We’re pretty spread out here in western New Jersey, and there’s a kick-ass balance between “what you do is your business” and “but I am curious about that package, so I’ll help you carry it inside.” Our next door neighbors, Dave and Judy, threw us a welcome party when we first moved in, complete with a homemade banner, and, more importantly, Sangria.
Our neighbor around the corner, Linda, dropped off a bushel of apples from her orchard this fall, while the ones across the street gave us a discount on our Christmas tree (yes, there’s a Christmas tree farm across the street! It’s amazeballs out here, Chipmunks, I’m telling you…even if you do lose power every time an owl sneezes).
As if that wasn’t enough, then there’s our neighbor, Jeff. He’s close to our age, and lives behind us in a gorgeous house. He’s the quintessential neighbor: He owns every power tool under the sun and knows how to use them all, helped us clear trees post Hurricane-Sandy, and leaves delicious food in the mailbox. Peppermeister doesn’t even mind the pepper-growing competition, with Jeff’s garden in plain sight.
This Valentine’s Day, I thought it was time to show Jeff how I really felt. It started with my famous homemade double-chocolate cookies:
My BFF, Jenn, gave me those sweet-ass Ziploc bags.
And ended with this note:
Dearest Jeff,
I must be quick, for Peppermeister does not know of this!
Your seafood sauce was the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. Bestill my heart!
I’m slowly poisoning Peppermeister.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
-Go Jules Go
Psst…between you and me, Peppermeister is looking a little worse for the wear. It’s only a matter of time, Jeff.
What’s the nicest and/or creepiest thing a neighbor has ever done for you?
If you want to check out the details about the 12-12-12 concert to support Hurricane Sandy Relief, or find out how to donate, please visit: http://www.121212concert.org/.
So, come on, it’s been a while: Who are you having “imaginary” (ahem. It might have happened. You don’t know) conversations with?
So you’re probably thinking I’m going to start this post like I always do, by greeting you as my fuzzy, wuzzy, li’l Chipmunks. Well, I would, but Peppermeister (First Husband) told me snakes eat chipmunks. And I just don’t want to take that kind of chance here.
You see, on Saturday, amidst hour number 8,002 of yard work, I went over to the pool filter and lifted the cover so I could clean it out. We had just had a big storm, so I knew it would be full of crud.
Oh, I was right about that.
Yup. THAT just happened.
I’d like to take this time to remind you that I live in New Jersey. The reason I stay here is simple: NO SCARY CREATURES (unless you count our politicians). No scorpions, no box jellyfish, no dementors, and no grizzlies (I don’t think. Don’t burst my bubble).
Now, okay, this snake was probably only 18 inches long, and a harmless garter at that, but that didn’t stop me from letting out a strangled cry and jumping back 5 feet.
I made Peppemeister repeat the process when he got home, so he too might have something to blog about. Which is when we discovered it was still very much alive.
Now that I’ve had a few days to recover, I’ve decided I’ve given this snake far too much power. And I know I’m not alone; so many people are terrified of snakes.
I’m going to take care of all that for you, right here, right now. It’s the least I can do considering you’re probably still pissed from hearing that I have a pool and haven’t invited you over.
Allow me to present to you:
BOB, the Worst Stand-Up Comic Snake of All-Time
And so you see, snakes are nothing to be afraid of. Until they start telling jokes.
Have you ever encountered any unwanted critters in your dwelling?
***SUPER IMPORTANT ALERT THAT YOUR HAPPINESS PROBABLY DEPENDS ON: I’m wrapping up the Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelet extravaganza, so if you have any unseen slap bracelet pictures, the deadline is TODAY, JUNE 6th. I hope you’ll send them to me at Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. Oh and I think you’re swell. Even if you don’t have a slap bracelet.***
Hot air ballooning was so much more than I could have ever hoped for.
And not just because of the balloon. Or the hot air.
But because it involved so, so many guilty pleasures. I hope you’re ready for an eareyeful.
It started around 6pm on Sunday, when Peppermeister, the man trying to kill me via his 30th birthday “present”, herded me into the car. I knew what was up. Luckily, I’d already prepared my last will and testament.
We headed to a main road not too far from our house; this was the only sign of what was to come:
A long driveway led to an open field, where two other couples were milling about. Peppermeister is ruthless, I thought. With all this extra weight, we would plummet to the ground with even more force than I had originally feared.
He reminded me not to socialize because “people like us too much.” It was a cover-up, because he didn’t want me to get close to anyone when we were all about to die. Except he was right. People totally like us too much when we talk. In fact, we try not to be ourselves in public at all. So here we are at a picnic table by ourselves. Being [secretly] awesome.
