Vintage Babs (left) and her sister in handmade threads.
What do you get for the woman who has everything? It’s an age-old question.
But really. What do you get for the woman who has everything?
She already has me, for chipmunk’s sake.
I asked myself this question time and time again over the past few weeks. My mom, Babs, is a very special, thoughtful lady, so not just any present would do for Mother’s Day. I could design a custom wine label, draw a picture of Bella and Edward, get tickets to see Daniel Radcliffe naked on Broadway, but, been there, done that.
Then, suddenly, a promising train of thought began…
Babs likes this blog…
…and Babs likes guilty pleasures (as you know, she taught this grasshopper everything)…
…and who doesn’t love haikus?! This entire blog has been a build-up to the grand poobah of all haikus, really.
So, Babs, grab a Long Island Iced Tea (or seven) and enjoy:
~*~
Shop ‘Til You Drop
You sure love shopping;
You say you can smell the mall
When we’re getting close.
This has worked out well,
For two daughters who like clothes.
“Hey, it was on sale.”
But sometimes I fear,
Retail therapy will cost
Us much more than dough.
Do you remember?
It wasn’t that long ago.
…You don’t remember?
Though we laughed later,
-Once we’d changed our underwear-
I was scarred for life.
You veered to the right,
Then we almost got side-swiped;
A g.d. close call.
Horns were a-honking,
My life flashed before my eyes,
But you didn’t care!
We almost died and
All we got was this picture
For my sillyawesome blog:
Was it worth it, Babs?
Almost killing us to get
to Pier 1 Imports?
~*~
Happy Mother’s Day, Babs!
I’d also like to wish a very Happy Mother’s Day to my wonderful mother-in-law and my sisters (both in blood and in law)!
And to YOU, ‘o course! This includes moms of pets. Don’t let anyone tell you us it’s not EXACTLY like having real kids.
In Babs’s honor: Is there a store you’d die to get to?
Hot air ballooning was so much more than I could have ever hoped for.
And not just because of the balloon. Or the hot air.
But because it involved so, so many guilty pleasures. I hope you’re ready for an eareyeful.
It started around 6pm on Sunday, when Peppermeister, the man trying to kill me via his 30th birthday “present”, herded me into the car. I knew what was up. Luckily, I’d already prepared my last will and testament.
We headed to a main road not too far from our house; this was the only sign of what was to come:
A long driveway led to an open field, where two other couples were milling about. Peppermeister is ruthless, I thought. With all this extra weight, we would plummet to the ground with even more force than I had originally feared.
He reminded me not to socialize because “people like us too much.” It was a cover-up, because he didn’t want me to get close to anyone when we were all about to die. Except he was right. People totally like us too much when we talk. In fact, we try not to be ourselves in public at all. So here we are at a picnic table by ourselves. Being [secretly] awesome.
An old-school bus with a trailer pulled up, hauling a giant basket. A slew of folks immediately began assembling our death trap.
Babs, a.k.a. Mommarazzi, was, of course, on hand to capture everything:
I was glad it was a rainbow. Hot air balloons are supposed to be rainbows. And rainbows are good luck. …Right?
I put on a brave face.
And that’s when I saw it. The greatest handlebar mustache of all time. You can even see it from the back (far right). The perfect distraction from imminent death.
Our basket had 5 compartments, and each person had to climb in and out while the basket was on its side. I made it, and started worrying I would drop Annie Leibovitz (my iPhone), causing someone else’s death.
I glanced upward nervously; I prefer to be on fire only metaphorically speaking.
The force of the now-inflated balloon pulled our jam-packed basket upright. Oh holy chipmunks. We have lift off.
Goodbye, Babs! Remember what I said about selling Peppermeister’s instruments! …I love you. Psst. Handlebar Mustache is RIGHT. THERE.
OMG. Let’s zoom in:
Tragically, the winds blew us northwest, away from The Mustache Miracle and right over my place of employment. I’d post pictures, but I feel like they might shoot me (how many times can I cheat death in one week?).
