Author. Blogger. Chipmunk enthusiast.
Oh man.
Something strange is going on here at Go Byronic, I mean, Go Jules, I mean…I don’t even know anymore.
Up is down, black is white, left is left (you’ll get that in a minute).
It feels wrong, yet oh so right.
P.S. – If you think I’m a lousy sensationalist, you’re right. I’m THE LOUSIEST SENSATIONALIST WHO HAS EVER LIVED!
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.
And yet.
Somehow.
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.
Don’t be a cotton-headed ninnymuggins like me and forget to enter the latest mustache glasses giveaway (deadline: Thursday, July 19, 2012, 12pm EST)!
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.
Photo credit (chipmunk)
Ch-ch-ch Chia Pets Chipmunks!
It’s official. I’m addicted to giveaways. I had so much fun with last month’s mustache glasses giveaway, that I’m planning to do this on the regular!
So.
If you’re interested, entering is as easy as falling in love with a second spouse:
In the comments section below, tell me what one famous person, dead or alive, you’d like trapped on a deserted island with you (and why).
I’ll choose a favorite and make their wildest dreams come true on Friday, July 20, 2012. This winner can pick a pair of ‘stache glasses (by browsing here), and I’ll have them shipped as a gift, from my guilty pleasure-full heart to theirs.
Don’t think that’s amazing?
Just ask last month’s winner, Louise, from dearchristiancounselor!
I know. She’s great.
Deadline: 12pm noon EST, Thursday, July 19, 2012.
Print that’s as fine as some people think Channing Tatum is, but, really? What kind of relationship could you possibly have? Especially if he’s at the gym all day? And can he play the guitar or sing? I don’t think so! Get off my deserted island, Abs McIsActingReallyYourCalling! (Please refer to Second Husband and his nerdy tweets to understand my trapped-on-a-deserted-island tastes.)
Oh right, the Fine Print: This giveaway is open to anyone who is willing and able to enter, and to email me their address in the event that they’re the winner. If you have any trouble leaving a comment in the comments section below, you can enter via email: Julie(dot)Davidoski(at)yahoo(dot)com. One submission per person.
As a reminder, I am no way affiliated with this company (SunStaches). I’m just a giveaway junkie. Hey now. You just leave the judging to me.
And I judge that I love you.
I’m so excited right now, I don’t know whether to pee or squee. Wait. Do chipmunks squee? I mean I know they pee, and they give really sh*tty advice, for sure, but I guess there’s still so much I don’t know about them…where was I going with this? Oh, right:
You probably didn’t know that, because let’s face it, your blogger-stalking skills are just not what they ought to be. That’s where I come in.
(If you *gasp, sputter, gadzooks!* don’t know The Byronic Man, please stop everything you’re doing, tell your boss/spouse/kids/plants/Jeremiah your new garden bull frog [oh, just me?] you’re suffering from a happiness-threatening giggle deficit, and head over to his blog. You won’t be sorry. Oh and hey, while you’re there, maybe vote for me in his latest Question of the Week contest.)
B-Man and I, well, we’re like peanut butter and jelly chocolate, Balki and Larry, slap bracelets and martinis. We’ve been yucking it up for about a year now, united by our love of being awesome, adorable and more awesome the silly. From talking animals to dental hygiene to spicy food, there’s little we don’t agree on. When I read his blog, especially posts like this, somehow, the world makes sense again.
Now, this isn’t just some lame, “Hey man. I heard it was your birthday. Cool. You going out to dinner? Oh that’s nice. Have a good one!” post.
No, no. It’s so much more than that. More like in Harry Potter when they tried to get one of the horcruxes from Bellatrix Lestrange’s safe at Gringotts and everything kept multiplying. Yeah. More like that.
As far as The Byronic Man’s concerned, I’ve been working with a local printer and cardboard cut-outs are involved. This has been his only other clue:
This is my chance to show B-Man what our BFF-ship means to me. After all, he gave me a prize-winning birthday post back in April.
So, thanks to that very post, and a certain ‘kid photo’ contest I entered in May, I was able to make The Byronic Man…
I learned how to do new things in PowerPoint for this.
You’re welcome, B. You. Are. Welcome.
How do you feel about giving/getting birthday surprises?
I really love fireworks, Chipmunks.
And I was convinced Uncle Jesse, my 2-year-old Australian Labradoodle, would too. After all, he’s not afraid of startling noises; his [human] father has perpetual allergy sneezes and coughs that could wake the dead.
So, brimming with an overconfidence usually reserved for Spring Breakers and Donald Trump’s hairstylist, I headed out on 4th of July with Uncle Jesse and Mr. Sneeze in tow.
Here’s what happened:
Have you ever scarred your own pets or children for life?
To my fellow Americans, and anyone else who believes in freedom, equality and really, REALLY good barbecue…
I wasn’t going to post today, but Uncle Jesse had something to tell you:
Any plans for today? How mad are you that we have to go back to work tomorrow (if you don’t, listen, don’t be a snot-bucket and rub it in)?