An old-school bus with a trailer pulled up, hauling a giant basket. A slew of folks immediately began assembling our death trap.
Babs, a.k.a. Mommarazzi, was, of course, on hand to capture everything:
I was glad it was a rainbow. Hot air balloons are supposed to be rainbows. And rainbows are good luck. …Right?
I put on a brave face.
And that’s when I saw it. The greatest handlebar mustache of all time. You can even see it from the back (far right). The perfect distraction from imminent death.
Our basket had 5 compartments, and each person had to climb in and out while the basket was on its side. I made it, and started worrying I would drop Annie Leibovitz (my iPhone), causing someone else’s death.
I glanced upward nervously; I prefer to be on fire only metaphorically speaking.
The force of the now-inflated balloon pulled our jam-packed basket upright. Oh holy chipmunks. We have lift off.
Goodbye, Babs! Remember what I said about selling Peppermeister’s instruments! …I love you. Psst. Handlebar Mustache is RIGHT. THERE.
OMG. Let’s zoom in:
Tragically, the winds blew us northwest, away from The Mustache Miracle and right over my place of employment. I’d post pictures, but I feel like they might shoot me (how many times can I cheat death in one week?).
Here, look at these instead:
Ah. You never knew Jersey was this beautiful, right? Yes. Quiet, serene, relaxing… oh, wait. Did I mention we were with two couples from Brooklyn (one young, one middle-aged)? Here’s an 8-second reenactment of our first few moments in the air:
I had to admit, it was relaxing, despite their piercing chatter. I was lost pondering gravity potential Glee covers when we started running into trees. We got closer and closer to the ground, and made a bumpy ‘touch down’ in a corn field. The driver fire cord-puller guy claimed it was “to slow us down.” Personally, I think he was just trying to shut Fran Drescher up.
The van that brought the hot air balloon followed us the whole time, because, in case I failed to mention it earlier - they have no control over where the balloon will go.
I was a little worried about crashing into power lines, or this highway. (Or that drivers viewing our balloon-y majesty would cause a pile-up on said highway.)
I probably shouldn’t have looked down at the inside of the basket, either.
It reads: “We’re totally not responsible if we turn you into vampire meat.”
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have read that…
Why are we going so low again? Why? Oh no.
Luckily, we had enough juice to get our basket out of harm’s way, and got to watch as families came out of their houses, dogs barked, and little kids begged us to land in their yard (who doesn’t love watching a hot air balloon? It’s like music. Or eating asparagus and then peeing). Note that even so close to The End, I had only one thing on my mind: Snacks.
About 40 minutes later, they decided there wouldn’t be a better opportunity to land but in this backyard. I braced myself, and…
…We made it. (Crawling Falling out of the basket was even more hilarious than climbing in. My shoe fell off in the process, and Handlebar Mustache complimented my toenail polish [which totally matches my GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelet, natch]. I may have to consider a Third Husband.)
A copy-cat balloon landed right after us. They didn’t get the memo about the rainbow pattern requirement. I’m surprised they survived.
Loading the basket back on the trailer was fun for everyone who wasn’t loading the basket back on the trailer. …That redhead was cute from the front, too.
And that’s when we found out what had happened. Somehow, I completely missed it. Young Mr. Brooklyn [Gypsy?] had gotten down on one knee -in the basket- to propose to his infant girlfriend. There’s no way the basket should have stayed afloat with the weight of that rock in it.
And P.S. – she’s sixteen.
Here I am attempting to point at the ring during the ride in the van back to our cars (where are Misty’s ninja photo skills when I need them?):
Once we made it back to home base, we were treated to champagne, beer, cheese and crackers. Apparently, hot air ballooning began in France, and when ballooners would land in someone’s yard, the homeowners would freak out. ‘Cause, you know, it was clearly a spaceship. To ease the tension, the ballooner would offer a bottle of champagne to the traumatized family.
Now. Why couldn’t Peppermeister have told me that from the start*?
*He claims he totally did**.
**I never listen to him. Ever. It’s probably why he wants to kill me.
So, what did you think of that mustache/engagement?
The weather in western New Jersey seems to finally be cooperating with Peppemeister‘s (a.k.a. First Husband’s) birthday gift to me plan to kill me. You know.
This:
Help me.
We leave in about an hour for our very first hot air balloon ride.
So close to the heavens, it’s only natural that I start to think: Once the angels catch a glimpse of my rocking side-pony and hot pink slap bracelet, they won’t want to let me back down to earth.
