Now that I’m living life with a Fitbit (a.k.a. the pedometer on crack), I feel I owe you some dieting advice and exercise tips.
It’ll only cost you $100 and your soul.
For example, did you know either 8 shots of vodka or a bottle of champagne is a perfectly valid meal substitute, calorically speaking?
And you don’t even have to chew!
As for exercise, just take a gander at my personal trainer:
Isn’t he magnificent? I call him Tadd, with two D’s, because he looks like he inspired every DoubleMint commercial ever made.
Tadd leads my 8-Minute video work-outs, and is very beautiful and nice. Tadd reminds me to “keep smiling, gang! After all, it’s only 8 goddamn minutes!”
There are four DVDs in here. Tadd’s not very good at math.
Despite Tadd’s belief in the power of tomato cans as handheld weights and unitards as a general life choice, I leave him feeling less than optimistic.
Sure, my buns are burning up, Tadd, but so is my will to live.
I’ve lived in northern New Jersey my entire life, which means constant access to pork roll and Bon Jovi some pretty cool stuff, like the myriad New York City happenings, a mere 25 miles away.
It’s easy to take this proximity for granted; I’ve only met a few other people who leverage one especially cool perk: Television show tapings!
Babs (my mom) is one of those people.
That’s right, Chipmunks! On Monday, Babs and I saw a taping of The Daily Show! Okay, The Daily Show Lite. While Jon Stewart is off coloring or basket-weaving or directing movies this summer, John Oliver, a Daily Show correspondent, is hosting.
Watch out, Jon. He’s good.
“Nice!” you’re probably thinking. “Why doesn’t everyone do this?”
Hey, great question, you. Shows with studio audiences are usually desperate to fill the house 5 days a week, so tickets are easy to come by (with some exceptions).
But.
While the tickets are free, they still have a price: Shows overbook, so even if you’ve reserved tickets, you have to [take off from work and] arrive early to pick them up – several hours before the taping begins. Then you have to return later, get back in line, and wait some more.
In any kind of weather.
I’m the moron in dark blue jeans in 90-degree heat.
And there’s still no guarantee you’ll actually get in.
The studio entrance.
Which is why it’s important to get drunk resourceful. For example, find a mom Babs who won a poop-ton of lottery scratch-off tickets from a radio station:
I imagine this waiting game is similar to childbirth. You forget about all of that boring, painful, hot, sticky, gross stuff once you feel the love. (I bet it’s exactly the same, am I right, parents?) Cue the ice-cold studio and geeking out.
One of the only shows I’ve ever been to where they allowed pictures during designated times.
You also forget about all of that waiting when the audience warm-up act starts picking on your mother (note: the following is based on actual events, a la Rescue 9-1-1):
You DEFINITELY forget about that waiting when the host gives the audience a personal hello, sincere thanks, and answers questions.
And you totally, totally, TOTALLY forget about that waiting when you spot yourself on TV that same night:
Didja miss me? Okay, fine, that wasn’t really fair. Let me help ya out:
Especially epic since The Daily Show almost never features their audience on the live show.
Psst: If you’re in the New York City area and would like tickets to a Daily Show taping, check out this page.
Have you ever been to a television show taping? If not, would it be worth all of that uncertainty and waiting to you? What show tops your list?
Once upon a time, my mom, Babs, sent this email to my sister and me (click to enlarge):
Click to enlarge.
After you get over Babs’ adorable italics, you’re probably feeling appalled. Or at the very least, wary. But that’s a perfectly good waste of emotional energy. You should consider saving your disgust for things like global warming. Or cicadas.
Cicadas in NJ. Right. Now. Even grosser than that one scene in 50 Shades. You know the one I’m talking about.
Oh yes. I’ve read 50 Shades of Grey, and the only thing I’m ashamed of is not making it through more than half of the trilogy before growing tired of Christian and Ana’s antics (or, rather, the author using ten words when only one was needed [usually “Ouch!”]).
In other words, I was totally game for the blogging potentialSpank!
If you thinka 50 Shades of Grey theatrical parody might go over well with the more, ah, age-advanced female crowd, you’re right. It was part musical, part striptease, part insanely impressive revenue-generator, thanks to the 50 Shades year old contingent.
Babs. A woman so nice, they named her in, um, italics.
There were only 3 cast members (to which I attribute much of its money-making potential): The author and the male and female leads. The author stood in as a couple of other characters, but mostly narrated the play as the dramatically under-sexed E.L. James.
