The title of this post implies that I’ve gone off to do something I don’t normally do. Ha ha. Well. Let’s go with it.
That’s right. I’m going fishing drinking.
Peppermeister and I celebrate our 4th anniversary today, and we’re headed to Long Island ’til Sunday. My extended family has a little house by a bay where I haven’t visited in 10 years, so I’m pretty excited to return. Even if the weather is crap.
The house doesn’t have internet access, which I’m nervousdepressedconfused about okay with. We’ll have, um, cruiser bikes…and bocce ball…and love. So that’s something.
Yesterday, while on my lunch break, I headed to the nearby liquor store to take advantage of their competitive Korbel champagne prices. (What’s it called when you have beer taste on a beer budget?) I wanted to celebrate the positive 2011 performance review I had just earned when I got home that evening. Suddenly, I started laughing. I knew what my next blog post would be about.
You Know You’re a Guilty Pleasure Enthusiast When…
1.) You Start Embellishing Life Events to Make Them a Cause for Celebration, i.e., Champagne
As it is, I toast to myself every Friday night for making it through another work week, but lately I’ve come up with reasons, mid-week, to celebrate. Last week, it was reaching a significant milestone in a project. The week before that, I celebrated finding delicious, cheap champagne at Trader Joe’s by drinking said champagne.
Next week, I suspect matching socks will earn me some of this liquid happy.
2.) You Have to Give Up Vampire Diaries on Your DVR to Make Room For 30 Rock, Parks and Recreation and American Idol
This was a tough one for me to give up on the DVR, which only allows me to record two shows at once. Unlike my early dismissal of MTV’s Teen Wolf, I’ve been holding out hope for CW’s The Vampire Diaries. Believe it or not, it wasn’t the brooding vampire brothers, but rather side character, Caroline, who really won me over. She’s got layers, people.
Oh Thursday nights, why are you such a cornacopia of television goodness?
3.) Your Co-Workers Laugh at Your Breakfast
I see nothing wrong with the two giant slices of leftover pizza on my desk, thank you very much. Keep it up and tomorrow it will be egg salad.
Something Borrowed. I am completely obsessed. It’s on HBO OnDemand right now, through April 30th (which, incidentally, is my 30th birthday. This movie happens to open with the lead character’s 30th birthday. …I’m seriously starting to see cosmic signs in this. It’s not good. I even downloaded songs from the soundtrack. Intervention? Anyone?).
I’ve bawled my eyes out for a week over this movie. I’m still not sure how I want it to end; somehow the happy ending is also the bittersweet one. To me, it takes the road less traveled, as far as romantic comedies go, and despite its inherent cheesiness, there is something so genuine about the relationships. Kate Hudson executes her female d-bag role perfectly, and Goodwin’s sweetie-pie persona is irresistible. Oh! Oh! They even have a whole bit about a chipmunk (chipmunks are kind of my thing, in case you’re new here)! See what I’m saying about cosmic signs?
And I haven’t even gotten to John Krasinski yet. Suffice it to say, he’s as perfect as a chipmunk eating Dunkaroos.
There are a lot of reasons I heart my besties, Jenn and Mary. Namely:
They are funny.
They think I am funny.
They are smart.
They think I am smart funny.
But when it comes to enumerating their many qualities, the word crafty (like Martha Stewart-crafty, not Wet Bandits-crafty) doesn’t necessarily spring to mind. Nevertheless, this holiday season, I decided to push them out of their comfort zones, right into gingerbread village. To help them cope with the shock, I provided the following:
1.) A home-cooked roast chicken dinner.
2.) Encouragement Vodka.
3.) Uncle Jesse in a sweater.
4.) John Denver and the Muppets.
5.) Duct tape.
We set to work.
One Two hours later…
And in the end, the gingerbread creations [couldn’t stand the long drive home for Jenn and Mary and] were mine…all mine! Merry Christmas, me!
Any holiday crafts going on in your neck ‘o the woods, Chipmunks?
Oh you, my darling Guilty Pleasure chipmunk*, let’s talk. Grab a chair drink. Can I just tell you something? I’ve been struggling with whether or not I should’ve emailed you at your personal email address when you subscribed to my blog. I wanna write and say, “Thank you. You’ve totally validated my existence and if you’re ever in Jersey I’ll be glad to make you dinner and let my dog lick your face raw,” but it seems like that might be a bit too intrusive. (In case I’ve worried anyone, if you’ve written me to thank me for subscribing to your blog, I was thrilled.)