So in the event that I don’t return to you, please find…
The Last Will and Testament of GoJulesGo, PMP*
*Project Management Professional
Heartthrobs should stick together.
I bequeath my beloved dog, Uncle Jesse, to Second Husband, Darren Criss. Darling, it was only a matter of time before he was yours, anyway.
I bequeath whatever is left of my vodka supply to my best friends, Jenn and Mary, who will treat it exactly as I would. With cranberry juice and shamelessness.
Remember me this way, ladies.
To my mother, I give you all of Peppermeister’s musical instruments. Babs, he just killed me. Sell that shiz and take yourself on the shopping spree of a lifetime.
Go nuts, Pop. I love you.
To my father, I give you the money in my savings account. Take yourself out to a nice dinner. And what the heck, get the fries, too.
To my sister, I bequeath all of my dresses. To go with the ones you think I gave to you but really I thought we both understood this was a temporary thing.
And, finally, to you, dear Chipmunks, I give you this blog. May you honor my memory by ensuring that you indulge in your guilty pleasures, loud and proud, for all the rest of your days. And don’t listen to a word Zest and Zeal tell you. They have NO idea how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.
They are not to be trusted.
Do you enjoy risking your own life?
Photo Credits
#1 (Darren Criss – before annotation) – people.com
Sometimes...it depends on what the meaning of 'is' is.
I’ve been moved, Chipmunks. Moved to go where this blog has never gone before.
Into the depths of my big, beautiful brain.
Who have we to thank? Well, we could call her Siri, but I prefer Annie Leibovitz, because my new phone takes such beautiful pictures. That, ultimately, is why I got her.
Meet A-Leib.
Come, let us look at all of the profound musings A-Leib has inspired since coming into my life last Friday…
If cars ran on hay, and horses ran on gas, I’d be okay with us running out of gas.
Is there anything hot glue, a ball of twine, and an intense desire to mask inner turmoil with superficial beauty can’t do?
Sometimes, as the sun goes down, I wonder why all them ”Twilight” haters hate. The protagonist is the epitome of quiet, selfless inner strength. She’s also a pretty good cook.
Man’s best friend can help us cherish simplicity: fresh air, open fields and sunny skies. And all the deer poop you can eat.
When one looks for signs to lead them down the right path, one often finds pebbles in one’s shoe.
I believe inner peace can be found in the most unexpected places. Like someone else’s backyard. …Or jail.
Happy Thursday! What’s been on your dead sexy mind lately?
P.S. – In case you were wondering, they’ve put in new trailheads on our street, and the trails lead to some pretty spectacular views. Yeah, man! This is Jersey!
I got your greetings right here. Oh! Fuhgeddaboudit.
I’m from the land of opportunity, where the streets are paved in gold[en tanning lotion] and the hills run with honey [-colored highlights].
Where, when driving 35 miles east to work, I pass not one, not two, but three shopping malls. Fuhgeddaboudit.
Where, most importantly, it’s not considered at all rude to shout, “Get the hell oudda here!”
That’s right. These are my brethren bubbies:
I am likely no more than 3 degrees of separation from all of these people.
Being from “The Garden State” can be confusing. People fly into Newark Airport and, if not distracted by the acrid smell of industry’s finest power plants, come to realize there isn’t a flower or turnip in sight*. Fuhgeddaboudit.
If they ask for a hoagie or a pop, they may be met with, “Oh! Speak English!” We identify most with our ‘exit’ – the number of the Garden State Parkway exit you take to get to our hometown, whatever that might be (135 in the house, yo!). New York City is simply “The City” (if appropriate, a borough is specified), and getting the world’s best pizza and bagels from any seedy-looking strip mall is not so much appreciated as it is expected. Fuhgeddaboudit. You might have noticed my liberal use of “Fuhgeddaboudit” throughout this post. That’s another confusing thing about New Jersey. Not only can you get away with saying this (in joking fashion or with all the sincerity of a mother chipmunk tending to her teeny, tiny baby chipmunks), you can use it in a number of conflicting ways: You need a ride to the train station because you’re getting your Mazda tramp stamped? Fuhgeddaboudit! Your mother-in-law told your hairdresser to tone down your pouf? Fuhgeddaboudit! You tried those calzones at Vinny’s? Fuhgeddaboudit! As you can see, it means both “Of course! Don’t think twice!” and “Aw hell no!” Most commonly, though, as Urban Dictionary so eloquently states, it means: “The subject is unequivocally excellent; further thought and analysis are unnecessary.” …My head hurts. Does anyone want to do shots? What do you love/hate about your motherland? *Let us remember, though, I have a barn. Jersey has so much to offer**. **Fuhgeddaboudit! Photo Credits:#1 (postcard) – edisonnewjerseyhomes.com#2 (Jersey Shore cast) – jerseyshoreshow.org#3 (t-shirt) – raggedshirts.com
Once upon a time, Mother Nature had a stroke and decided New Jersey was getting off too easy. Sure, sure, there’s tolls on the highways and you can’t bring beer on the beach, but…no scorpions! So, she threw us a heaping scoop of hurricane with a sprinkling of tornado. Nah, she thought, still not cutting it. I know!Earthquake! That seemed to satisfy her for a while, but when October 29th rolled around, she was restless again.
