Remember how much you love my Tollhouse pie, JM? *cough*
My friend, JM Randolph, author of the spectacularly funny and engaging blog, Accidental Stepmom, is hosting a Pi Day Pie Challenge.
What the fudge is that, you ask?
In her early blogging days, JM had to make a ‘Pi Day Pie’ for her stepdaughter’s math class – they were celebrating March 14th (= 3.14) as Pi Day. Though JM claims to have half-assed it, this was the result:
Amazeballs.
This year, JM decided to host a contest where you can create your best Pi Day Pie, and the winner gets “Poopourri” (seeing smelling is believing)! But really, everyone’s a winner, because… pie.
There was obviously no way I wasn’t entering this contest.
I love pie. Me ‘n pie (pie and I?) go way back. I even talk about pie on my About page. I’m very proud of the fact that I make my own crust.
But this experience uncovered a dark secret. Something I’m hesitant to admit…
I f&*$#% hate making pie crust!
I hate it the way Michelle hates wrapping presents.
It starts with the stress of adding ice water. Not regular water. Ice water. One drop too little, your dough won’t stick together. One drop too much, you’ve got chewy, tough crust.
Can you hear my heart pounding?
Then there’s cleaning the food processor. (Oh sure – you try making crust without a food processor. That’s what hell looks like: A stick of cold butter, flour and a fork.)
Ah, like scrubbing super glue with tears.
Then there’s making an even bigger mess rolling it out, which, half the time, ends in a piece of dough the shape of Texas.
I’m not even kidding – that scar on my wrist is from making pie.
Nevertheless, I finally got my chocolate chip-walnut Tollhouse pie assembled, still not sure how I was going to decorate it.
Just as I closed the oven door, inspiration hit.
Next. Level.
And it was green lights and all rights from there on out.
Speaking of green, note my vain attempt to counterbalance this activity with a kale smoothie.I’ve never done anything more fulfilling in my life.
Yesterday, the panic settled in – that WordPressurey feeling that’s become all too familiar: Oh god I’m so behind on reading blogs, people are going to think I don’t care about them, and why can’t I find my dashboard, and why is my comments widget missing, and WHAT AM I GOING TO WRITE ABOUT NEXT?
And that’s when I read one of my favorite blogs, She’s A Maineiac. Suddenly all was right in the world. Darla had posed a series of hilarious and compelling questions to bloggers.
I’d found my next blog post. Warning: We’re about to go deep.
Thanks, DP!
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Why in the hell do you blog?
I believe in taking baby steps, to JUST KEEP GOING, in order to survive and thrive creatively, and blogging has been the perfect medium for that approach. It’s manageable, yet lets me push myself.
On the set of the “My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours” pilot webisode shoot, Oct 2012.Have you heard? He loves peppers.
How did you discover blogging? What was your initial impression?
Husband #1, Peppermeister, has a blog and urged me to start my own. My degree is in Creative Writing, but I’d let writing slip for many years.
My first impression was, “Um, hello? Anyone out there? Can you please tell me what HTML is?”
Were you shy and withdrawn as a child or gregarious?
A little of both. Still am. In social situations, if I’m with someone shy, I’ll step up to the plate and carry the conversation; if I’m surrounded by extroverts, I’ll take a back seat. I cater to others to distract myself from my own insecurities; it’s exhausting, actually.
How close is your ‘blogging’ persona to the real you?
With Rache (Rachel’s Table) in Nov 2012. What was that about shyness?
Oh gawd. I get so nervous when I meet other bloggers in person; I worry they’ll be disappointed with the gal behind the ‘stache glasses. Nevertheless, this blog helped me find my voice, and sometimes I think it’s the most genuine representation of me.
How has blogging changed you or your life?
It’s given me creative momentum, which is huge, but what’s life-changing? The connections I’ve made with fellow bloggers. They inspire me every day – this post is a perfect example.
Do you consider yourself to be a ‘writer’?
