Well. Chipmunks. Well well well. I promised you a guest post from my best friend, Jenn, this week, and she has begrudgingly graciously obliged.
You’re in for a treat.
Which I hope is clear based on the fact that this is my first guest post in a year and a half of blogging.
No pressure, Jenn!
As all you fabulous and wise Go Jules Go readers are aware, I am the lucky soul who gets to call herself Jules’ real-life BFF, as well as her heart’s — or at least her liver’s — inspiration. You wonderfully literate folks also recently learned that last Tuesday was my birthday.
When I’m not busy reading flattering blog posts penned in my honor, I like to think of my birthday as infrequently as possible. Way less than annually. Every four years like the Olympics actually sounds too frequent.
Like a double chin dented by the rubber band on a party hat, birthdays over a “certain age” remind us that, although the cake is gone, the scars remain. The buoyant charm of youth faded long ago, but the birthdays keep coming. Like Groundhog Day, with epsom salt.
I still recall (who knows for how much longer) the days when I’d carouse for hours, stumble to bed at dawn, and then pop up at the alarm, ready to start another glorious day of being young. These days, mornings at my house sound like a wounded herd on the move. A herd that knows its way around childproof caps.
I didn’t always hate birthdays. Once upon a time, nothing pleased me more than getting another year older.
As an old man once said, youth is wasted on the wrong people.
These days… let me not mince words. These days, I hold birthdays right up there with fungal infections and rectal exams. Both of which, you’ll be tickled to hear, multiply exponentially with — you guessed it — birthdays. Sigh.
While I still have my faculties, let me leave you with a final thought on the aging process. The more birthdays we have, the more we realize that we travel from cradle to grave at a breakneck pace, and not all our body parts will cross the finish line. So enjoy your kidneys and your knees and your ability to sleep through the night while you can.
And live each day as if it’s not your birthday, my friend. Because time is one big Donner party, and you are magically delicious.
How do you cope with birthdays/the aging process? And how much do you love Jenn? (Well, just forget it. She’s mine.)
Last February, he tried to explain how great WordPress was, and how I should use it as a vehicle to start writing again. I knew nothing about blogging, but then I read a hilarious WordPress blog and thought, “Oh. Well. This could be fun.”
And now here we are, a year and a half later, Peppermeister begging me to write him a birthday post. I mean, he just won’t shut up about it.
Please note: That last paragraph is all lies.
Except for the part about his birthday, which is today.
How do you do someone named Peppermeister justice? This is the man who texted me on Friday to say, “Want to know what the best part of making chicken tacos is?”
And then followed-up with this picture:
How do you measure up to someone with whom you once had this conversation?
“She’s going to be home in 5 minutes,” I said, hanging up the phone. It was June 2003 and we were a month into dating, cuddling on the couch of a friend’s apartment. My friend let us hang out there because Peppermeister and I both still lived at home [with our parents].
“Great,” Peppermeister replied. “That gives me 3 minutes to convince you, and 2 minutes to do it.”
“Two minutes?” I answered, raising my eyebrows.
“Yeah. I thought we could do it twice.”
How do you write a post for someone who cordially invites the dog onto the couch, complete with trumpet calls? Or tells you you’re “pretty” and “svelte” every day? Or convinces his whole family, after stubbing his toe on a boat in the Bahamas, that he was bitten by a shark? Or plays a mean harmonica? Or finds fulfillment in teaching cognitively impaired children?
Well. You don’t. You just give him another funny t-shirt, bake some cupcakes and hope he doesn’t realize you didn’t clean the bathroom he could do a lot better.
Because you’ve done all the heavy lifting. So enough of me. Onto you.
In our inaugural issue, we’re going to once again prove that sexy sells. It’s all about the ladies today!
Editor’s Note: Your favorite blogger (ahem) did an ongoing slap bracelet giveaway this year, but the bracelets feature my old blog name, “GoGuiltyPleasures!”. For a full listing of all Slap Bracelet pictures and posts, please see my Slap Bracelets page.
Rache is totally smart, talented, stunning, and funny, and could have any blogger she wants as a friend. Yet one of the highlights of my bloggy life was finding out Rache had mentioned me on another blog as a blogger she would really like to be friends with. I told her this made up for all the years of sitting at The Geek Table at lunch. Now I’m at RACHEL’S TABLE, ya’ll!
Rache’s blog focuses on natural, locally grown food, which is a plus on its own, but her unpretentious and humorous attitude make reading her blog heaven on earth. You’ll get a lot more out of it than [delicious!] recipes, I promise.