Here, look at these instead:
Ah. You never knew Jersey was this beautiful, right? Yes. Quiet, serene, relaxing… oh, wait. Did I mention we were with two couples from Brooklyn (one young, one middle-aged)? Here’s an 8-second reenactment of our first few moments in the air:
I had to admit, it was relaxing, despite their piercing chatter. I was lost pondering gravity potential Glee covers when we started running into trees. We got closer and closer to the ground, and made a bumpy ‘touch down’ in a corn field. The driver fire cord-puller guy claimed it was “to slow us down.” Personally, I think he was just trying to shut Fran Drescher up.
The van that brought the hot air balloon followed us the whole time, because, in case I failed to mention it earlier – they have no control over where the balloon will go.
I was a little worried about crashing into power lines, or this highway. (Or that drivers viewing our balloon-y majesty would cause a pile-up on said highway.)
I probably shouldn’t have looked down at the inside of the basket, either.
It reads: “We’re totally not responsible if we turn you into vampire meat.”
Yeah, I really shouldn’t have read that…
Why are we going so low again? Why? Oh no.
Luckily, we had enough juice to get our basket out of harm’s way, and got to watch as families came out of their houses, dogs barked, and little kids begged us to land in their yard (who doesn’t love watching a hot air balloon? It’s like music. Or eating asparagus and then peeing). Note that even so close to The End, I had only one thing on my mind: Snacks.
About 40 minutes later, they decided there wouldn’t be a better opportunity to land but in this backyard. I braced myself, and…
…We made it. (Crawling Falling out of the basket was even more hilarious than climbing in. My shoe fell off in the process, and Handlebar Mustache complimented my toenail polish [which totally matches my GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelet, natch]. I may have to consider a Third Husband.)
A copy-cat balloon landed right after us. They didn’t get the memo about the rainbow pattern requirement. I’m surprised they survived.
Loading the basket back on the trailer was fun for everyone who wasn’t loading the basket back on the trailer. …That redhead was cute from the front, too.
And that’s when we found out what had happened. Somehow, I completely missed it. Young Mr. Brooklyn [Gypsy?] had gotten down on one knee –in the basket– to propose to his infant girlfriend. There’s no way the basket should have stayed afloat with the weight of that rock in it.
And P.S. – she’s sixteen.
Here I am attempting to point at the ring during the ride in the van back to our cars (where are Misty’s ninja photo skills when I need them?):
Once we made it back to home base, we were treated to champagne, beer, cheese and crackers. Apparently, hot air ballooning began in France, and when ballooners would land in someone’s yard, the homeowners would freak out. ‘Cause, you know, it was clearly a spaceship. To ease the tension, the ballooner would offer a bottle of champagne to the traumatized family.
Now. Why couldn’t Peppermeister have told me that from the start*?
*He claims he totally did**.
**I never listen to him. Ever. It’s probably why he wants to kill me.
So, what did you think of that mustache/engagement?
While I know it is usually you who expresses gratitude to me, for bringing such light and laughter to your dreary lives [filled with not loving chipmunks and eating calorie-conscious meals], let us take this time to acknowledge my appreciation for all you do to appease me, especially on my birthday.
To my husband, Peppermeister, with your unparalleled taste in spouses: You took it upon yourself to hire a man to put us in a basket tied to a balloon as a “gift.” Even though they have absolutely no control over where the basket will go, or land, I know this is your way of saying that our love will forever defy the odds. And not at all that you want to kill me.
By the way, GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelets double as balloon weights. You're welcome.
To my wonderful mother, Babs, who finally got it right with her third child: You made a beautiful photo album, capturing the last 30 29+ years of my enviable life, because you felt visitors were not jealous enough of my current coffee table book, ThePop-Up Book of Phobias. Without your loving and watchful eye, these visitors might have left my home feeling like they had the upper hand – all because I serve White Castle and haven’t cleaned behind the TV in two years!
"I despise math, history bores me..."
To my genius father who still has all of his hair: I am willing to overlook those disturbing quotes from my college application essay that you included in the above album. I know that dredging up embarrassing memories is your way of trying to make your other children feel a little better about being constantly overlooked. You always try to be fair that way, even though it’s hopeless.
