Huh. Didn’t think I’d see THAT today.

It was just another Wednesday, albeit an unseasonably warm one in northern New Jersey, as I walked my dog through the neighborhood.

The autumn leaves were a Crayola box of gold, crimson, and green, and I snapped a photo when I reached my destination: a half-mile, gravel-lined walking trail near a local park.

I tried not to think of my mounting to do list and the fact that I was sweating profusely in mid-October as I walked briskly beneath the canopy. After thirty minutes, I reached my highest level of Zen (that is to say, an almost manageable degree of panic) and headed home.

Stepping back onto paved roads, I heard a strange shuffle to my right.

I looked up, and…


There is a dog on a roof, said my Zen mind.

There is a DOG on a ROOF, said my anxiety.

There is a BLOG POST in your POCKET, said my inner chipmunk.


Now that I’ve had time to consider this sight more deeply, I’ve come up with a few possible explanations:

  1. He’s a watch dog for a new K-9 super breed who can fly, bend steel with their minds, and resist the smell of crotches.
  2. He’s trying to catch a glimpse of Canada, so he knows what to expect after the next presidential inauguration.
  3. Anything is better than hearing his owner complain about work. I mean seriously, how hard is it to neglect pets for a living?
  4. He is a she, and she’s waiting for the right stud for whom to let down her tail of gold.

What do YOU think? 

P.S. – You still have one more day to enter THE GREATEST GIVEAWAY CONTEST EVER (ends MIDNIGHT EST, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21st)!


Rule the World AND Win the Greatest Giveaway – Leave a Comment by Oct 21, 2016!

My Fellow Chipmunks,

It’s that time of year again! Orange heads at every turn, scare tactics full of fluff hay, stress eating Tootsie Roll pops…

And oh yeah, it’s Halloween!

That means you can enter THE BEST contest ever known to the interwebz for a chance to win a CUSTOM JACK-O-LANTERN, carved poorly by yours truly!!

All you have to do is leave a comment describing how you would rule the country. Or the planet. Or the universe.

Here’s how I would do it:

The Rules

Simply leave a comment below describing what the world would look like if YOU were in charge.

The Prize

A custom jack-o-lantern, carved just for you by Go Jules Go. Don’t think that’s the greatest thing you’ve ever heard? Think again!

For more on past winners, click here, here or here.

The Deadline

MIDNIGHT EST, FRIDAY, OCTOBER 21st. (Winner Announced 6am EST, Monday, October 31st.)


I’m so excited I could pee brush my teeth.


I’m Engaged!

To: Worldwide Staff

Date: Thursday, October 6, 2016

Subject: “EET” This: The Latest Lip Service from Your Employee Engagement Team!

Dear Colleagues,

Do you like to think outside the box? Hate reinventing the wheel, but love moving the needle? Together, let’s unpack some of the issues that keep us from leaning into our BEST SELVES.

Today, we’re hitting the ground running with a new web platform where you can network, collaborate, innovate, ENGAGE, catalyze, inspire, and LIVE OUR SHARED MISSION.

Now is the time to remember that there’s no “i” in “team”…but there is one in “iPad” – and you could win one just by SOCIALIZING your IDEAS into ACTION!

Sound like a plan?

Come take the 30,000-foot view while simultaneously digging a little deeper into what makes our company so great – YOU.


With High Regard for Your Uniqueness,

Employee Engagement Team

P.S. – Getting too many emails? Hit “reply all” and let us know!


Strangers Are Just Friends Who Will Arrest You

The other day, one of my Masters program professors reminded me of an old adage: Strangers are just friends you haven’t met yet.

Corny, sure, but it suddenly seemed like a fun challenge. In light of my landlord’s recent display of kindness (of which I am still highly suspicious), I thought maybe I, too, should adjust my attitude with this platitude.

I played out a scenario in my head first:


“Hi!” I smile while the teenaged clerk checks the price of my almond butter. Forty-seven dollars, I want to tell her. That is the going rate for dry roasted almond pulp.

“Hello,” she grimaces.

“It’s so nice to see you, Kim!” I say, eyeing her name tag and assuming my role as transient bagger. “Let me do this. You’ve had another long day.”

She keeps her eyes on the task at hand.

“How’s your mother doing?” I ask.

“Um, fine,” she replies, glancing up briefly.

“And your dad?”

Kim stops, mid-scan, and stares at me.

“Do I…do we…I’m sorry. Do I know you?”

“You do now! Did you see Sully yet?”


“I love Tom Hanks. Aren’t he and Rita Wilson so inspiring? You should really try to find a guy like that. Enough with the bad boys.”

“Who’s…Rita Wilson?”

“Just a friend we haven’t met yet!”

Then, armed with the confidence only new confidants can bring, I’d go into situations like the one I was in on Wednesday night -seeing Amy Schumer live- with guns blazing. (Not actual guns. Amy and I don’t like those.)

“Amy! Amy!!! Hi!” I shout from 17 rows back. “It’s me! Jules!”