It took a long, long time; I’ve been writing since I was a kid. One day in my mid-20s, it just clicked: I write, therefore I am a writer.
Do you prefer to write, then edit, edit, edit or just throw up on a page and be done with it?
I’ve never written a post without tweaking it at least 10 times. Usually more. Some of it has to do with the visual component – that’s very important to me. I’m still wondering about the text format I chose for these questions!
How confident are you after you hit that dreaded ‘publish’ button?
I’ve gotten better at letting it go, in part because I can count on such a supportive blogging community. But when I share something personal, or spend another 20 hours making a video, believe me – I’m holding my breath!
The Byronic Man and me. It was his birthday. It was special.
Do you view your writing as good, bad, so-so, or ‘eh, you really don’t care’? Do you ever look back at a post and cringe?
I think my writing has improved VASTLY since I started this blog, but there’s plenty of room for improvement, and there always will be. And YES, some of my old posts make me cringe (note how I’m not linking back to any here)!
When you write, do you have a certain audience in mind,or do you just go with your gut and let the words spew forth without a care who would like it or not? In other words, do you censor yourself at all?
Darla and I actually talked about this last week during one of our marathon phone chats. We agreed blogging [for us] has evolved to where we write with a specific audience in mind – regular readers that we like to tease or make laugh.
I know everyone says write for yourself, but I did that for years, and let me tell you: It’s way, way more fun to write for your friends – yeah, I mean you!
~*~*~*~*~*~
Aren’t these questions fantastic? If you haven’t already, please go check out the source post on She’s A Maineiac – I encourage you to answer them, too!
Now enough with the words and the reading and stuff.
I love you, Chipmunks. Thanks for somehow making year #2 even more awesome than the last.
Bloggers: Do you have a favorite blogging moment (either here or on your own blog)? Bloggers / All: Anything you’d like to see more of on Go Jules Go in the next year?
To help us celebrate this most chipmunkiest of occasions, I’ll randomly choose one commenter to win a pair of ‘stache glasses!
Wipe off your shoes and put your napkins in your laps, Chipmunks, because today we’re guests over at Renee Schuls-Jacobson’s blog!
Or I am, at least, and I hope you’ll join me over there to read my guest post, which is part of Renee’s #SoWrong (embarrassing stories) series.
This is a very personal story I’ve hoarded like a pile of nuts for winter, and I can’t tell you how excited I am to finally share it with you.
Here’s a sneak peek:
I was 18 years old when my life began.
One balmy summer day, after the Y2K dust finally settled, a young, auburn-haired woman walked into the local book store where I worked. Jenn. The new hire. Nearly half a foot shorter than me, her sundress flapped against ivory legs as she took the new hardcovers to the front of the shop.
We were fast friends, chatting in between placing orders and ringing up customers.
“You were maaaade for retail,” she teased, quoting one of our recent patrons.
I rolled my eyes. I’d gotten the full-time job at the book store at 16, the same year I earned my GED. I was taking classes at the local community college, my sights set on screenwriting. Bullied for glasses, braces, a few spare chins and a penchant for white tights, I was eventually home schooled. I sometimes wondered if ‘old soul’ really meant ‘late bloomer.’
I woke up at 8am this past Christmas Eve. Late, for me. I’d been up ’til midnight, doing something I’d never done before. Something mortifying. I stared down the clock. My family was coming over at 2pm and my To Do list was more ominous than a week without vodka.
I headed straight for my lap top. For the first time in 5 months, I skipped my morning writing. This was more important. Far more important. The reason I wrote a journal to begin with.
My heart pounded.
I can’t do this. I know I promised myself all year I would finally do this, but I can’t. I just can’t.
I stalled. Checked email. Facebook. My mouth felt dry.
I have to. I have to do it.
Let me back up.
I was 7 years old when The Little Mermaid was released. It was November 1989. I sat on the living room floor of our little Cape Cod, wearing out my VHS copy by rewinding “Part of Your World” over and over again. I paused it every five seconds, and wrote out the lyrics, line by line.