To my insane triathlon-competing sister: Thank you for wearing the dress I loaned you four months ago to my birthday dinner; you looked really great in it. It’s clear you wanted everyone to see what impeccable style I have, and I’m not jealous at all. But you should know that that one will be out of fashion soon, so you should just give it back. I wouldn’t want you to embarrass yourself.
To my adorable niece and nephew, who take after their aunt in looks: Thank you for giving me hope that someone I know will eventually join a glee club based on his top-notch jazz hands, thus exponentially increasing my chances of meeting Second Husband, Darren Criss. Also thank you for believing I’m famous because I refer to my “blog” as “a super popular website.”
To my completely normal and nice in-laws: I’m forever delighted by the ability of our families to get together without fights, tears or backhanded compliments. It’s like I didn’t even steal your only son away from you. Oh and that gift card is pretty sweet, too. Keep those coming.
To my best friend, Jenn: No one gets me like you do. Except for that guy who makes my egg sandwiches and puts way more cheese on them than is remotely appropriate. No, no one gets me like you do. And no one gets me flowers except you, either. Actually, that’s kind of a problem. Let’s talk about how to fix that the next time we get together.
I love that you love me, family and friends. Clearly loving me so much has made all of you better people.
But don’t worry about thanking me for that yet. Christmas is just around the corner.
Love always, or until all that champagne you got me runs out,
Jules
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
What’s the most guilty pleasure-ful gift you’ve ever gotten?
Renée, please consider this your open invitation to guest post on my blog any time; I know the below submission is only the tip of your guilty pleasure iceberg.
Renée’s Entry:
Okay, you know I love to break into dance. But that’s the small stuff. Another guilty pleasure?
*whispering*
I sometimes sunbathe topless in my backyard.
And there is a middle school in my backyard.
True. You cannot make this stuff up.
If you’re feeling a little sore from Renée’s victory, perhaps this picture will help.
Zeal has never been happier.
After Renée submitted her scintillating entry, I tried to Google Earth her house*. Here’s what came up:
Can you tell which house is Renée's?
That’s right, Renée, all of this is YOURS! ALL YOURS!
*If you’re feeling stalky after seeing that bikini pic, please don’t waste your time haunting the above neighborhood. That isn’t where Renée lives. And duh. Just email me for her address.
My guilty pleasure might surprise you. There’s nothing I like more than spending a quiet evening playing my favorite game: Go Guilty Pleasures, the home edition.
~*~
First I obsessively click on your blog. If I’ve left a comment, I see if you’ve responded to my comment. Then I go click on the Recommended Humor Blogs WordPress page to see if I’m still on there. Then back to your blog to see if anyone has responded either to my original comment or your response to my comment. Back to the Humor page to see if anybody else I know is cycling through the list more often than me. Back to your blog. I leave a follow-up comment if necessary. Then I rate all the other comments and compare their cleverness-quotient to my comment. If anyone else’s score even approaches mine, I spend some time worrying about that. Finish up with just one, teensy-weensy peek back at the Humor page (with my stopwatch to catalogue relative hang-times.)
~*~
Next comes the best part of the game. I BECOME you. I put on the Side Pony of Super Fun-ness. I put my custom-crafted Uncle Jesse mask on my cat, Beeby (this part isn’t as easy as it might sound). I line up some champagne (actually Asti – I’m on a budget) and break out the bacon candy bars and Reeses for snacking. I use mice instead of chipmunks as my life coaches because they’re a lot easier to catch around my house. That may be why they don’t really give me any advice, no matter how many times I ask. But I pretend they do while I make funny, fun faces. I get lots and lots of guilty pleasure from taking lots and lots of pictures of myself being blondly side-ponied and fun. A lot.
~*~
Yup, for my family, there’s no more relaxing way to spend the evening than playing Go Guilty Pleasures. As my hubby said to me just the other night, “Why do you keep calling me Peppermeister? Who the hell is that??”
~*~
Happy Birthday to us!!
I told Peg I was jealous of her side-pony, because it's longer than mine, and probably curls like a dream.