When Amy fails to acknowledge this attempt, I stand up in my chair.

“It’s JULES! Remember the time we never met?!”

I step down from the chair and flag a security guard.

“Can you please tell Amy I’m here?”

The security guard warns me that I’ll be removed from the theater if I stand on my chair again. I nod, wait two minutes, and then sneak down the aisle towards stage left.

“Amy!!!” I whisper loudly, taking the first step onto the stage. I wave a fluorescent pink band. “I brought you a slap bracelet!”


No matter how many times I run through this in my head, I wind up in jail.

How about you? What stranger would you like to turn into a friend? (And do you think you could do it without getting arrested?)




This Can’t Be Good.

This week has been filled with a delightful series of diversions. It’s amazing this post even ma–


What the…?

Is that my backyard?

I got home yesterday and someone had planted flowers. Lovely purple, orange and yellow, ah, daisies geraniums I-don’t-know-’ems, just to the side of my door.

I assumed it was the landlord, but even still, like any New Jersey native, my first instinct was suspicion.

I immediately texted a photo to Babs (my mom).

“Check the house. Is anything missing?” she replied in two seconds flat.

“Maybe he’s just trying to be nice?” My words sounded weak, even in writing.

“Did he use the flowers from your flower box?” she asked.

“No…” I answered.

“I hope they’re not flowers FOR YOUR GRAVE.”

“I hope I don’t come home tomorrow and they spell, ‘YOU’RE EVICTED.'”

It’s not that my landlord is a bad guy. No, no, no. He just, well, he seems to be of the more frugal variety, and in almost two years of renting, I haven’t seen any other display of Mother Nature’s bounty.

I’ll keep you posted. Random acts of kindness must not be trusted.

Have you had any surprises lately?

P.S. – Seriously, guys. What the hell kind of flowers are those?



You’ll Never Guess Who I Met in Maine

Hiya, Chipmunks! Welp, I’m back home in New Jersey, but alas, my heart is still in Maine.

And by heart I mean the better part of the paint from the side of my car.

Last week, I drove north to Bar Harbor to relax, unwind and commune with nature. Instead I almost died three times.


Mt. Sargent. Time #3.

One of those times, however, was positively pleasant. Because I died and went to heaven

I met Peg-o-Leg’s Rambings and She’s A Maineiac!


Left to right: Go Jules Go, Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings, She’s A Maineiac

You heard me.

Last Sunday, the stars aligned and three bloggy universes collided (much like my car with many, many rocks and trees).

Peg (Peg-o-Leg’s Ramblings), Darla (She’s A Maineiac) and I stumbled across each other’s blogs eons ago, back when we were still trying to figure out how you posted the whosewhatsit up by the whatchamathingy. I’d been lucky enough to hang out with Darla before, but this time we upped the ante and met Peg in Portland, where she was visiting with family.

Any Catfish fan knows that meeting an online friend can go terribly, awfully, heinously awry – but not with these two. They’re every bit as hilarious, warmhearted and adorable as their words. Last weekend we were just a gaggle of blogging vets, inhabiting the same fresh Maine air, trying to fit four years worth of conversation into two short hours.

In fact, rather than try to cram all of the goodness into one post, I think I’ll let the two of them explain the rest. (Click on their logos below to check out all of the great things they have to say about me their accounts of our meet-up!)





Why I Should Just Leave My Dog at Home


When I got a dog, I vowed never to leave him home alone for more than a half a day, tops. “It’s not fair to him,” I said. “I’ll be his whole world, the side pony to his elastic hair band, the ‘stache to his wet nose, the Kelly Kapowski to his Zack Morris.”

And for the past six and a half years, I’ve been pretty successful.

This week, I took my dog with me on a trip to Maine, and for the most part, the scene out and about has looked like this:

RANDOM PASSERBY 1: Is that a Labradoodle?

ME: Yup.

RANDOM PASSERBY 1: What’s her name?

ME: His name is Uncle Jesse.

RANDOM PASSERBY 1 (smiling): Dukes of Hazard?

ME: Full House.


ME: Thank you!

RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Is she a puppy?

ME: Nope, he’s six.

RANDOM PASSERBY 2: Wow, she looks like a puppy.

RANDOM PASSERBY 3: Oh my god. She’s so cute.

(Repeat above to infinity.)


And then we dine al fresco.

On Wednesday, I took Uncle Jesse to Jordon Pond in Acadia National Park, and just as we set foot on the trail, a shout stopped us.

“Hey! Hey! Can I see your dog?”

A thin, middle-aged man took his foot out of a red kayak and jogged over.

No! Shut your eyes and turn around, madman! I thought.

Uncle Jesse squatted and pooped.

“Goldendoodle?” the man asked.

“No, Labradoodle.”

“I have a Goldendoodle. I couldn’t bring her today because I’m going kayaking.”

“Yeah… well… that makes sense,” I offered.

“Here, let me show you a picture.”