As if that wasn’t enough? This summer, she took her slap bracelets on vacation, and, well, you just need to see this for yourself. Rache’s slap bracelets crashed a wedding! Even I couldn’t pull that off!
Things started off harmlessly enough on Rache’s vacation, in Plymouth, Massachusetts…
Then it was onto the beaches of Cape Cod…
And while seeing the sights is all well and good, I started to wonder if Rache really knew me. But then…
And now, onto the wedding extraordinaire…
Rache told me the groom looked like Run-DMC’s son, Diggy (she was worried I wouldn’t ‘get’ that, hahaha…Please), which is why she took this picture:
And then the kicker, Rache actually accosted the bride and groom (he’s totally Diggy, right?!) to take this next picture! Yes. Yes, you should be giving her a standing ovation right now.
In today’s featured article, I’d like to point you towards another gorgeous, slap braceleted lady, Angie Z., who didn’t get nearly the attention she deserved in her original unveiling (I’m thinking a Ladies in Slap Bracelets 2013 calendar might be in order this holiday season, no?).
If people don’t understand why I love Angie and her blog so much, all they need do is read this slap bracelet letter and see the accompanying photos, which take us back to a simpler time, when slap bracelets weren’t yet shanks.
I received my snap bracelets in the mail and couldn’t be happier. They are everything I ever wanted in vinyl wrist accessories.
In fact, what I would’ve given to have them years ago. (I could’ve been the coolest girl in high school.) What I would’ve given to have them in the summer of ’93, just in time for my senior year photo shoot.
Can you believe we’re seniors? It’s gone so fast!
After giving it some thought, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands — quite literally. Because who says you can’t reinvent the past?
That’s right — with my very own snap bracelets, I decided to recreate my senior pictures. I happen to have some of my old clothes even — the early ’90s certainly paved the way in high fashion. I think you’ll agree that we gave up the hair bump far too soon.
I’ll always remember the homecoming party at T-Bone’s house when we karaoked to Ace of Base. I’ll always remember how you proposed marriage to Mark Calderon from Color Me Badd. I’ll always remember how we ruled the school in our band uniforms. My memory is a little fuzzy on that last one.
Stay cool, never change, and never stop wearing your velvet choker,
P.S. Why does my old letter jacket stink like Cool Ranch Doritos?
Angie, I still dream about you.
That Fun and Quirky Last Page of Every Magazine – Lady-Blogger Contest Shenanigans
Katy runs an ongoing “7 Deadly Sins” writing contest, which supports charity and writing and you and other awesome things. I am entering the current round (“Lust”), though I should have stopped while I was ahead…at “Gluttony.” The Deadline for “Lust” entries is MIDNIGHT (12am EST), SATURDAY, JULY 28th.
To celebrate two years of blogging, Darla’s offering some FABULOUS Maine-themed goodies. All you have to do is sell your soul tell your most embarrassing childhood stories! I’m sure you don’t have any of those! Yeah! Me either! DEADLINE: NOON (12pm EST), MONDAY, JULY 30th.
Stay tuned for Summer is Hot and So Are You Issue #2 hitting newsstandsWordPress Readers (ha ha, no.) inboxes next week! I don’t know exactly what that means yet, but not because you’re not HOT, but because there’s SO MUCH OF YOUR HOTNESS to pick from! Wooo!
Please shower these lovely ladies with attention and compliments in the comments section below, and/or let us all know what else we should be checking out in the blogosphere! I know you will, because you’re amazing like that.
Well, apparently if you were born in either July or October, I like you. Have you ever noticed that? A plethora of birthdays in any given month? If not, did you notice I just used the word plethora? You probably did, because it sticks out like a sore thumb. It’s like a lot got all dressed up for a dinner party, and since it didn’t know anyone, it bought a really fancy bottle of wine from the Hamptons so it could make conversation brag about its summer home.
Anyway. My point is that you’ve already seen a post about my bloggy BFF’s birthday this month, and now today is my real-life BFF’s birthday (next up: First Husband’s birthday on Sunday! Told you).
I’ve mentioned Jenn several times before, and you’ll hear from her directly soon. She has finally succumbed to many months of what I like to call WordPressuring, and will guest post right here on Go Jules Go next week. You won’t want to miss it, and now that I’ve put it in writing, she can’t get out of it.
Happy birthday, Jenn!
There’s so much I want to tell you about our 12 year-longstrong friendship. Jenn once said in a brilliant piece of writing, “Of all the reference sections in the world, Jules had to walk into mine.”
