Author: Go Jules Go

I heard you like to laugh. At my expense. Sounds like you're ready to take our friendship to the next level. You won't be disappointed. I swear on teeny, tiny baby chipmunks.
Guilty Flavor of the Week, Lists, TV Junkie, Uncategorized

Guilty Flavor of the Week: Week Two!! (a.k.a. “9021-Oh My God”)

Go Jules Go

It’s that time again, you little guilty pleasure fiends, you.

Guilty Flavor of the Week!

Coming to you RIGHT NOW!

It’s like the time you graduated kindergarten, only better!!

It’s marginally cooler than when you rescued that turtle by the park right before it fell in the sewer!!!

And I dare say it is drastically keener than when you got that glass plaque at work for something you did two years earlier!!!!

This week’s prestigious Guilty Flavor of the Week honor goes to…

LUNCHABLES! They’re not just for depressing Monday lunches in your car anymore!

How else can you get two day's worth of sodium in one sitting?

…just kidding (not in the slightest. C’mon! Capri Sun?)…

Okay, the REAL guilty flavor of the week is THE FOLLOWING POST! Wow, you guys got a two-fer this week! It’s time to buy a lotto ticket!

9021-Oh My God

Yesterday morning I walked into the kitchen saying to my husband,

“You know what I just realized? The Walshes named their kids Brenda and Brandon.”

“But they’re twins,” my husband explained patiently.

“So?!” I retorted. “That’s terrible.”

Conversations like this are anything but rare in my house, because I’ve been watching 90210 since long before I knew what a merkin was (which is what happens when your only sister is 5 and a half years older than you and your mother is sick of your pre-pubescent whining).

But…

…I’m finally starting to feel old.

On Monday night, FOX aired a new episode of their reincarnation of the 1991 classic, and -I can’t believe I’m about to say this- I think they might have gone too far. They ‘somehow’ managed to corral the entire cast onto a private jet (no matter what leap of faith this required, like accepting that Adrianna and Silver would EVER share the same air space) so they could fly down to Mexico for Spring Break. Now, I’ve seen season one of Laguna Beach three times, watched every episode of The O.C., and can often be found ogling the Kardashian family, but nothing can suspend my disbelief long enough to swallow that:

Teddy Montgomery, High Schooler

1.) Annie and Dixon, the Brenda and Brandon of the 21st century, could afford this trip (even if they did get to fly on Teddy’s dad’s private jet for free). They’re supposed to be struggling for money, and I know this because I’ve had to sit through many boring scenes about their mother (the only parent you regularly see on this show, the ageless Lori Loughlin) trying to find a job.

2.) Every couple had their own room (with no mention of trying to hide it from their parents), where they all had blatant relations. Aren’t these kids JUNIORS IN HIGH SCHOOL? Someone please say it’s not just me.

3.) Teddy is in high school – this is so far from reality that it almost comes full circle, back into the realm of possibility.

4.) Teddy and ‘the first straight man he ever had feelings for‘ suddenly would a) show up in Mexico at the same resort, b) turn out to be a gay, and c) somehow look even older than Teddy! As if!

Teddy's Meaty Gordita, Fellow High Schooler

5.) Silver would be dumb enough to drink from an unsealed bottle of water in Mexico (after Adrianna swapped it with tap water so Silver would get sick, that sadistic

Adrianna, Wicked Witch of the West Bev

b*tch).

6.) Adrianna would be evil enough to THEN swap out Silver’s meds so she’ll go bipolar on the next episode (I can’t WAIT to see that…).

7.) Oh! Oh! I almost forgot! So then there was a whole scene with Ivy having a marijuana tweak-out on the beach at 7am (I’m making up the time, by the way) and Dixon is calmly talking her down!? Okay, I know times are a-changing, but to have it represented on 8pm network TV targeted at tweens and creepy guilty pleasure bloggers like it’s just ‘whatever’!? Amazeballs!

You’re probably wondering why I even bother with this show anymore. Well, here’s why:

Meet Liam (I dont know his real name and I dont care).
Marriage, Uncategorized

Royally Screwed

Go Jules Go
"Just keep smiling, Crumpet, or the Queen will poison you."