First of all, if I seem a little behind on blog reading, remember that I recently succumbed to the Fifty Shades of Grey series.
I consider it my inner goddess-given duty to embrace these endeavors with both Zest and Zeal, so that you may one day be willing to accept your own guilty pleasure spirit.
Second of all – Jimmy! Yes! It happened! Peppermeister and I saw a taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon on Friday. While I’d hoped to provide you with a picture of Jimmy “Hotter than Christian Grey” Fallon in ‘stache glasses, the NBC knuckleheads had other ideas. Please forgive the mundane photos:
Things that may interest you about the experience:
1.) I’m not special. Click here if you want tickets to a taping. It’s free!
2.) Questlove and his ‘fro Jimmy might be the only celebrity I’ve ever seen who looks bigger in person than on TV. (In a good way. Oh yes.) Seth MacFarlane, of Ted Family Guy fame, looked much thinner. …Am I the only one who thinks Seth MacFarlane is full of secrets?
3.) They taped out of order because Blake Lively got “stuck in traffic.” I suspect it was really because she was artfully cutting holes in both her shirt and pants before taking the stage.
4.) Jimmy only talked to the audience once between breaks (to explain #3), but ran through the crowd to shake hands, an end-of-show custom. He was friendly, but takes his job seriously, mouthing cue cards and talking to suits between breaks. Except for that one break where I caught him staring at me. This may be a slight exaggeration.
And lastly but certainly not leastly, speaking of things that are hot, The Byronic Man [and his weekly contest]! Yeah! That’s right! I said HAWT. Let’s all pause and stare at him!
Oh, and, please vote for me in his current Question of the Week contest, where I’m a finalist for suggesting Forrest Gump would be much improved with the addition of dragons. I know Titanic should win, but as the Fifty Shades series sold 15 million copies, I think we can all agree life is unfair.
(If you’re really not sure I deserve it, that’s okay. I forgive you. I’ve got next week’s contest in the bag.)
Have I told you how hot YOU’RE looking lately? My. This weather really agrees with you. If I had a Red Room of Pain, you’d so be invited.
Have I missed any guilty pleasures you’ve got going on? Any summer reading recommendations? ‘Fess up, Chipmunks.
P.S. – NOT hot: My blog disappearing from your WordPress Readers and inboxes. I have written a strongly-worded letter to the WordPress overlords, but am still trying to hunt down their address. In the meantime, click here repeatedly to ensure you don’t miss anything. (Or, you know, just assume I try to post 2-3 weekdays/week at 6am EST.)
Photo Credits
To protect the innocent devilishly awesome, let’s just say a friend of a friend of a monkey’s uncle knows someone who’s been posting really interesting things on Facebook lately.
Now I know I just talked about the social media ‘over share’ disease in my last post. Normally I have an allergic reaction to my Facebook wall, and simply just try to remember to wish people a happy birthday, but hearing this tale unfold like an episode of 90210, well… I’m riveted.
This FOAFOAFOAMU (Friend Of A Friend Of A Friend Of A Monkey’s Uncle, geesh, try to keep up) has been posting about their newly lavish lifestyle. There are expensive houses (okay, just one. THAT I KNOW OF), vacations, big parties, pricey day trips, you name it. Something new on the daily.
You see, it just doesn’t make any sense. It doesn’t add up. I mean, literally. The money. It doesn’t add up. Where is it coming from? My first thought was: Well, they probably just inherited dough from a relative.
But where’s the fun in that? Here are other options I’ve come up with:
They…
I’d keep going, but I’ve got to go catch a train…
…because…
Peppermeister (Husband Numero Uno) and I are going to see a taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon!
Now there’s something I didn’t make up today.
I hope you Chipmunks have a wonderful weekend, full of Facebook fantasies and fascinating friendships. (And alliteration. But I’ve got you covered there. No, no. It’s my pleasure.)
Are you captivated by any particular person’s social media over shares? Tell me everything.
I read a couple of exceptional blog posts yesterday, by two of my favorite writers:
Truth and Cake: Select Truth and Social Media: TMI or Not Enough?
Kristen Lamb: Making Heroes Heroic-Why Flaws are Important
These posts talk about flaws and sharing those flaws, whether they’re the flaws of your fictional characters or yourself. Please don’t mistake this, however, for the social media ‘over share’ disease. The intent behind this movement is to allow yourself (or your characters) to connect on a more real level.
As someone who swims in the memoir genre pool, I’ve stuck to the shallow end a lot. Deliberately so. After reading these wonderful posts, I thought, “You know what? Sure I’m shameless about sharing my silliest guilty pleasures, but I’ve never even used the word sex on my blog, and my memoir’s working title is Virgin!”
Aw cruddy stink nuggets, you’re probably thinking. It’s like someone just told me Danny Tanner is totally raunchy during his stand-up routines.