I voted at that link you posted, posted to facebook (i’m not sure how i will prove this with my security settings) and my blog. I have twitter but don’t use it (that’s a story for another time if you get bored) and i got the tattoo and performed the ritual sacrifice.
I emailed you this pic but incase it comes down to bloggers voting in the contest, here is the link (see below for picture).
Now for the guilty pleasures:
I sing to my cat Alex every day when i come home. I even sing as alex sometimes. I am not a good singer so he’s probably embarrassed.
Speaking of bad singing i also am a big harry potter nerd and i used to be a part of an online Hogwarts website where you took classes and met other nerds. You would think that would be a guilty enough pleasure right there as it’s terribly embarrassing but i used to compete in a yearly singing contest there called HOL idol and i would actually record myself singing and enter the contest. 0________0 SO EMBARRASSING. I wrote bad fanfic too.
As perfect as a guilty pleasure can get. Did you see the tattoo on her hand??
I eat entire pints of coffee Haagen Dazs in the car as I drive alone in the car. No spoon. No napkin. By the time I’m finished, both the steering wheel and I are covered with ice cream. Yum.
Chipmunks-who-like-a-challenge, it’s almost April 29th, a.k.a. the deadline for submitting your entry to win the GREATEST gift basket of all time. (The deadline is 12pm EST on Sunday, April 29th.)
All you have to do to enter is: 1) mention the gift basket giveaway post on your blog and/or Twitter account and/or Facebook page, and 2) follow the link above and leave a comment telling me a true story involving you and a guilty pleasure. (If you have any trouble leaving a comment, you can email me your submission.)
REMEMBER – I’m looking for true stories involving you and a guilty pleasure, and am judging based on style, creativity and humor.
Because, ya know, I’m not parting with these treasures THAT easily.
Multiple submissions are acceptable.
I will announce the winner (and two runners-up) on Monday, April 30th.
Good luck – may the odds be ever in your favor may the pleasures be ever guilty!
Thoughtsy, of the very giggle-inducing blog, Thoughts Appear, recently tagged me to answer 11 Questions. As I told her, I’m normally a party-pooper about these kinds of things, but since her answers were so funny, and 11 is my lucky number, it seemed like I should roll with it.
The Rules (which I Will follow…Mostly)
You must post the rules.
Post eleven fun facts about yourself.
Answer the questions the tagger set for you in their post, and then create eleven new questions to ask the people you’ve tagged.
Tag eleven people and link them on your post.
Let them know you’ve tagged them.
Here we go! Oh and I’ve made this a drinking game. Take a shot every time I say the word a…or chipmunk. … A Chipmunk!
11 Fun Facts About Me
I really, really wish I could raise just one eyebrow at a time. I mean, I can’t grow a mustache, so it’s the least my face could do for me.
I panic and pass out when getting blood drawn. (Don’t worry. I still love vampires.)
I think feet are cute; I love me some flip-flops.
I spend a lot of time thinking about what holes in my body bugs crawl into while I’m sleeping.
I climbed the Sydney Harbour Bridge. But I’ve never been to DisneyWorld (or Land).
Now time for a fun fact from Captain Obvious: I am not afraid of heights.
I was born 2 weeks early, on April 30th, just so I could guarantee that diamond would be my birthstone.
One of my favorite sounds is the sound of a can of soda being opened. It sounds like a contented sigh, like unbuttoning your pants after Thanksgiving dinner. Only fizzier.
I would give up any ability I have for the ability to sing.
I’m really good at shuffling cards.
Ooh. That reminds me. I can never, EVER remember the rules to any card games.
I think anyone who litters should have to face Voldemort. Or a dementor, at least.
Really? FROSTED. Strawberry or brown-sugar cinnamon. And did you know they come in two-packs so you can eat one while you toast the other?
2. What age would you want to stay forever?
22, I guess. I was old enough to drink. And done with school. I would have taken advantage of my much smaller rear end. Or, you know, started researching cures for cancer…
3. Do you think I’m pretty? You can usethis picture as a reference.
As long as he’s not drinking my vodka, I don’t give a scratch where Waldo is.
