Category Archives: I’m Going To Chop My Ear Off Any Day Now

EPIC POST ALERT: This Year’s Custom JACK-o-Lantern Winner Is…

SQUEE! It’s time! It’s finally time!

For this year’s Custom Jack-o-Lantern Giveaway Contest, I asked you to describe a FrankenFood – some odd food combo that you invented or sampled. Your submissions were spooktacular. Thank you!

It was a friiiiightfully difficult choice, but the winner is:

Marta from Oh My, Marta!

Marta’s entry:

Marta-gravatarI so have this! I invented the best thing ever (still need to get in contact with someone about marketing this) when I was perhaps not low but ____. What you do is take two nacho cheese Doritos, the crumbs are the best for this, and then take a somewhat stale (staleness dependent on preference) chocolate raisin and sandwich it in between the Doritos. Pop it in your mouth and experience heaven. Seriously.

I couldn’t help it. I couldn’t stop thinking about it. Could it possibly be good? I liked Raisinets, and I loved Doritos, but together?

Photo credit: http://1funny.com

Photo credit: http://1funny.com

I had to know. I called for reinforcements:

Has there ever been a more polarizing FrankenFood? The overall verdict: WIN! You are my hero, Marta. But I already knew you had impeccable taste, given our shared love of Leonardo DiCaprio.Titanic-pumpkin-gourdThus, I present your prize – a custom jack-o-lantern:

STEP 1: DESIGN OVERLY AMBITIOUS PATTERN

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STEP 2: RIP GUTS OUT OF PERFECT PUMPKIN

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Step 3: Tape Design On Pumpkin While Palms Begin to Sweat

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Step 4: transfer design And question everythingTitanic-Pumpkin-4

Step 5: Tell Yourself, “There’s No Turning Back Now” over and over while shoving Raisinitos in your face

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Step 6: Begin to Realize Self-Worth

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Step 7: Marvel

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Congratulations, Marta! (And seriously. Get on this Raisinito thing, pronto.)

Oodles of thanks to She’s A Maineiac, Rachel’s Table, Accidental Stepmom, Cal-Hockley-titanic-3032768-720-540PEPPERMEISTER!, my family, and Magical Neighbor Jeff for your bravery. You are my double rainbow, the wind beneath my wings, the helpless little girl to my Cal Hockley.

HAPPY HALLOWEEN!

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About these ads

Win A Custom Jack-o-Lantern from Go Jules Go!

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Yes. Yes. Yesyesyesyesyesyes!

It’s my favorite time of [the bloggy calendar] year! Time for…

The World’s Most Amazing Halloween Contest*

*according to me

The rules are always a little different, but the prize remains the same: A custom jack-o-lantern, designed and carved by yours truly. I base the design on you/your entry, and am so excited to see what this year will bring.

2011 Winner: Deb from The Monster in Your Closet

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2012 Winner: Misty from Misty’s Laws

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The Rules

I mentioned in my last post that I made a spicy pepper-infused apple pie. Today you can find out it if it sank or swam on my hub, Peppermeister’s, blog.

Sometimes Frankensteining (eh? Get it?) a recipe together goes awry, other times it blows your mind.

To enter the contest, simply tell me about an unusual food or drink combo you’ve invented or sampled. You can a) leave it in the comments section below, b) blog about it and link back to this post (note: this contest is open to everyone – not just bloggers!), or c) email me: Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com.

I’ll pick a winner based on insanity originality – it doesn’t matter if the recipe fails or flourishes, just that you gave it the old college try.

The Prize

A custom jack-o-lantern designed and carved by Go Jules Go.

Like this, only, you know, for you, instead of my dog, Uncle Jesse, (this is him cheating while playing Uno).

Like this, only, you know, for you. (This is my dog, Uncle Jesse, playing Uno, obviously.)

Oh and Uncle Jesse says there might be an autographed picture in your future.

He doesn't do this for just anyone, you know.

He doesn’t do this for just anyone, you know.

The Deadline

Monday, October 28th, midnight EST. Winner announced at 7am EST on Halloween, October 31st.

Happy Frankensteining!

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Help! Save The Byronic Birthday Man!

A year and a half ago, I cheekily called a favorite blogger, The Byronic Man, my BFF.

We should all take a moment to reflect on how far my PowerPoint skills have come since this.

We should all pause to reflect on how far my PowerPoint skills have come since this.

I thought it was hilarious. To call a blogging acquaintance -whose real name I’d only learned a month earlier- my Best Friend Forever?

Ha!