There ain’t no guilty pleasure party like a guilty pleasure party ensconced in quail eggs and corsets. But is marrying a prince really all it’s cracked up to be? If only I could get Kate Middleton in a room for five minutes.

"I am so very glad we're not the real royals. You should have seen the bong rip I just took in my trailer."

Kate, is the recently-aired Lifetime movie “William & Kate” remotely accurate, especially the part where you jump out of the row boat and swim up to meet William, who has finally come to beg your forgiveness for being such a whorish d-bag?

Is it true the Windsors take the phrase ‘stiff upper lip’ so seriously that you were not permitted to move your top lip while speaking to ITV News about your engagement, or did you suffer a minor stress stroke that day?

Why did you invite the convenience store owners from your home town of Bucklebury to your wedding? Don’t you already get free Cadburys and crisps just by being the future queen of England? And won’t you get crumbs on the throne?

Could you please settle a debate and confirm for my husband that the monarchy still carries great influence, and though it might not seem like it, you will be the direct link to the passing of the law that allows same-sex marriage?

My ivory tower.

How many royal jewels and/or hats are you permitted to wear at any given time, and can I have the ones you’re not using?

Is realizing you’re going to live in Buckingham Palace like realizing you’re going to live in a bi-level with a spiral staircase? If so, then I can totally relate.

100% Pure Inspiration.

What was your initial reaction to seeing this coin? Would you be impressed if I told you I have not one, but two draft blogs inspired by it? How many of these things would it take to hire a hitman to kill the guy who designed it?

…Because of the nature of [and likely answers to] these questions, along with many other reasons (e.g., curtseying, caviar, polo and having to find a tactful way to tell the queen piss off), I’ve come to conclude that I feel very sorry for Kate Middleton. She’s gone from Waity Katie to just plain screwed.

Project Management, Uncategorized

Change Mismanagement

Go Jules Go

Change management, much like project management, is big these days. With companies going under or being bought by other companies, a lot of people feel like they’re up a creek without a paddle. Or, they’re not sure if they’re even in a creek, but they have a paddle and they’re using it to hit themselves over the head.

To see if you work in a place of constant churn, ask yourself if you’ve heard any of these things in the last week (also I encourage you to play B.S. Bingo at your next meeting):

“It’s like the blind leading the blind.”

“Well I can tell you how we USED to do things.”

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m your new boss.”

“Hold off on that until we know more.”

That’s what I thought. Well, I’m here to help you. I’m here to share what I learned recently in change management training (by the way, there’s good money to be made in this field, if you don’t mind tears, hysteria and people being escorted from buildings by security).

Change Management training tells you the following:

People Are Like Sponges.

Everyone Has A Maximum Saturation Point.

Some People Reject Change Passively, Others Let You Know How They Feel About It.

Some People Simply Cannot Accept Change.

If you’re dealing with the last issue, there seems to be only one solution. And that solution is something I learned a long time ago from despair.com, so we might have all just wasted our time here. I’m sorry. I’ll let us both get back to Googling “how to find Darren Criss‘s cell phone number” now.

Uncategorized

Straight Men Click Here and I’ll Make It Worth Your While

Go Jules Go

I worry, sexy hetero men, that I may have alienated you with my proclamations of, “Let Your Gleek Flag Fly!” and “I saw Daniel Radcliffe’s Naughty Bits!”

I never meant to shun you, studly man muffins. Look, I even wrote a post about farts just for you. Here’s one where I talk about the crazy stuff people have said to me. I know you’ll like that one.

I can be brunette, too. Baby, I can be anything you want me to be.

Don’t make me think about how I always lose the “who’s funnier, men or women?” argument with my husband (I see no reason why this has to happen, just because he is, in fact, funnier than me), or that you will only ever like male singers, male comedians, and male talk show hosts.

You should know that my favorite authors are predominantly male (Bill Bryson), if not straight (David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs), and I think that you look very cute in your mismatched socks and 5 o’clock shadow.

Remind yourself that so many guilty pleasures are universal, as is exceptional writing.