When I was sure no one could hear, I sang along.
What would I give to live where you are…
I sang with longing. I felt like Ariel. Dreaming. Wanting the impossible. In the end, her voice earned her just that.
When I was in 4th grade, my music teacher asked for volunteers for one-line solos during the holiday concert. I raised my hand, heart racing. She plunked out the tune on the piano as I sang, “Up on the housetop reindeer pause…”
“Let’s try again,” she said. By the third time, she not-so-subtlely moved on, leaving me to wonder what I’d done wrong. My classmates said nothing.
Could I really not sing? One simple line? Even with the notes played for me on the piano? This was bad.
All lies.
When I stood in front of all the parents the day of the concert, I tried not to fidget, even though I felt faint. I sang my one-line solo as best I could, and afterwards, my mother praised, “You sounded like an angel.” No one else complimented me.
“You have to say that,” I grumbled, afraid to believe her.
By 12, I’d taught myself how to play the piano, barely, and when no one was home, I sat at my great-grandmother’s ancient upright and played the songs my parents listened to. John Denver. James Taylor. Carole King.
I was terrified someone would find out. Not only were the songs I secretly adored lame, old fogey music, I heard my voice. How weak and flawed and uninteresting it was. How bad my timing was.
At 15, I bought a karaoke machine, took guitar lessons and even tried writing songs. I toyed with the idea of sharing them. I didn’t.
“I thought that was the radio,” my sister said, when she heard me in the shower one day. She was never long on compliments, and I kept that gem tucked away with “You sing like an angel,” hoping against hope that maybe, just maybe, I could actually do this.
In college, I studied writing, believing it was my true passion, and then landed a well-paying corporate job. I married a musician. Time passed. 25. 26. 27. 28. My life felt off, like I was trying to break in a pair of shoes that would never fit.
I obsessively watched singing competitions, comparing myself to the contestants, always coming up short. I subscribed to an online karaoke service, and heard only off notes and lackluster tone. I thought about how I couldn’t sing and play an instrument at the same time. About my crippling stage fright.
It’s hopeless. Laughable. Not even worth admitting. Move on.
Fast-forward to Christmas Eve morning. I sat at my lap top, frantically sorting through the dozens of clips my first husband, Peppermeister, and I recorded the night before, battling 30 years of “I can’t.”
But you can. Do it. NOW.
At 9am, I hit Publish. And then something miraculous happened. My heart immediately lightened. The hardest part was over:
I call this one, “This is the most embarrassing thing I’ve ever done so please don’t judge me.”
I made light of it. Like I hadn’t been steeling myself for an entire year lifetime.
I didn’t want anyone to feel uncomfortable by sharing just how monumental that was. Though Peppermeister’s a musician, we’d never tried this before (I know. Ridiculous). We tried for nearly 3 hours to get it right (I really, really hate admitting that), but even in the published clip, I hit a bad note, missed a cue, sounded tired.
It didn’t matter.
I had finally admitted what I wanted. I’d taken the first breath of my new life, wondering when I got so melodramatic how I’d survived before.
P.S. – We’ve been practicing. So watch out.
Have you had any big “Ah hah” moments? What do you want to be when you grow up?
The other day, my bloggy BFF, The Byronic Man, suggested I listen to a comedy album by Tig Notaro, called Live (as in, chipmunks live in burrows, not Saturday Night Live).
“If you think you’re ready for the next level,” he prefaced, probably to guarantee I’d listen to it. (Just as I’m sure he knew I’d try a sazerac after he put that picture on his blog.)
Tig Notaro. Not Byronic Man. (You see, that’s funny because she jokes about looking like a man on the album.)
Byronic Man, no stranger to excellent stand-up comedy himself, went on to explain that Live wasn’t supposed to be an album, Notaro was just performing in a club at an open mic/showcase. A couple days earlier, she’d found out she had cancer in both breasts. “She just starts talking about it,” he told me. “It’s incredibly funny and raw and moving. There’s no polish – she repeats herself, there’s long pauses, she tries to change the subject. It’s like what humor can be in the darkest of times.”