Be careful what you wish for, Chipmunks. Since then, The Byronic Man has become not only one of my closest friends, but the people’s choice for Third Husband.

Happy birthday, emoticon-glasses. And, ah, sorry about all of this:

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So what are you waiting for? Quick! Leave links to your favorite meme images and/or birthday well wishes in the comments section below, before we find The Byronic Man opening for Carrot Top!

If you have any trouble posting links in the comments section, feel free to email me your images and I’ll do it for you! Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com.

To see the first installment of Drunk Girl and Byronic Man, click here.

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“I Do”-Wop

When my BFF, Jenn, asked how things were going in Plural Marriage-ville, she was surprised by my answer.

Here’s a taste of why.

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Have you ever been in a band, or wish you had been? Any groupies out there?

P.S. – Special thanks to Jenn, and to those of you who suggested The Hubs form a band. Less special thanks to Hubs 1 through 3. Now cut that sh*t out.

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You Might As Well Start Hating Me Now

Oh boy.

Oh boy oh boy oh boy.

I suppose it was inevitable.

It’s Rachel’s Table‘s fault, really. At least, she’s the one who pointed it out. I never liked her.

Let me back up.

Last Friday, my good bloggy bud, Rache, and I (and our indulgent husbands) met up in Lambertville, New Jersey, under the guise of supporting a favorite local brewery, River Horse.

They had to come up with a summer ale after we drank the winter stash last November.

They had to come up with a summer ale after we drank the winter stash last November.

We had a blast, the true implications of the night yet to dawn on me. Two days later, Rache broke the news. I reacted accordingly.

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That’s right. Rache accused me of being a… a… hipster.

I needed time to process this, starting with the above image from Friday night. Sepia, Instagram-esque photo filter. Eep. Then the setting: A no fuss, no muss local brewery with exposed brick and tacky fluorescent lighting. Double eep. Lastly, there was how we ended the night – in an old school bar. Eeps to infinity. As Rache put it, we weren’t even trying to be ironic. Yet it was all so… so… authentically inauthentic.  Winking.

This was a grave matter indeed; I had to do some research. While the rest of you grilled animal flesh and donned red, white and blue in celebration of Memorial Day, I looked up over a dozen definitions of hipster, and read several articles (including this gem from the New York Times, How I Became a Hipster).

If I knew exactly what I was up against, maybe I could stop this tempeh and hemp-powered train from heading straight to Brooklyn. Or worse, Portland.

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I read the articles closely.

Jules-mustache-for-bannerIt was bad. I, along with my hipster brethren, abbreviated words like ridiculous and totally. We watched HBO’s Girls. We drank sazeracs. We obsessed over indie music, local food and sustainable energy.

So why was being a hipster rocking my mustachioed world? For starters, I like plenty of mainstream crap. Oh no. I just called it crap. Well, never mind, forget that one. Also? I’m well scrubbed, don’t look good in plaid, and wool makes me break out.

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Perhaps most telling, I’ve never said, “I was into ____ before they got big.” (I’ve thought it, though. A lot. And maybe said it ironically, once or twice. …Shoot.)bleach-stache-2

There is one catch to my seemingly inevitable slide into skinny jeans, rooftop gardening and fixed-gear bicycle riding: I awkwardly, laboriously and spectacularly try and fail to be cool. There is no pretending otherwise. I want to be cool. I want everyone to like me (even hipsters). I do care, and I don’t hide it.

So for now you’ll find me rocking my facial hair the only way I know how. Smugly. Hilariously. Genuinely.

First hub, Peppermeister, on the other hand...

First hub, Peppermeister, on the other hand…

What does being a hipster mean to you? (For some wildly funny breakdowns on hipsterdom, check out this page on Cracked.com. Toldja I did my research.)

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It’s My Second Blogoversary!!!

You heard me.

Today is my 2-Year blogoversary!!!

Now enough with the words and the reading and stuff.

I love you, Chipmunks. Thanks for somehow making year #2 even more awesome than the last.

Bloggers: Do you have a favorite blogging moment (either here or on your own blog)? Bloggers / All: Anything you’d like to see more of on Go Jules Go in the next year?

To help us celebrate this most chipmunkiest of occasions, I’ll randomly choose one commenter to win a pair of ‘stache glasses!

Hitting the Right Note

I woke up at 8am this past Christmas Eve. Late, for me. I’d been up ’til midnight, doing something I’d never done before. Something mortifying. I stared down the clock. My family was coming over at 2pm and my To Do list was more ominous than a week without vodka.