I am open to your suggestions, Beefcakes, so please let me know what you’d like to see on this blog. I normally wouldn’t put any restrictions on this invitation, but just remember that I’m trying to get Freshly Pressed (i.e., on the home page of wordpress.com), and for some strange reason they don’t seem to support nudity, nor does my husband.

Toodle-loo, boys.

Booze, Lists

The #1 Reason I Own A Monogrammed Flask…And It’s All Your Fault

Go Jules Go

The Good Greatsby‘s post about children’s birthday parties inspired me to write this latest post about my favorite possession, my monogrammed flask. I’m sure you can understand the thought progression [from ‘crying, screaming, cake-smeared child’ to ‘clandestine alcohol consumption’], so I won’t bore you with the obvious.

Kept in its original box when not in use.

As you can see, it’s a first-rate flask, its single flaw being that it is much too small. It was given to me by perhaps the only person in this world who really gets me, the lovely woman who for three years I was fortunate enough to call my Work Wife (sadly, she has moved on to greener pastures, and I find I need the flask just that much more). I dedicate this post to her, and all the things we share in common (including, but not limited to, a deep understanding and appreciation of Michael Bublé lyrics and someecards.com).

I’d like to say that that leads nicely into the #1 reason I need a flask: Work. But, I should be clear in that I’ve yet to find the nerve to bring a flask to work, and somehow just barely manage to make it through the front door each week day before letting my Grey Goose loose.

No, remarkably, it’s not work.

The #1 Reason I Own a Monogrammed Flask is:

Your Showers (Baby or Bridal and dear god don’t tell me there’s any other kind).

I don’t even know where to start, but I do know the rest of this post is going to write itself.

If I have to play Bridal Bingo or see an infant clothesline one more time, I’m going Into the Wild. Women Lose. Their. Minds. at these things. The little prizes from the dollar store might as well be Robert Pattinson‘s used napkin. It’s like being in Oprah‘s audience, except the most any of us are going home with is a hydrangea-scented memo pad (and, in my case, a migraine).

Don’t even get me started on those women who write recite a touching poem that no one can hear over the continuous cries of alleged Bingo, or the ones who are utterly convinced that they’re the first person in the world to think of melting chocolate in a diaper. And if you’re one of the women who encourages these other types (“Oh, Betsy, you are SO creative!”), you’re on my Poop List, too.

The worst is when I’m put at a table full of strangers whose fanatical expressions remind me that there is absolutely no chance of finding a like-minded soul at this shindig, and also that I must be evil (and may in fact not even have a soul, despite my willingness to wear pastel and a convincing grin), because look at how much fun everyone else is genuinely having. My only saving grace is that I’m sitting close enough to the restroom to make a quick getaway (or seven). Bottoms up, you delusional tulle junkies.

Games and poetry of any kind were banned from my bridal shower, but I still lose sleep at night thinking about how I put those nearest and dearest to me through this cursed ordeal.

It is unforgivable, but at least we’re even now.

Uncategorized

This Post STINKS

Go Jules Go
Photo courtesy of http://www.allhealthsite.com

There’s something that no one is talking about, and I often wonder if it’s because they’re afraid to open their mouths. I say that because the thing no one is talking about is:

HALITOSIS.

(Not a guilty pleasure, per se, but something I take great guilty pleasure in blogging about.) I’m not sure why I have to keep explaining this unfortunate ailment, but here we go: Halitosis is the medical term for someone with odorous breath.

And usually, it’s CHRONIC.

As in, IT NEVER GOES AWAY.

The other night I went out for Indian, and the fact that I noticed (and by noticed I mean I think my eyes were tearing up) a table mate’s breath in that environment should tell you everything you need to know about halitosis.

Part of me wonders if it’s sort of like a patronus, where the smell is unique to the smeller. To me, halitosis breath smells like old man poop. And that’s the nice way of putting it. The other part of me wonders if the afflicted know they have it. My biggest fear is, of course, that I have it, and no one is willing to tell me.

There are official ways you can test this, one being a Halimeter. I’m not making this up. According to reference.com, a Halimeter is a portable sulfide monitor used to test for levels of sulfur emissions in the mouth air.

