People who know me personally often refer to me as their fashion guru. People who know me via this blog have been blown away by my sultry romance novel book covers. By and large, the world outside my bedroom considers me one of the great style icons of our time.
Wal-Mart didn't even see this coming.
However, inside my bedroom, more specifically, my closet, there are some shameful guilty pleasure secrets.
My wrinkly t-shirt collection.
#1 – Julie Davidoski Cullen
Here's the first fictional high school (from Twilight) I pretend to attend. (Actually, this high school exists, but you know what I mean.)
#2 – Julie van der Geek
Annnd the second fictional high school I pretend to attend. This one is located right near Dawson's Creek.
#3 – Julie Timberfake
Yeah. I was totally part of the local crew for the 2000 'NSync World Tour. ...Not.
#4 – Julie “Team Lame” Davidoski
Tribute to the Jimmy Fallon Twilight/Robert Pattinson skit, Robert is Bothered. (The back says, "Team Fallon.") You don't even want to know how excited I was to get this last Christmas.
#5 – Julie TwiLies
For gym class at the Twilight high school. Oh. The Shame.
Alvin, Theodore, Simon. All my awesome little chipmunks. I don’t even know where to begin.
Since my last post, so many amazing things have happened. I think it’s because the guilty pleasure gods finally realized they have wi-fi, and have subsequently read my blog, and are letting me know they’ve heard me.
I know. My, I mean the gods', best work yet.
(SPOILER ALERT IF YOU DIDN’T WATCH THE “GLEE” PREMIERE YET! BUT SERIOUSLY. GET ON THAT SHIZ!)
PROOF #2. The Good Greatsby imparted his timeless words of wisdom upon me today.
I plan on putting his advice into action immediately. You can check out the post here.
PROOF #3. I discovered a wickedly funny blog recently: Not Quite Old.
If you haven’t already read Nancy’s blog, head on over now! She was just given a Versatile Blogger Award, but I think she is better suited for the Wear-A-Diaper-Before-You-Read-This-Cause-It’s-That-Funny Blogger Award (though she certainly does show versatility in the subject matter she manages to turn into comedy gold – who knew orphans could be so chuckle-worthy?). In that way we are strikingly similar.
That’s all for now. Don’t forget to say your prayers tonight*.
*I should explain. The guilty pleasure gods are not all about genuflections and formality, if you catch my drift. They prefer you pass out on the couch after eating too many E.L. Fudge cookies, and you really, really need to make sure you leave the TV on. Well, I mean, only if you want to show your true devotion, that is.
I was raised 20 miles southwest of New York City, in a suburban New Jersey town where today city commuters still reign supreme and real estate is precious. I grew up thinking anyone with more than half an acre of land was a millionaire. Or crazy. I hated country music, horseback riding and wide open spaces. At 20, I transferred to college in Manhattan and became one of those commuters myself. I was sure I’d grow up to be an urban-dwelling writer/cat lady. Gladly so.
Now look at me. 29. Married. Project Manager. Labradoodle. Barn.
WTF.
I have a barn. What the h-e-double-hockey-sticks is a girl like me supposed to do with a barn? I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately from a guilty pleasure perspective (duh, what other perspective is there?) and I have some ideas. I’m not dead-set on any, so I’d really appreciate your suggestions. (I know how creative you are when you’re supposed to be doing boring serious things. ;))
There’s the obvious:
Vodka Distillery.
Animals Dressed as Other Animals: An Aww-Inspiring Exhibit.
Sexy Secret Hiding Place for Second Husband, Darren Criss.
And the slightly less obvious:
Clubhouse for My Very First Cult. (Alert: Currently recruiting. Must love deep-fried Oreos and puppies. Serious inquiries only.)
Storage Room for guillotine, life-sized Twilight dolls, barrels of wine, aged cheeses and fireworks*.
Goat. You know. Maybe. Like one cute, little goat. And some chickens. Just 1 or 2 or 50. And the goat probably needs a friend, now that I think about it.
Admit it. You want some g.d. extraordinary chickens, too. (Side note: My bestie actually bought this calendar for someone once.) Photo credit: bumblebeeblog.com
*This might sound more impressive if you knew fireworks were illegal [for residents to own/set off] in New Jersey. …No? Still not impressed? Did you see that chicken?
What about THESE chickens? Boo-ya. Photo credit: mytakeonlife.com
Isn’t it weird how one person can ruin a perfectly good name for you forever? Like, you’d sooner sit on the surface of the sun than name one of your kids after that person. This is such a universal feeling that it makes me laugh. (As universal as the idea that you need at least 3 snacks and 5 bottles of water for a 45-minute-long car ride.)
Here are just a few names that are ruined for me for all of eternity.
Clara
Oh Clara, Clara, Clara. I will never forget you, scary girl in one of my college creative writing workshops. You would tear down every word of every piece I ever wrote for that class. No one else did this, to me or anyone else, in any other workshop.