The actor playing Christian was an understudy with vocal and guitar chops that only his abs could rival. Babs and my sister weren’t as impressed with the actress playing Ana, but I think they’re being unfair. A character so complex and riveting, well, even Meryl Streep would have struggled.
What is the meaning of this “no”?
They had some audience interaction, wine with straws, and, all in all, a pretty funny script.
The only fail of the night was when my sister and I heard the word, “No.” We desperately wanted a picture with the woman selling t-shirts, because her shirt was one-of-a-kind, and also because there’s nothing I wouldn’t do for you chipmunks. She politely declined, embarrassed.
So I thought I’d recreate the t-shirt here. You’re welcome.
Do you have a favorite play? Anything you want to get off your chest? Like how many times you’ve really read 50 Shades?
It’s Rachel’s Table‘s fault, really. At least, she’s the one who pointed it out. I never liked her.
Let me back up.
Last Friday, my good bloggy bud, Rache, and I (and our indulgent husbands) met up in Lambertville, New Jersey, under the guise of supporting a favorite local brewery, River Horse.
They had to come up with a summer ale after we drank the winter stash last November.
We had a blast, the true implications of the night yet to dawn on me. Two days later, Rache broke the news. I reacted accordingly.
That’s right. Rache accused me of being a… a… hipster.
I needed time to process this, starting with the above image from Friday night. Sepia, Instagram-esque photo filter. Eep. Then the setting: A no fuss, no muss local brewery with exposed brick and tacky fluorescent lighting. Double eep. Lastly, there was how we ended the night – in an old school bar. Eeps to infinity. As Rache put it, we weren’t even trying to be ironic. Yet it was all so… so… authentically inauthentic. Winking.
This was a grave matter indeed; I had to do some research. While the rest of you grilled animal flesh and donned red, white and blue in celebration of Memorial Day, I looked up over a dozen definitions of hipster, and read several articles (including this gem from the New York Times, How I Became a Hipster).
If I knew exactly what I was up against, maybe I could stop this tempeh and hemp-powered train from heading straight to Brooklyn. Or worse, Portland.
I read the articles closely.
It was bad. I, along with my hipster brethren, abbreviated words like ridiculous and totally. We watched HBO’s Girls. We drank sazeracs. We obsessed over indie music, local food and sustainable energy.
So why was being a hipster rocking my mustachioed world? For starters, I like plenty of mainstream crap. Oh no. I just called it crap. Well, never mind, forget that one. Also? I’m well scrubbed, don’t look good in plaid, and wool makes me break out.
Perhaps most telling, I’ve never said, “I was into ____ before they got big.” (I’ve thought it, though. A lot. And maybe said it ironically, once or twice. …Shoot.)
There is one catch to my seemingly inevitable slide into skinny jeans, rooftop gardening and fixed-gear bicycle riding: I awkwardly, laboriously and spectacularly try and fail to be cool. There is no pretending otherwise. I want to be cool. I want everyone to like me (even hipsters). I do care, and I don’t hide it.
So for now you’ll find me rocking my facial hair the only way I know how. Smugly.Hilariously. Genuinely.
I’m worried you’re starting to feel neglected. You barely look me in the eye, and your Stats page, is, frankly, a bit of a slap in the face. Between juggling 3 husbands, alcohol dependency and finding new and exciting uses for bacon, I really haven’t given you the attention you deserve.
Sh*t. 10 months younger.
Sure, I’ve still found time to make epic memes and Google the age of every celebrity I like, hoping they’re older than me and I still have my shot at the elusive EGOT. And honestly, I would be famous already, but I’ve been so busy having fake conversations with actual famous people that the last 30 years week has just really gotten away from me.
You know I still love you, right, Blog? Remember all the good times? I really made you giggle that time I put ketchup in my hair, and don’t forget the slushie to the face. You like physical comedy, don’t you, Blog? (Did you see Melissa McCarthy on Saturday Night Live this past weekend? She’s a physical comedy goddess, and I worship her. Should we write a post about it? Oh, check! Look at us, Blog. What a team.)
Would I lie about this?
In all seriousness, Blog, you know how crazy things have been lately. Heck, by the time you read this, I may be en route to Texas for an undoubtedly blog-worthy wedding. So I hope you’re ready to spend some quality time with me next week. I know, I know. There are so many blog-worthy things happening RIGHT NOW that I can’t blog about, but you understand. After all, one of them involves work. And Uncle Jesse’s role in a marathon interview process. I know, Blog. I know! It’s killing me, too.