There is also something called halitophobia, or delusional halitosis. This is the intense fear that you have bad breath, and apparently may effect 0.5-1.0% of the adult population. (I’m not sure if that statistic includes me.)

In other words, this is serious stuff, people, and I don’t know why there aren’t charities and 3k walks set up for halitosis sufferers and those willing to stand in their immediate vicinity. It stinks of conspiracy, if you ask me.

Guilty Flavor of the Week, Music, Uncategorized

Introducing…Guilty Flavor of the Week!

Go Jules Go

I’m feeling a bit down, and I think I just figured out the reason: Reruns! One look at my DVR and you’ll feel as empty as we both do.

It’s time we both focus on the positive things the Guilty Pleasure Gods have to offer this month: 1) Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 1) is available on DVD beginning April 15th, 2) “The Warblers” CD drops April 19th, 3) Water for Elephants is coming to theaters on April 22nd,

…AND…

4) GOGP‘s Guilty Flavor of the Week Starts RIGHT NOW!

My amazing new blog feature!

You’re going to love it!!

It’s almost as great as when he/she said he/she’d marry you!!!

And it’s so much better than when all one/two/three/seven of your kids were born!!!!

This week’s Guilty Flavor of the Week honor goes to:

VOYEURISM!


…just kidding (sort of)…

BRUNO MARS!

I swore I wouldn’t fall in love with “Grenade,” but I. Just. Can’t. Help. It.  Enjoy (I double dog dare you not to)!!!

Animals, New Jersey is breathtaking, Uncategorized, Uncle Jesse

Things That Confuse Me When I Walk My Dog: A Photo Tour

Go Jules Go

My husband and I try to take our dog for a walk every day, which usually amounts to 3 times a week. The only option by our house is to do a full 2-mile loop, and some most times E.L. Fudge cookies in front of the T.V. wins.

Perhaps the real reason I am hesitant to embark on this exhausting trek is because so many things baffle me along the way. (Click on any of the pictures to enlarge.)

MILE 0.15: Here is where my dog decides to relieve himself. Every time. As if he KNOWS it’s just far enough away from the house to require me to carry his feces for the remaining 1.85 miles.

MILE 0.41: I cannot for the life of me fathom why climbing this hill mountain never gets easier. No matter how many vodka shots I turn down the night before.

MILE 1.05: I don’t have a picture of Mile 1.05, because Mile 1.05 scares me, and I’m fairly certain that if I showed you why, you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, and then I’d feel really bad (but would mostly worry that you’d stop reading my blog). Suffice it to say, the house at Mile 1.05 has a rusted sign on the gate, leading up to a dome-shaped apartment/garage, and it reads: HONK BEFORE YOU ENTER.

MILE 1.11: And if you’re not already freaked out, look what I recently discovered behind this seemingly-innocent house: a legitimate cemetary! They did a very good job disguising it; it took me almost 8 months to notice. But this worries me even more. I have so many questions, the first being, as I’m sure you’d imagine, are those people or pets? …And this is why I need to stop asking questions.

MILE 1.18: Luckily, it’s not long before we land in Pleasantville, but this too perplexes me. Are forsythia bushes supposed to look like that, and have the rest of us been offending Mother Nature unwittingly? And, P.S., what kind of birds are landing at this residence? I didn’t think turkeys could fly that high.

MILE 1.30: Now not only am I in Pleasantville, but it is 1952 and the neighborhood kids have gone for a dip in the watering hole.

MILE 1.52: I have not yet figured out why these people have a miniature pony, nor why I feel so disappointed when it chooses to hide in its shack (in case you don’t already know, I could do without horses).

MILE 1.60: There were 3 sheep here before winter. It’s spring now. Where are they? Oh, god, don’t tell me they’re behind the house at Mile 1.11.

MILE 1.71: Every time I pass one of the three (yes, three) Christmas tree farms in our neighborhood, I wonder how anyone could ever think New Jersey is anything less than a magical, pine-scented armpit, where everyone says, “How YOU doin’, amongst this fine bucolic splendor?”