Related to this, I wrote a very silly post back in April (2 months after I started this blog) which I intended to post should I ever catch that rare, Freshly Pressed unicorn (i.e., get featured on the home page of wordpress.com). Well, shockingly, I did wrangle the majestic, one-horned beast this week -when I least expected it, natch, and had long given up caring too much about it- but the post was sarcastic and clouded the true gratitude and humility I felt in responding to the exciting flurry of sweet comments.
So, lest there be ANY doubt how I feel about you, and by you I mean those who’ve ever read, and/or continue to read, my little blog, and share your lovely, hilarious thoughts (so yeah, this means YOU! Right now! You!):
*I love chipmunks. So much. This is the greatest compliment I know how to give. Besides sharing my Reese’s peanut butter cups. Or my vodka. No, no. Sorry. I got carried away. Paws off the Smirnoff.
On Friday morning, thanks to a colleague, I discovered my Project Management Professional (PMP) certification test scores were higher than I thought. I wasn’t particularly keen on being called “moderately proficient” in all 6 test areas, but as it turns out, even scoring “below proficient” on some sections earns you a passing grade. Man. I don’t even know how I keep my head up with all these brains inside it.
On Friday I was also exposed to this brilliant GaGa performance, thanks to Hubster’s Howard Stern-listening ways:
Step #2: Throw caution (and your dog’s leash) to the wind and loudly sing Bruno Mars songs in the woods.
On Saturday morning, we welcomed a gloriously sunny, 80-degree day here in western New Jersey, so the fam went for a hike in the Round Valley reservoir area. Why is that a guilty pleasure, you ask? Because, aside from belting out “The Lazy Song“, we let the dog off his leash for the whole 4 miles (shhh)! Who’s a good boy? Uncle Jesse is, yes he is! Look at these little tree huggers:
Step #3: Do anything that requires you to wear glasses like these:
As for my Saturday evening guilty pleasure activity, it looks like not many of you were as interested as me in seeing the Glee 3D Concert movie, which is supposedly playing for
only 2 weeks. Babs, my sister and I were 3 out of only 10 people in the theater. I won’t hold it against you, though, because it isn’t nearly as cool as seeing the concert live in the flesh (they filmed the 3D movie during one of the New Jersey concerts; sadly, not the one I attended). They had some touching ‘underdog’ storylines rolling between songs, but it really was a concert movie, and it’s just not all that fun to sit still and watch a concert, even on the big screen in 3D.
The best part of the concert (aside from any moment featuring Blaine [Darren Criss]) was Brittany (Heather Morris) performing Britney Spears‘ “I’m a Slave 4 U.” That girl can dance! (Sorry, I couldn’t find any quality concert clips of this on YouTube.) Mercedes (Amber Riley) singing one of my favorite Aretha songs (“Ain’t No Way”) was goosebump-inducing, too. Those kids are nauseatingly talented. Can’t wait for Season 3 of “Glee” (airs Wednesday, Sep. 21st on FOX)!
Step #4: Drink [heavily] and practice saying, “The pee-pee does the picking.”
On Sunday, all the rain that was ever in the sky decided to fall at once, giving me the perfect excuse to stay inside and do nothing (though it did put a damper on previous ‘mini swim party’ plans I was looking forward to). If drinking vodka tonics and watching reruns of my new favorite show, “Millionaire Matchmaker“, counts as nothing, that is. And I kind of like to think of it as conducting research for you fine people. I may write a post dedicated to this startlingly amazing show, but in the meantime, tune into Bravo since they’re airing marathons practically ’round the clock. If you hate the matchmaker (Patti Stanger) for the first 5 minutes, beware. So did I.
Oh my, guilty pleasure pumpkins, you want MORE this week? Kate and William put on a magnificent hat show, I mean, got married, and we slayed bin Laden and threw his corpse into the ocean! Well okay, I know, like me, you’ll never be satisfied, so here we go…
GOGP‘s Guilty Flavor of the Week is coming to you RIGHT THIS VERY SECOND!
It’s like the time you got Famous Amos cookies from the vending machine at work and TWO packages fell out!!
It’s so much awesomer than the moment you realized you were old enough to start swearing without getting in trouble!!!
And it’s so, so much better than winning the lottery, blowing it all on fast cars and gambling while extended family members crawl out of the woodwork asking why you don’t love them enough to pay off their debt!!!!
This week’s Guilty Flavor of the Week award goes to…
HOARDING the best Easter basket filler ever:
…just kidding (not really at all).
This week’s REAL Guilty Flavor of the Week honor goes to…
The Daily Show’s May 2nd Moment of Zen! Wrong but oh-so-right, like any true guilty pleasure:
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.
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.