I know exactly how you feel (c’mon, Bob Saget), and I promise, I won’t get too inappropriate on you. Or too sullen-like-Edward-Cullen.
In Virgin, I wrote about things that made me uncomfortable, that could even get me in some hot water. It’s no Shades of Grey, but it’s not rated G, either. I wanted it to be raw and honest; I’ve never cried harder than I did writing that first draft. I called it Virgin not to sensationalize, but to capture the heart of the story. Being a virgin influenced almost every event the book covered, something I couldn’t have realized until looking back.
Ultimately, I wanted to write the kind of book I love to read.
While I worry I hold my feet too close to the ‘over share’ fire in Virgin (and in this post!), I’m willing to take that risk. I’m Go Jules Go now, and I want to tell you about the ugly awkward stuff, too. Awkward stuff like flaws. Like the flaws below.
That’s right, Chipmunks – here is some major, major ammunition if you ever want to hit me below the belt (like Babs). At least you’ll be prepared if Virgin ever sees the light of day.
I have massive (pun intended) weight issues. I’ve lost and gained over 100 lbs multiple times in my life. I (voluntarily) went on my first diet when I was 9, and it’s been a hot, gooey, cheese-covered mess ever since. Food is my ultimate vice. Speaking of vices…
I worry I drink too much. But that usually goes away after a couple of drinks.
I married my one and only boyfriend. I made the first move. If you don’t think that’s a flaw, well, just know that my chronic singlehood wasn’t for lack of trying, heaven vodka knows. I have enough rejection stories to, well, fill a book. I’m still shocked when the male species says anything nice about me, but…
I think I’m pretty. In clothing. With the right make-up. From the right angle. With good lighting. All of the pictures and videos on this blog are very carefully selected and/or executed to make you think I look a lot better than I do (read: I’m vain). Except for that one time when I was high on those heroin cough suppressants.
I want everyone to like me, and sometimes keep opinions to myself and agree just so they will. But you know what? I don’t like everyone. I don’t like a lot people! (…Did that make you paranoid? I’m sorry; I totally wasn’t talking about you. You still like me, right?)
I used to have panic attacks. I assume they stemmed from either abandonment issues or bullying. Or both. They were so bad I missed a year of middle school, and…
I never went to high school. I got my GED, took the SATs, and went to college, but I never got to wear an embarrassing prom dress still feel very intellectually inferior. Don’t ask me about chemistry unless it’s the kind between Jim and Pam from The Office.
Well there now. Don’t we all feel better? …No? Just me?
How do you feel about sharing flaws in a public forum (yourself and reading others’)? Do you think it’s necessary for honest writing? If you’re uncomfortable with all of this, who’s your favorite character on The Office (mine’s Jim. Duh.)?
Photo Credit (“It’s all your fault”): stickerchick.com.
When I was 16, I worked at an independent bookstore in an affluent town in northern New Jersey. My first job. The owners trusted me with everything from the keys to their kids.
It was a great job, even if it paid peanuts. I still get mad when people assume I got to read all day. I didn’t. There were books to order and file, display windows to arrange, and customers to rip off encourage to support their local business.
On the weekends, the store would often host book signings. The authors were never particularly famous or popular, and I’d sometimes have to entertain them for 3 hours because no one showed up.
One day, we had an author of romance novels come in. You know the kind. Mass market paperbacks, with Fabio and a blonde-haired woman in a too-tight corset on the cover. The titles would scream words like “Destiny” and “Stallion” and “Get a life.”
I had no idea what to expect as I waited for the author to arrive, but it wasn’t the woman who came into the store that Saturday morning.
She was a plump, middle-aged woman who looked like she was about to bake a cake. She was nice as could be. She might have been your mother.
I couldn’t believe how much I enjoyed chatting with her.
“I paid for all of my kids to go to college with these books,” she told me, while I tried to scoop my chin off the floor.
How could that be? I thought. I’ve never even heard of this woman.
I was never quite the same after that. Seeing the face behind the throbbing parts and quickening pulses did something to me. I had a whole new level of respect for the books I once thought belonged in the slush pile.
Which brings us to present day.
I finally picked up Fifty Shades of Grey this weekend. My mom, Babs, was kind enough to leave the trilogy behind on Father’s Day.
As you know, on top of the story I just shared, I have absolutely zero qualms when it comes to being a sheep, never mind indulging in guilty pleasures. That is the name of my shame game, Chipmunks, and I let that freak flag soar.
Baa.
But I barely made it past the first line.
Because that line was:
I scowl with frustration at myself in the mirror.
And should have been:
I scowl in the mirror.
I doggedly read on, and watched the author blatantly steal the entire premise of Twilight. Except instead of vampires, we have a sadomasochist* on our hands. I think. I’m only a few chapters in, but I’m hooked I can promise you this isn’t the last you’ll be hearing on the topic (right, Renee?).
You’re welcome in advance.
Have you read it? How do you feel about romance novels?
*I know! Same diff! And you thought I was shameless.
Go Jules Go 