5. What’s your favorite quote?
It probably goes without saying, but, “Life is uncertain, eat dessert first.”
Even Wikipedia says it tastes like gym socks.
6. Name one food you’ve never tried…and don’t want to.
Durian, that crazy, stinky fruit that’s supposed to be one of the most unpalatable things in the world.
7. Do you believe in the tooth fairy?
If I say yes, is there any money in it for me?
8. If you could change your first name, what would it be?
I’d want to change it to something that would really mess with people. Like DUCK!!! “Mom, have you met my friend, DUCK!!!”
(I didn’t have another blonde moment and steal this joke from some comedian, did I? …Do you ever get those moments? No? Well…hey, now you know TWELVE fun facts about me: I am often paranoid about unwittingly stealing jokes…er…A CHIPMUNK!)
9. If you could be any animal, what would you be?
Allow me to answer this question with a picture (of A CHIPMUNK):
11. How much money would you need to quit your job for one year?
Enough to make you want to throw up in your mouth a little. I’m living well beyond my means, and if I must be more clear, know that New Jerseyians pay in annual property tax what many people pay in mortgage for a year. Commence reverse peristalsis barfing.
Now here’s the part where I break bend the rules a little. Instead of naming 11 bloggers who may or may not love me for doing so, I invite anyone who reads this to answer my questions (below) on your blog. (And please let me know if you do!) Or you can answer any of them in the comments section below!
Your 11 Questions to Answer (you know, only if you want to)
What wouldn’t you do for a Klondike bar?
Is it more important for someone to be nice or smart?
Do you think doilies make any occasion a fancy one?
Is it a deal-breaker if someone has bad breath?
What would you be embarrassed for your co-workers to find out about you?
If I told you I could draw your portrait, would you want me to? And would you pay me?
Do you think scorpions are scary? (Because THEY ARE.)
His name is Zac Efron. He's super nice.
What kind of Chia pet makes the best Chia pet?
Do you think Zac Efron is as nice in real life as he seems?
There are a few things kicking around that I really want to share with you, and try as I might, I can’t find a common theme (other than awesomesauciness), so here they are in all their random glory:
Slap bracelets: They're not just for repressed guilty pleasure bloggers anymore! (Thanks to Renee at Life in the Boomer Lane for this pic - click it for her blog link!)
3.) I have some really phatflydope excellent posts coming to you very soon. I want to tell you more, but where’s the my fun in that? Let’s just say a guest post and a giveaway are involved. You don’t want to miss it.
4.) Thanks for being so nice and attractive. I really do love you.
What’s making you smile today? If you haven’t found anything, perhaps Henri, the existential cat, can help you come to terms with that:
For a supposed guilty pleasure blogger, I don’t think I talk nearly enough about one of the most mind-frenchingly awesome pairings the world has ever known. No no, not Brad Pitt and Gwyneth PaltrowAngelina Jolie Jennifer Aniston. I’m talking:
Peanut Butter and Chocolate.
The master of this holy union, the mother of this ship, the queen bee to this hive, is, of course, none other than the:
Reese’s Peanut Butter Cup
Let us have a moment of silence to pay our respects to dairy farmer H.B. Reese (who invented this wonder in 1923), shall we?
…Much obliged. So, if you’re like me, you probably can’t recall the first time you tasted a Reese’s peanut butter cup, but they’ve always been your Numero Uno. Remember Halloween? What would it take to trade one of your Reese’s cups? That’s right. It would take nothing. Because ain’t nobody laying a finger on your Butterfinger Reese’s.
There’s a noticeable passion associated with Reese’s peanut butter cups. We don’t just like them. We love them. We don’t just nibble on a mini one and call it a day. Even those so-called ‘gourmet’ peanut butter cups never seem to stack up to the original.
When bigger is better. So, so, so much better.