I headed straight for my lap top. For the first time in 5 months, I skipped my morning writing. This was more important. Far more important. The reason I wrote a journal to begin with.

My heart pounded.

I can’t do this. I know I promised myself all year I would finally do this, but I can’t. I just can’t.

I stalled. Checked email. Facebook. My mouth felt dry.

I have to. I have to do it.

Let me back up.

I was 7 years old when The Little Mermaid was released. It was November 1989. I sat on the living room floor of our little Cape Cod, wearing out my VHS copy by rewinding “Part of Your World” over and over again. I paused it every five seconds, and wrote out the lyrics, line by line.

When I was sure no one could hear, I sang along.

What would I give to live where you are…

I sang with longing. I felt like Ariel. Dreaming. Wanting the impossible. In the end, her voice earned her just that.

When I was in 4th grade, my music teacher asked for volunteers for one-line solos during the holiday concert. I raised my hand, heart racing. She plunked out the tune on the piano as I sang, “Up on the housetop reindeer pause…”

“Let’s try again,” she said. By the third time, she not-so-subtlely moved on, leaving me to wonder what I’d done wrong. My classmates said nothing.

Could I really not sing? One simple line? Even with the notes played for me on the piano? This was bad.

All lies.

All lies.

When I stood in front of all the parents the day of the concert, I tried not to fidget, even though I felt faint. I sang my one-line solo as best I could, and afterwards, my mother praised, “You sounded like an angel.” No one else complimented me.

“You have to say that,” I grumbled, afraid to believe her.

By 12, I’d taught myself how to play the piano, barely, and when no one was home, I sat at my great-grandmother’s ancient upright and played the songs my parents listened to. John Denver. James Taylor. Carole King.

I was terrified someone would find out. Not only were the songs I secretly adored lame, old fogey music, I heard my voice. How weak and flawed and uninteresting it was. How bad my timing was.

At 15, I bought a karaoke machine, took guitar lessons and even tried writing songs. I toyed with the idea of sharing them. I didn’t.

“I thought that was the radio,” my sister said, when she heard me in the shower one day. She was never long on compliments, and I kept that gem tucked away with “You sing like an angel,” hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, I could actually do this.

In college, I studied writing, believing it was my true passion, and then landed a well-paying corporate job. I married a musician. Time passed. 25. 26. 27. 28. My life felt off, like I was trying to break in a pair of shoes that would never fit.

I obsessively watched singing competitions, comparing myself to the contestants, always coming up short. I subscribed to an online karaoke service, and heard only off notes and lackluster tone. I thought about how I couldn’t sing and play an instrument at the same time. About my crippling stage fright.

It’s hopeless. Laughable. Not even worth admitting. Move on.

In February 2011, I started this blog, and in July 2012, I began doing creative unblocking exercises I’d learned long ago, courtesy of The Artist’s Way. Pretty soon it was impossible to hide from myself.

Fast-forward to Christmas Eve morning. I sat at my lap top, frantically sorting through the dozens of clips my husband, Peppermeister, and I recorded the night before, battling 30 years of “I can’t.”

But you can. Do it. NOW.

At 9am, I hit Publish. And then something miraculous happened. My heart immediately lightened. The hardest part was over:

I had posted a video clip of me. Singing. On my blog.

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I call this one, “This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done so please don’t judge me.”

I made light of it. Like I hadn’t been steeling myself for an entire year lifetime.

I didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable by sharing just how monumental that was. Though Peppermeister’s a musician, we’d never tried this before (I know. Ridiculous). We tried for nearly 3 hours to get it right (I really, really hate admitting that), but even in the published clip, I hit a bad note, missed a cue, sounded tired.

It didn’t matter.

I had finally admitted what I wanted. I’d taken the first breath of my new life, wondering when I got so melodramatic how I’d survived before.

P.S. – We’ve been practicing. So watch out.

Have you had any big “Ah hah” moments? What do you want to be when you grow up?

Christmas BLT: Bacon, Love & Talent

Well, Chipmunks. There are Christmas crafts and then there are Christmas crafts.

I’m not even sure you’re ready for this, but we’ll give it a whirl.

Last year, I convinced my two bestest friends to come over and get their gingerbread on, because it’d be fun fodder for my blog. Fueled by vodka and armed with duct tape, this [eventually] happened:

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Needless to say, I was sure I’d scarred them for life.

Nay! This year, they asked for Christmas Crafty Corner!

I smugly set out to find a worthy craft. And, oh-hoh, I found one.