Mother Nature decided she’d start with a smattering of snow. Odd, I thought, but pretty.
Who doesn't like a Christmas tree farm dusted with snow?
Then…BAM!
FULL-ON SNOW STORM!
By the way, that ‘bam’ was the sound of every tree in New Jersey falling on every power line. As the most densely populated state in the U.S., that’s a lot of power lines. The snow was too heavy and the leaves too plentiful; giant branches bowed and then broke.
We weren’t anticipating a true storm (there’s no storm like it on record [for October] since the Civil War), so when it really started coming down and we lost power at 1 o’clock last Saturday afternoon, we headed out in search of a generator and bottled water (we have a well that doesn’t work when we lose power).
We encountered 5 power lines down in under an hour...which is how long it took us to go 6 miles.
We got the last generator, and it was enough to power the fridge. Not the heat or the water. So we waited in the dark. And waited and waited. We blanched at the news that 95% of New Jersey Central Power and Light’s customers would have power restored by the following Thursday, the remaining 5% on Friday. By Thursday?! That was 6 full days away! We had needs! …Like showering for work.
Guess who was in the 5%? Yup. That’s right. 7 days of flushing the toilet with melted snow and creek water later…
I’M BACK!
Of course, I have to return with a bang, so for your viewing pleasure…
Uncle Jesse in costume!!!
I'm not sure he grasps what a privilege it is to be a chipmunk.
There are many like-minded souls out there, which fills my guilty pleasure heart to the brim. For example, I discovered via Twitter that last Halloween Second Husband bought a squirrel costume from Target for his brother’s dog:
He's carrying an acorn! OMG. (Click on picture for photo credit, but only if you dare.)
Annnnnd this is why Second Husband is about to get upgraded to Soul Mate status. I mean, a squirrel is almost a chipmunk. Does anyone else see interwoven destiny here? …No? Pssh. See if I try to pawn off my leftover candy corn on you this year.
I was raised 20 miles southwest of New York City, in a suburban New Jersey town where today city commuters still reign supreme and real estate is precious. I grew up thinking anyone with more than half an acre of land was a millionaire. Or crazy. I hated country music, horseback riding and wide open spaces. At 20, I transferred to college in Manhattan and became one of those commuters myself. I was sure I’d grow up to be an urban-dwelling writer/cat lady. Gladly so.
Now look at me. 29. Married. Project Manager. Labradoodle. Barn.
WTF.
I have a barn. What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is a girl like me supposed to do with a barn? I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately from a guilty pleasure perspective (duh, what other perspective is there?) and I have some ideas. I’m not dead-set on any, so I’d really appreciate your suggestions. (I know how creative you are when you’re supposed to be doing boring serious things. )
There’s the obvious:
Vodka Distillery.
Animals Dressed as Other Animals: An Aww-Inspiring Exhibit.
Sexy Secret Hiding Place for Second Husband, Darren Criss.
And the slightly less obvious:
Clubhouse for My Very First Cult. (Alert: Currently recruiting. Must love deep-fried Oreos and puppies. Serious inquiries only.)
Storage Room for guillotine, life-sized Twilight dolls, barrels of wine, aged cheeses and fireworks*.
Goat. You know. Maybe. Like one cute, little goat. And some chickens. Just 1 or 2 or 50. And the goat probably needs a friend, now that I think about it.
Admit it. You want some g.d. extraordinary chickens, too. (Side note: My bestie actually bought this calendar for someone once.) Photo credit: bumblebeeblog.com
*This might sound more impressive if you knew fireworks were illegal [for residents to own/set off] in New Jersey. …No? Still not impressed? Did you see that chicken?
What about THESE chickens? Boo-ya. Photo credit: mytakeonlife.com
Your seafood sauce was the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. Bestill my heart!
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