I really do love you, Blog. More next week.
xox,
Jules
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
What’s your favorite procrastination method / ‘time suck’?
Remember our Christmas ‘sheet set’ giveaway? There are a lot of jokes here about beds and keeping warm, but I am far too classy to make them.
I certainly can’t blame you. In fact, I’m pretty sure nine out of ten bloggers already think I’m married to The Byronic Man.
It occurs to me that finding my third spouse is like completing the final layer of my Dream Cupcake. Have you heard of these cupcakes? I hadn’t either, until I was roped into volunteered to help my parents cook for Easter Sunday.
1st layer: Chocolate chip cookie dough.
2nd layer: Reese’s peanut butter cup.
3rd layer: Brownie batter.
Cook 30 minutes at 350 F. Then eat. Then just crawl into a hole and die. Because life can only go down from there.
Um, anyway, okay, so, with the final 5 candidates selected…
It’s time to vote for my third spouse! (If you missed it, Click here to review their entries!)
Polls close NOON EST, Wednesday, April 3, 2013. My third spouse and I will regale you with some of our misadventures on Friday, April 5, 2013!
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.
Are those flashing lights? Are we being pulled over?
PEPPERMEISTER (HUSBAND #1)
Yes. Calm down!
POLICE OFFICER
Do you know why I pulled you over?
PEPPERMEISTER
No.
POLICE OFFICER
Both of your headlights are out. Both of them. Both…of…them. You only have one fog light on.
DAY 3 – JULES’ HOUSE – BATHROOM – MORNING
JULES
(stepping on scale)
LIES!!!!!!
JULES picks up PHONE and dials PEPPERMEISTER.
JULES (CON’T)
I need you to find kale. Like yesterday.
I don’t even know who I am anymore.
DAY 4 – JULES’ HOUSE – KITCHEN – LATE AFTERNOON
PEPPERMEISTER (HUSBAND #1)
My mom would like a dark chocolate cake with cream cheese frosting for her birthday.
JULES
I’m on it. I shall prepare everything from scratch, just as I’ve done since I was 9. In fact, I have the perfect recipe! I normally use it for cupcakes, but no matter! What could go wrong?
30 MINUTES LATER…
All the cream cheese frosting in the world can’t make this right.
DAY 5 – JULES’ HOUSE – BEDROOM – EVENING
JULES
(cleaning)
Oh, what’s this under the side table? An old fortune! Well whatever it says, it’s going to shed some light on my life and tell me what I should do next, I just know it!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Did you have any ‘off’ experiences this week?
Pssst…next week is my 2-year blog-o-versary! I’m not even sure you’re prepared for what I have in store. Here’s a sneak peek:
We’re pretty spread out here in western New Jersey, and there’s a kick-ass balance between “what you do is your business” and “but I am curious about that package, so I’ll help you carry it inside.” Our next door neighbors, Dave and Judy, threw us a welcome party when we first moved in, complete with a homemade banner, and, more importantly, Sangria.
Our neighbor around the corner, Linda, dropped off a bushel of apples from her orchard this fall, while the ones across the street gave us a discount on our Christmas tree (yes, there’s a Christmas tree farm across the street! It’s amazeballs out here, Chipmunks, I’m telling you…even if you do lose power every time an owl sneezes).
As if that wasn’t enough, then there’s our neighbor, Jeff. He’s close to our age, and lives behind us in a gorgeous house. He’s the quintessential neighbor: He owns every power tool under the sun and knows how to use them all, helped us clear trees post Hurricane-Sandy, and leaves delicious food in the mailbox. Peppermeister doesn’t even mind the pepper-growing competition, with Jeff’s garden in plain sight.
This Valentine’s Day, I thought it was time to show Jeff how I really felt. It started with my famous homemade double-chocolate cookies:
My BFF, Jenn, gave me those sweet-ass Ziploc bags.
And ended with this note:
Dearest Jeff,
I must be quick, for Peppermeister does not know of this!
Your seafood sauce was the greatest thing I’ve ever tasted. Bestill my heart!
I’m slowly poisoning Peppermeister.
Happy Valentine’s Day!
-Go Jules Go
Psst…between you and me, Peppermeister is looking a little worse for the wear. It’s only a matter of time, Jeff.
What’s the nicest and/or creepiest thing a neighbor has ever done for you?
I found the most perfect Valentine’s Day card for you. In fact, words cannot express how perfect it is (other than the words in this card), so, I made you this video. (Sorry about the swearing; I’m just so damn passionate about our relationship.)
Go Jules Go 