MILE 1.79: You might not be able to tell from this photo, but this mailbox’s general girth puzzles me. Just look at the massive posts holding it up. Do they often get large packages containing the parts needed to assemble Dolly Parton’s bra, or a shopping mall? Or do they have a very small-but-unhygenic houseguest who comes to visit frequently enough that it requires drastic sleeping arrangements?

MILE 1.90: Daffodils. They’re everywhere! Why?

MILE 1.91: I will never, EVER understand why this house always has a ladder resting against it. Not always in the same place, but always there. If someone is trying to sneak out (or in), they’re not being very sneaky, or consistent. And if repairs are underway, why am I not seeing any progress? That ladder HAS to be messing with their Feng Shui.

These are all things I don’t understand. What I do understand is that if <insert deity here> wanted me to walk 2 miles every day, he wouldn’t have made Fudge Stripes taste so good.

THE END.

Wait, wait, P.S. – a little shout-out to someone else who’s confused: click here.

Marriage, Uncategorized

My Engagement Story is Better Than Your Engagement Story

Go Jules Go
"I know. It WAS better than yours!"

I like to think of myself as Old Money. Not because I have, or have ever had, any sort of real money, I just think if I did, I wouldn’t brag about it. I wouldn’t buy a McMansion on Millionaire Row and send my kids to ivy-covered prep schools, and I definitely wouldn’t drive a BMW. (I would buy a real mansion on secluded acreage, send my kids to boarding school, and have a chauffeur.)

What I’m trying to say is, I know I shouldn’t brag about my engagement. It’s just that, well, I’m so POSITIVE it’s better than yours (and am excited to read your comments to this effect), that it seems like I owe it to you to tell you that you can stop trying now. You’re welcome.

Four years ago, I said to my boyfriend something like, “My entire sense of self-worth is riding on how you propose, so I really need you to pull out all the stops.”

Unbeknownst to me, he took my words to heart and began plotting. When we flew to Las Vegas for my 25th birthday, he already had the whole thing planned. We arrived the day before my birthday, and on the morning of April 30, 2007, I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t let his decrepit-yet-metrosexual shoulder bag out of his sight. I started to become suspicious, but when he took a shower and I poked around, no ring was to be found.

I tried not to sound disappointed when he gave me a toothbrush as a gift. I’m very passionate about dental hygiene, so it was quite a thoughtful token.

I won some money on the slots and we went to the Paris restaurant for dinner. Things were looking up. We were excited to go see Amazing Johnathan perform at the Sahara. I’d been wanting to see him live for FOREVER.

When we arrived at the Sahara, my boyfriend made a big to-do about going to get our tickets, and someone ushered me straight to the front of the theater as if they knew me. The suspicion returned.

The show began and, to my horror, my boyfriend started texting.

“Who are you texting!?” I hissed, reminding him through my narrowed eyes that not only were we two feet from the stage, but also that I knew how to make his life miserable because only one of us could cry on command.

He put his phone away and Amazing Johnathan asked if there were any volunteers in the audience whose name began with “E.” My boyfriend, Ed, raised his hand and was selected to go on stage. Amazing Johnathan asked if Ed was with anyone, and he replied,

“Yes, my girlfriend, Julie.”

This is it, I thought, and smiled. As I gracefully walked on stage, I can assure you that I was not shaking in the slightest (because that would be the normal reaction, and I was clearly far from normal, living out the most outstanding engagement story that was or ever would be told). Amazing Johnathan asked me to put my hand on an orange while he cut around it. It would have been an embarrassingly unfunny trick -for both of us- except that when he opened the orange, there was indeed a diamond ring inside! It looked so sparkly…and sticky.

“Do you know what that is?” Amazing Johnathan said, rather dumbly if you ask me, because we all knew why we were there, and Ed got down on one knee.

“Will you marry me?” Ed asked, and I tried to think of something interesting to say. Why had I not been rehearsing this for the last 25 years?

“I suppose,” I replied, sure my wit would go unappreciated.

Amazing Johnathan congratulated me and then kissed me on the lips while everyone howled. Well, at least I can be the vehicle for someone else’s applause, I thought graciously.

For some reason, Amazing Johnathan decided to continue with his show after that, while I spent the remainder of the night grinning and cleaning orange pulp out of my new accessory.