Kayak Man pulled out his phone and took three minutes to bring up a blurry photo of a giant Goldendoodle in front of a tent.

A park ranger who’d been within earshot approached. He stared at Uncle Jesse.

“Are you sure she’s a Labradoodle?” he asked.


I hate you so much.


New Jersey: The Greatest Country in the World

In angsting over pondering what to write about this week, it occurred to me that I needn’t labor so hard. After all, it’s Labor Day weekend for us Americans, and the only work we should be doing is squeezing every last, sweaty drop out of summer before she packs her bags and says sayonara for another year.

So, from the bottom of my Jersey girl heart fringe top, I wish you a safe, healthy and happy holiday. And to my fellow chipmunks across the globe sharing in the season’s end: Yes, yes you have every right to judge us.





You Did What with a Toothpick?

“I saw there was a food festival in Flemington,” Babs, my mom, said on Sunday morning.

It was 10:30am and we were standing in my living room, the only two people in New Jersey who hadn’t escaped ‘down the shore’ (as we Jerseyians say) for the weekend. We were searching for something to do besides go to the movies. Again.

“I can only find times for 2015,” I groaned, looking at my phone. “And they say 4pm! Who starts a food festival at 4pm on a Sunday in August?”

After another five minutes of fruitlessly browsing and Facebook, I looked at Babs.

“I feel like I want to see something I’ve never seen before.”

I said it facetiously, figuring I’d settle for some roadside tomatoes and a latte. We’d lived in New Jersey my whole life, a.k.a. 34 29 years. There wasn’t much we hadn’t seen.


This seems as good a time as any to remind you of the time we went to the theatrical rendition of 50 Shades of Grey.

“Well, there’s a toothpick sculpture exhibit in Morristown,” Babs said casually.

I put down my phone and stared at her, mouth agape.



“Oh my god.”

And just like that, our mother-daughter day went from mundane to magical.

All of this unexpected splendor got me thinking.

I’d applied for -and gotten accepted to- a Masters Program that started on Tuesday. On top of a full-time job, the syllabi for my first two classes seemed daunting. In fact, over the past two months, I’d spent more than a few days doing activities with what one could only call dutiful merriment. All things I had been looking forward to initially…

And yet.

Why does making plans two, four, seven months out always sound so shiny and promising, yet the closer they come, the more we say, “What the f&*@ was I thinking?”

I wondered if Stan Munro, the toothpick maestro himself, ever got halfway through a project only to think, “Well, this was a colossal waste of time.”

What, really, made the difference between, “This is just a stack of toothpicks” and, “Holy sh*t, this is unlike anything I’ve ever seen before”?

Sure, sure, sure. We all know about the power of positivity and points of view and pots of gold at the end of the 9-to-5 rainbow.

But what actually makes us choose the straight and narrow versus the winding road, stripes versus polka dots, coffee versus more coffee? And how can you know before you click ‘submit’ that you won’t spend hours, weeks, months or years second-guessing your decision?


Do you think this was Stan’s Plan A?

Have you ever set a goal and regretted it? Not regretted it? Pretended it never happened?

P.S. – If you’re in the area, you can see the toothpick extravaganza for yourself at the Morris Museum through August 31st! (Who loves you?)



Knock, knock! Who’s there? THE WORST NEIGHBORS EVER!

A year and a half ago, I moved into a quaint two-family home. There aren’t many historic houses in the area, and my entryway bears a unique mark of pride:

Of course, this agèd gem comes with a few charms that some might find off-putting: low ceilings, slanted floors, light switches to nowhere, and my personal favorite:

Ghost cows.


The house is a renovated cow barn, and late at night, I can almost hear the far-off cattle cries.


I think they’re coming from the beam where I hide my flask.

I haven’t told anyone this, but I stopped eating meat a few months ago, and my top theory is that the ghost cows took over my body.


Jules circa 2014


Jules circa 2016

In fact, now that I think about it, the cows were probably behind the sconce incident of April 2015.


But I digress.

Recently, my quiet and respectful human and living neighbors, with whom I share a very, very (did I say very?) thin wall, moved out. I recall overhearing something about “carpenter bees” and “allergies,” but I was too busy Googling Yankee candle scents to appease undead livestock to fully appreciate their rationale.

Strange families were suddenly perusing the now-vacant apartment next door. This past weekend, I stepped outside and nearly collided with an older gentleman.

“You’ve probably surmised that I’m looking at the apartment,” he said in an I’m-just-a-guy-who-likes-hugs-and-hey-I-wonder-how-many-human-heads-will-fit-in-that-freezer tone.

“Ah,” I replied, avoiding eye contact and wondering why his tour included my half of the yard.

Uncle Jesse, my dog, barked loudly from inside.


This is the actual apartment ad. Oops.

Since this run-in, I haven’t been able to shake the nightmares of what who might move in next door.

Please, help prepare me: What’s your worst neighbor story?


My lucky bamboo (a housewarming gift) committed suicide long ago. I need all the help I can get.