I’m pretty sure my life didn’t begin until I met Jenn, when she came to work alongside me at a little, independent bookstore in northern New Jersey. She was older, wiser, fiercely smart, hilarious and musically gifted. I was 18 and worshipped her instantly.
I could tell you more about those scandalousmemoir-inspiring early days, or about the time we almost died, on a road trip lost in the Blue Ridge Mountains.
“Squeal like a pig!” Jenn quoted Deliverance, laughing, as we wound through the middle of no where, right before her new Honda Civic hung off the edge of a cliff.
But then I thought of something. Something small, but maybe really big, too.
Jenn is the reason you call me Jules.
Eleven years ago, her wonderful boyfriend (now husband) started calling me Jules, as if it would have been unnatural not to. It’s not an unusual nickname for Julie, of course, but before then, only a stray gym teacher or soccer coach ever used it. Jenn ran with it, and pretty soon our tight circle of friends all called me Jules.
After many years of feeling less than, this little nickname made me feel special. I soon hated when anyone else used it. Jules was for cherished friends only.
For some reason, though, when I started this blog, I chose gojulesgo as my profile name. At the time, it was all one word, and my blog name was GoGuiltyPleasures.
Several months in, a couple of new blog buddies asked via email whether I preferred Julie or Jules. I was a little afraid to answer. Who was I to them? Who was I going to be?
But there was only ever one choice.
While I knew nothing about blogging or the friendships I would eventually make, some part of me knew that being Jules here was important. Though [in my naïveté] this blog was originally about solitary writing and portfolio building, it quickly became so much more, and I wouldn’t have it any other way.
Every time you call me Jules, I feel like a friend is addressing me affectionately. Let’s face it, it’s as awesome as a chipmunk hug if chipmunks didn’t have such teeny, tiny arms.
Thanks to Jenn and her belief in Jules, this li’l blog is one of the most gratifying experiences of my life. Jenn has helped uncover the real me in this way and so many more, and I’m not sure there will ever be a birthday gift big enough to repay her.
After thinking about this long and hard, and assuming that Dumbledore is out of the question, I’d have to go with Napoleon. No, not Dynamite– Bonaparte!
First of all, with a name like Bone-a-party, it’s pretty much implied that you’re going to have an amazing time hanging out with this guy. Second, he was already exiled to an island, so surely he must know his way around it. Third, he was pretty much the Capt. James Kirk equivalent of the French army, which tells me two things: 1) he will have no problem protecting me from rabid monkeys, acid rain, fireballs, or whatever else Katniss and Peeta faced and 2) he is allegedly chivalrous. And no lady can resist a man in uniform. Lastly, he’s French. And if there’s anything I’ve learned, it’s that the French worship wine. I’m an enologist at a French-style winery in Napa (nbd). By the transitive property, he will thus worship me.
I’m not sure what all that “hand under the shirt” business is, but I’m going to venture a guess and say it’s the ancestor of the now-abundant “weird angle in a dirty mirror” type Myspace photo, so… 200 years ago, I’m sure this would’ve gotten my ovaries quivering.
For the record, Dumbledore would have been both acceptable and wonderful, though with speaker7 planning to bring Voldemort to her island, things could have gotten ugly.
Alexha, not only do you get the coolest fashion accessory since slap bracelets, you get to see how your deserted island adventure unfolds (and please forgive the liberal use of your beautiful, and conveniently beach-y, gravatar image)…
I’m going to let you in on a little secret, Chipmunks.
I’m losing it. (Louise, expect a call any day now.)
The proof is in this post, a.k.a., The Worst Post Ever.
Last night, I got a magical email from someone regarding evidence that a Mini Me exists in this otherwise colorless, desolate, mustache-deprived world.
For the first time since I saw this, I felt complete.
I don’t know how it happened, except I think I do, and it involves vodka-soaked cherries.
I deleted the email! Or I must have, because it’s no where to be found. (Thank my lucky Chipmunks Peppermeister saw it before it disappeared, otherwise I would think I made the whole thing up.) I checked every folder, and my phone, then every folder again, then wept into my coffee, then wrote this post, to:
1) Ask the mother of the most awesome child in the universe if she can kindly resend the email to the biggest nincompoop on the planet, and,
2) Warn you. Everything they say about blondes is true, especially Clairol-enhanced blondes like me. Expect posts about purses that double as dog carriers and/or alien abductions any day now.
P.S. – You guys are seriously like adorable, little, chubby-cheeked miracles. My comments and inbox are alight with your splendor. So much so that I think I must launch a weekly feature for the rest of the summer to prove it. Stay tuned. Heck, it can only go up from here.