was he trying to say?

It was my ex. My serious serious ex.