Reese’s peanut butter cups are an intrinsic part of American culture. They’ve come up with plenty of variations over the last 20 years, and there’s a cup for what seems like every holiday. (Whether or not you just celebrated Easter, I hope you picked up some Reese’s eggs – it’s the perfect chocolate to peanut butter ratio.) There are t-shirts, magnets, even peanut butter cup-flavored lip balm stamped with the iconic Reese’s logo.
An internet search on Reese’s peanut butter cups brings up the corporate
A little slice of heaven. No. Seriously. This is my heaven. Photo credit: http://blogchef.net.
website, and then hundreds of recipes. To me this is a simple sign that peanut butter and chocolate are welcome in any home, for any occasion. If that Reese’s pie didn’t win over your girlfriend’s parents? Heck, you didn’t want to be a part of that family anyway.
The evolution of the Reese’s peanut butter cup slogan is also indicative of their influence – and I can’t argue with any of them:
1970s-1980s: Two great tastes that taste great together.
1990s: There’s no wrong way to eat a Reese’s.
2000s: Perfect.
Photo credit: pittnews.com
This year Reese’s peanut butter cups were the sponsor of NCAA’s March Madness basketball tournament. They’ve already been an official sponsor of the NCAA for 4 years running. You couldn’t get me to watch 2 minutes of the college basketball that was on a continuous loop in my house last month, but even I noticed the giant Reese’s logo on the court floor (and subsequently started salivating). I wondered how the players kept focus. Or maybe it was the perfect motivator.
On this historic day, otherwise known as Wednesday, 19 of your favorite humor bloggers are staging a WordPress coup. We have banded together to address the important topic, Better Living Through Reese’s Peanut Butter Cups.
Yes, you read that right. Your eyes are fine. Well, they may not be fine – I really don’t know. But it does say “19 of your favorite humor bloggers” (or who SHOULD be your favorite bloggers). We are all presenting the same topic, each from his or her particularly unique perspective.
Why this topic? Why now?
Why not?
Click on the bloggers’ links below to gobble up the entire, yummy bag of 19 posts.
Most likely you’re still nursing your post-St. Paddy’s day hangover, if I’m to believe those who dialed into NYC’s most popular radio station, Z100, this morning. One woman woke to find her prosthetic leg in a tree, another man discovered himself in bed with his ex-girlfriend…and ex-girlfriend’s new boyfriend.
I’m taking all of this to mean that you have the most raging case of the Mondays to date. Me too. Let’s turn these frowns upside-down with a few things that make me grin, giggle and guffaw (in that order), despite the fact that an endless week of fake niceties and spastic colons (thanks, Hoops and YoYo) await.
#1 – Going Bald for Good
Many of you have read that two of my favorite bloggers, Deb (The Monster In Your Closet) and Chris (From the Bungalow), will be shaving their heads this coming Saturday, for St. Baldrick’s Foundation, a childhood cancer charity. For immediate inspiration, head over to their blogs by clicking their names above; I encourage you to offer words of encouragement and/or a donation.
Not much guilty pleasure in that, but there IS guilty pleasure in finding a website that lets you try on Halloween wigs (for free) without leaving the comfort of your home:
Morning, Carl. I'm saving you from talking about your kids at the water cooler. No one wants to hear it.
#2 – Hoops and YoYo Sympathize
Hoops and YoYo are Hallmark’s rock stars. I love them. They sum up what Mondays feel like better than I ever could:
A recent comment from the talented (and hilarious) Leanne Shirtliffe (Ironic Mom) inspired me to dig up a clip of one of my favorite actors, John Krasinski, doing his marionette man. If this doesn’t make you smile, you have a lot in common with things that don’t smile.
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
It's THURSDAY! Er, CHEERS!
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.
Like this. Side note: if you search for "chipmunk dunkaroos" on Google image search, my blog is the first thing that pops up. My work here is done.
It’s been there since Christmas. (The slap bracelet, not the champagne. Champagne, as I’m sure you guessed from #1 on this list, has a two-hour lifespan around these parts.)
Are you living the guilty pleasure-ful life? How so? If you’re not sure, would you be willing to try some Dunkaroos?
Was it worth it, Babs?
Almost killing us to get
to Pier 1 Imports?
Go Jules Go 