James Rebhorn. Toldja.
As soon as I heard her voice, I recognized it. Notaro first appeared on the scene in Last Comic Standing in 2006. Since then, she’s been everywhere from late night talk shows to The Office to the stand-up circuit. She’s like the female James Rebhorn of comedy. You know. “That guy/gal! In, like, every movie I’ve ever seen! …What’s his/her name?” She’s also got Louis C.K. on her side – he’s the one who pushed to turn the Live show into an album.
What made Live so powerful wasn’t just the complete and utter sincerity. It’s what Notaro infers when she says she just can’t bring herself to tell the old jokes. Or even the ones she prepared for that night.
“It’s weird because with humor, the equation is tragedy plus time equals comedy,” Notaro says early on, with a sardonic edge. “I…am…just at tragedy. Right now.”
Reality had taken over, and she just needed to speak from the heart. No filter. And guess what? It was still one of the funniest things I’ve ever heard. In fact, it was this very ‘in the moment’ quality that made it so. So much of the comedy we see is rehearsed, the timing perfected.
“It’s okay,” she lightly reassures an audience member who’s nearly in tears on Notaro’s behalf. “It’s going to be okay. It might not be okay. But I’m just saying. It’s okay. You’re gonna be okay.”
At the risk of demeaning Notaro’s very heartbreaking situation and profound performance, I think what happened to her that night happens to every comedian, or every person for that matter. There comes a day when the old methods don’t work. But often times, very unlike Notaro, we’re too scared to try new ones.
On a far more superficial level, when I changed the name of this blog from GoGuiltyPleasures! to Go Jules Go last year, I was preparing for a broader bloggy life. Humorous writing beyond my love of guilty pleasures. I never thought I’d get tired of chipmunks or ‘stache glasses. And I promise, on many levels, I never will. But sometimes it’s really, really hard to tell the old jokes.
So while, in my lucky, privileged world, I occasionally push the boundaries of this little blog that changed my life, I really hope you’ll take thirty minutes to listen to Live. You know. If you think you’re ready for it.
Bloggers: Do you ever feel like you’re ‘faking it’ on your blog? Bloggers/All: Who are your favorite comedians and why?
For those of you not still losing sleep over the story, let me refresh your memory:
COME ON, JULES. Get the penne on the spaghetti or WE ALL LOSE.
So, you see, I had to ask myself a very important question: Would attending the meeting be worth the follow-up post potential?
It didn’t take long to answer that question.
I Would Do Anything For BLog Love (But I Won’t Do That)
Engage in any sort of therapy-inducing torture, including, but not limited to: team-building exercises, Bikram a.k.a. hot yoga (sorry, JM), Magic MikeCitizen Kane viewings, and sober anything.
Accept guest posts from advertisers. I will, however, continue to hope that the makers of Pipe Palz, glass smoking pipes with mustaches, follow through on their offer.
Review reading glasses for a free sample. (Contact me again in another two years when my eyesight is completely shot from checking my blog Stats page every seven seconds.)
Remember to pass along the blogging awards that readers so kindly bestow upon me. I am genuinely thankful. Will you please accept my apology and this picture of Uncle Jesse as a token of my affection?
Plug the living shiz out of my own contest. Just kidding. I will totally do that. COME ON, GUYS! It’s the best thing I’VE EVER DONE. And it’s for a good cause you might get to make-out with The Byronic Man.
Bloggers: Where do you draw the line? Blog Readers / All: What really turns you off about a blog?
So I had this thing all buttoned up. A plan. I’m a Project Manager by trade – it’s what I do.
Today I was going to republish this post, my one truly somber blog post, in honor of my late boss and mentor, Carol, and in the spirit of Movember, the November ‘moustache’ campaign raising awareness for prostate cancer.