“Even if we do a sh*tty job,” I explained, “all will be right in the world [if we make these].”

Thus, Jenn and M-Dazzle showed up on Saturday afternoon, full of optimism booze; things soon got so intense, the conversation came to a screeching halt.

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Silence! …But please pass the googly eyes.

‘Twas not long before Jenn attempted to make a finger puppet out of her craft. This is the PG version:

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I can’t take her anywhere.

Then something magical happened. In one shot, Peppermeister (First Husband) captured…

Bacon-collageSo what the fudge were we making? …Are you sure you’re ready for this? Really? Okay then.

BACON ORNAMENTS!!!

Yes. You heard me.

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Honestly, I have no idea how we pulled this off.

The craftiness doesn’t stop here, my Chipmunks. On Friday night, I received my much-anticipated Seussical Christmas tree from Peg, of Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings!

Peg just opened her own Etsy shop, Peep, where she sells beautiful items made from repurposed materials, namely wool and cashmere.

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And look what she included in the package!

I love you, Peggles.

I love you, Peggles.

Life is good. Almost as good as bacon.

I seriously can't stop making these. ...The scarf was Peppermeister's idea.

I seriously can’t stop making these. …The scarf was Peppermeister’s idea.

***P.S. – Speaking of craftiness – you still have until MIDNIGHT PST ON WEDNESDAY, DECEMBER 19th to enter THE GREATEST BLOG GIVEAWAY OF ALL TIME!***

A Bout of Sincerity

It must’ve been my recent return to poetry, Chipmunks.

Lately, I’ve felt somethin’ coming on. Sometimes I mistake it for melodrama. Or, at best, awkward earnestness.

That’s right.

Serious writing.

Though never insincere, I wasn’t always all guilty pleasures and goofy PowerPoint presentations. In my teens, humor only crept into my writing via dialogue. Everything else was angst-y and maudlin. I filled dozens of journals with lovesick poetry. Some of it wasn’t half bad.

In college, I discovered writers like Bill Bryson and David Sedaris, and realized that was the genre I wanted to pursue: humorous memoir. I’ve always found the truth more profound with levity. I like it when a protagonist’s journey makes me laugh despite the tears.

Nevertheless, the old poetry itch is back, and I don’t want this blog to suffer for it; we all know this place is the Uncle Jesse to my Aunt Becky. So today I thought I’d just quickly mention something a liiiittle more serious. A little behind-the-scenes look at my writing life.

I spend a lot of time on creative exercises and figuring out how to find and follow my passion(s). I handwrite, stream-of-consciousness style, for 30 minutes every morning, first thing. I take a daily walk, and once a week, I try to go on a mini adventure that sparks my creativity. On Sundays, I spend about an hour or two ‘checking in’ with myself, writing about recurring issues and the little miracles that happen when you get in touch with your creative nature.

Artists-Way-stache-glassesThese practices are, yes, a huge time commitment; I shower at night and get up at 5:30 in the morning to write before I drive an hour to work. But these exercises are a lifesaver for me, and if they sound familiar, you probably read about them in The Artist’s Way. Much like blogging, Julia Cameron’s books have changed my life in unimaginable ways.

They’re the reason I volunteered to help Marlene film the pilot webisode of My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours. The reason I had the nerve to attend my first blogging conference, meet up with Rache from Rachel’s Table, and sign up for that web design class.

Thanks to this blog and The Artist’s Way, I’ve identified concrete goals and watched them spring to life. I’ve learned that if you ask for a creative helping hand, and open yourself to possibility, the universe always delivers. Some of you have been the messengers!

I’ve never met Julia Cameron, have no affiliation with The Artist’s Way, and never thought I’d talk about this here, but my blog has always embraced the things we all love -however logical or…not- without shame. And so: I love these books.

If you’re feeling stuck and really ready to make a change, they might help you, too.

Have you ever read any of The Artist’s Way books? What inspires (or blocks) your creativity?

P.S. – Lest you think I’ve fallen off the guilty pleasure wagon, I’m drinking vodka right now and I’ve got somethin’ spectacular in the works for you later this week. It might be the most bloggy fun I’ve EVER HAD.

The (Power)Point Is… It’s Easy To Humiliate Your Friends

Chipmunks, I’ve never been one to hoard knowledge.

Especially when said knowledge can lead to embarrassment and/or blackmail and/or smugness.

Therefore, I give to you the following:

Any PowerPoint questions for me (or any tips to share?)? No? Any cross-dressing questions for The Byronic (Wo)Man? Don’t be shy.