Four years later, I’ve yet to hear a better engagement story, but if I do, I’m willing to give you my ring. I can’t wear it. It makes me break out.

Animals, Uncategorized, Wipe the Drool

But I Don’t Even Like Horses (THIS is the blog about Daniel Radcliffe in “Equus”)

Go Jules Go

DISCLAIMER: The following representation of “Equus” is the view of one blogger and one blogger only. And even though said blogger is 28-years-old and should be able to write about plays and nudity with a certain level of maturity, in reality, she can’t. So, this post bears little resemblance to the actual play itself, which is obviously a masterpiece worthy of Daniel Radcliffe and his penis. Thank you.

The jokes were flying during the spring of 2008, once my mom said she wanted tickets -for her birthday- to the new Broadway show, “Equus,” starring a naked Daniel Radcliffe.

Harry Potter’s Magic Wand.

Harry Potter’s Hairy Potter.

You name it, I said it. Of course, she wasn’t the only one who had interest in the play. I’d been reading the J.K. Rowling books for a decade. Now things were getting serious, and I wasn’t sure what to make of my beloved Daniel Radcliffe’s new acting endeavor. Any amount of Harry Potter-special-feature-viewing will show you that Daniel is the coolest, most modest, mostest talented bloke around.

But, was I ready to see his…PENIS? With my MOTHER? I couldn’t even think the thought without blushing!

Much ado about nothing, you say? No, that’s a different play. I have a LOT to say about this one. Our seats were really close.

November 15th finally rolled around, and it was time to face the music. Except this wasn’t a musical. The play is, in case you are not familiar with plays about emotionally disturbed teenage boys who love (I mean LOVE) horses, a bit of a downer. In fact, it’s downright disturbing. Sexy men in intimidating metal hoof-clogs stomp around in the dark, wearing tights and horse heads made out of wire, while Daniel, completely dwarfed by these creatures, strokes them suggestively.

It’s around this time that you’re thinking, This isn’t the type of gay porn I’d normally sit down to enjoy with 1,156 perfect strangers and my mother. But the acting is phenomenal, so you try to tell yourself you’re not just waiting for the Big Reveal. You pat yourself on the back for paying attention to the dialogue. You are a cultured, forward-thinking Broadway theatre-goer. You even spell ‘theatre’ with the ‘r’ before the ‘e’ in your head, and pronounce it like John Lithgow would. Thee-A-Tahhh.

You do wonder how it’s going to happen, though. There are quite a number of horsemen (and by horsemen I mean the men dressed as horses) to pick from, and they all kind of look the same, as horses do. Plus, it’s so dark. Will you be able to see anything? You didn’t pay $119 plus processing fees and convenience charges for a G-rated experience.

A blonde girl, the same age as Daniel’s character (17), is introduced, and you start to hope he’ll snap out of his equine trance and go at it the old-fashioned way. Well, he does, in a matter of speaking.

Sometime shortly before you convince yourself you can hack it, Daniel and his lady friend strip down to what their mommas gave them and he mounts her on top of a large black box (a hay bale?). They mock hump while Daniel’s character fantasizes about Black Beauty and you not-so-objectively critique the girl’s breasts (which you later recall when she makes her debut on “True Blood”). He can’t close the deal and runs around the stage in a rage, his naughty bits jingle-jangling about (did I mention he blinds six horses? That’s the kind of drama we’re dealing with here, people).

When I say this kid has balls, I’m not trying to be cute. Seriously, what 5-foot teenage boy has the nerve to do this 8 times a week in front of thousands of people? Does he ever get aroused? Obviously he doesn’t have anything to worry about, or he wouldn’t be up there. Right?

…Right. Sorry to disappoint you, readers (really, I am). Everything checks out. He’s got a perfectly above-average*, uncircumcised, unaroused Little Daniel. What’s more, I DIDN’T die of embarrassment. What I AM having a hard time (pun intended) shaking, though, is all the horse stroking. I REALLY don’t like horses.

*I should tell you that when I was discussing this upcoming post with my mother, she had a different take. “Disappointing,” was the word she used. “But I wouldn’t expect you to know any better,” she added. …Thanks, Babs.