Because today is the second anniversary of her passing. From cancer.
But as we all know, life doesn’t always go as planned, and yesterday I wrote something else. I think Carol would rather see this up here instead.
So thanks for indulging me, and stay tuned for the usual shenanigans resuming later this week… like, say, another ‘stache glasses giveaway?
A Return
I was 7 years old
when I said
the color green
reminded me of
Grass,
Money,
Trees.
Now I know I meant
Life,
Prosperity,
Home.
For many years after that
I said I loved
purple,
But I never wanted to wear it.
A few weeks ago,
I took a sip
from a green straw,
and I saw
the girl I left behind,
the one who wanted
nothing more
than to explore.
So I went and I stood
in the grass,
among the trees,
Still,
as one,
Feet firmly planted,
eyes skyward,
Reclaiming
my favorite color.
When they contacted me on Halloween, I leapt out of my hard, plastic seat. I was waiting for Chinese take-out with my family, obsessively checking my phone, like any good bloggette who hadn’t had power for a week [thanks to Hurricane Sandy] would do when she realized she had free wi-fi.
I attempted to explain to my parents, sister, niece and nephew why I was so excited.
“It’s WordPress’ blog!”
Blank stares.
“They like me! They really like me!” I tried.
A little drool. Eyelids drooping.
I finally resorted to shamelessness: “This is a BIG. DEAL.”
Babs offered a confused smile. The rest of the family was already back to talking about Dancing with the Stars.
Lackluster familial support understanding aside, I eagerly answered all of The Daily Post’s thought-provoking questions – all except one. There was one question I really didn’t want to answer. Because they wanted me to name my top 5 blogs.
Top 5 blogs? Have you seen my Blogroll? Even that’s incomplete.
I mean seriously.
I could no sooner name a favorite Hot Pocket variety.
I hate knowing I left so many wonderful bloggers and friends off that list, but it got me thinking:
I’d really like to know which bloggers inspire you. Not just the ones you ‘like’ regularly, or the ones who make you laugh, but the ones who move you. Was there a particular post that really spoke to you? Or caused you to take some sort of real-life action?
I hope you’ll share stories and links in the comments section below, and I look forward to hopefully meeting some new bloggers!
Thank you to Michelle and The Daily Post for making my dayweekmonth year, and to you, Chipmunks, a source of never-ending fulfillment and inspiration. I said in the interview that blogging changed my life. And I meant it.
When I heard Marlene (“Myra”) Rhein from My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours (MPACTY) was turning her blog into a web series, I knew I needed to get involved. Stat.
I emailed Marlene on the off-chance she’d need volunteers during filming. Though hers was one of the first blogs I followed, we’d never corresponded outside of her blog. I tried to sell myself.
After all, Marlene’s directed music videos for the likes of Amy Winehouse and Tupac.
To my delight, she took me up on the offer, and for two days in October, I got to call myself a Production Assistant. Shortly before the shoot, Marlene sent the script for the pilot episode. Reading it, I got chills.
For those of you unfamiliar with MPACTY, Marlene lost her job a while ago and had to move back in with -you guessed it- her parents. At 40. Feeling hopeless, she turned to blogging, and captivated readers with hilariously horrifying tales of her misfortune.
Her pilot webisode takes us back to where it all started.
Mom? Dad? …F my life.
My main job was handling the canine talent, “Vito.”
Score.
The days were very long, took us all over Manhattan and to Long Island, and I’d do it again in a heartbeat. The whole crew was lovely and beyond professional.
Thanks, Marlene, for letting me crash the set. I’m happy to say I not only had the experience of a lifetime, but meeting you once again proved that bloggy friends are some of the best you can make.
If you could work with any actor or director, who would it be and why?
***Hurricane Sandy update: I still don’t have power, but have taken refuge at my parents’ house, and they finally have internet! Thank baby chipmunks. And thank you for all of your well wishes.***
Go Jules Go 