Clara was one of these angry people who hated me on sight, for no reason I could ever determine, except maybe that I smiled a lot. There’s a good chance that wherever she is now, she’s either 1) telling children Santa Claus doesn’t exist, 2) stealing ice cream from a toddler, or 3) pulling the wings off a butterfly.
Mike
I should probably let my hot-ass sister (seriously – any sexy, rich, single guys out there?) explain this one. Suffice it to say, she has one or two ex-boyfriends named Mike.
Phil
When I was in 7th grade, the slang term phat came out, meaning what today we (and by we I mean me) might call amazeballs. I will never forget the day a delinquent in my Social Studies class wrote “Julie is phat” on his desk, and proceeded to tell everyone it was because I was actually f-a-t. Hilarious, Phil. How’s jail treating you these days?
On Sunday night “The Glee Project” announced their winner, and I soooo nailed it – the guy with the dreads (Samuel) won! In a delightful everyone’s-a-winner twist, though, they also gave the Irish kid (Damian) a 7-episode contract, and both runners-up (Alex and Lindsay) will be appearing in 2 episodes! Like I wasn’t pumped enough for Season 3.
And the winner is…all of us. Photo credit: avclub.com
I actually had such a downer post ready to go up today (let’s just say a disturbing episode of “Restaurant Impossible” made me worry I’m one night of boob tubing and two vodka tonics away from being Kevin Spacey’s new ‘sloth’ victim [side note: isn’t “Se7en” the best scary movie ever?]). But then the skies parted and my little guilty pleasure guardian angels flew down and typed “Darren Criss” into my Google search engine (they really LOVE to do that). Which led me to…
A Darren Criss flash mob! (Done at a Chicago fair where Darren recently performed.) Sure, it’s amateurish, and goes on a little too long, but aren’t they cute? It lifted my spirits, and I hope it does the same for you!
Darren later tweeted that he could finally cross “witness a flash mob dance to your songs” off of his bucket list. People are always surprised to hear I have a bucket list, but doesn’t everyone? What’s that one water sport you’ve always wanted to try, or that one country/state you’ve always wanted to visit? See, ta da, bucket list started!
Here are a mere few of my bucket list items – I even included some I’ve already done to show you that guilty pleasure dreams really do come true (as if this post wasn’t proof enough!):
Get a book published (and subsequently become besties with Stephenie Meyer and J.K. Rowling)
Buy a baby grand piano and perform for my imaginary fans (and possibly film and share the evidence)
Make Darren Criss my second husband
Mr. gojulesgo the second. Let's pretend I took this picture right before he proposed. To throw off his rabid fans, though, I shall give "photo credit" to: teen.com
There are certain things people don’t usually share. Their salary, political beliefs, ‘magic number’, feelings on drugs and abortion, whether they really believe in God. I can appreciate this, but I’m about to show you something most people don’t usually divulge. That’s right. Here it comes…
My guilty pleasure resume!
It’s not so much a document detailing my experience as it is a photographic expression of my commitment to the lifestyle. Nevertheless, I’m available for hire for all your guilty pleasure gigs, big and small (please submit job descriptions, down payments, and pictures of animals dressed as other animals to gojulesgo@ialwaysknewidberich.com). Enjoy:
1.) I have a cabinet full of plastic Medieval Times cups at all times (keepsakes from my 27th birthday party that we use constantly):
I'd like to dedicate this toast to all the knights and wenches in the hiz-ouse.
2.) This is my Harry Potter wall calendar, hanging in the kitchen for all to admire:
Don't you hate the boring months like this? Who cares about these guys?
3.) A staple: vodka in the freezer. …’Scuse me, I’ll be right back…
If this doesn't make your mouth water...well, good. More for me.
4.) …Cheers. Here are all of the ingredients to make bonfire s’mores at any given moment:
Marshmallows + chocolate + graham crackers + fire = a g.d. good time, that's what.
5.) This is the light cover I made for my craft room. Yeah, that’s right, craft room (a.k.a. why my future children will be living in the shed):
Cheese-tastic.
6.) Here is my dog, Uncle Jesse’s, monogrammed L.L. Bean bed. I know I should be embarrassed, but I’m not. I’m proud. So proud. (I mean, c’mon. You’re allowed exactly 10 characters, including spaces. It was meant to be.)
The kind of happiness only money can buy.I know. I don't take him seriously either.
7.) This is the comment my husband just made:
“Do you wish your whole life was blogging? You wouldn’t have a blog if you didn’t have a life, though.”
…Oh, what’s that you say? You’re dying to see my craft room, especially the stripes I painted on the walls myself? Well, okay, if you insist. Here it is!
My SIL (sister-in-law) is great. Smart, loving, responsible. She’s one of my top go-to gals – she can help a sister out with just about anything. But she does have one flaw, and that flaw sounds a lot like the theme song to “7th Heaven.” Do you guys remember that show? I do, unfortunately. Yesterday, SIL reminded me of this nightmare with a nostalgic Facebook post. A dull shudder ran down my spine instantly when I saw this picture:
"When I see their happy faces, smiling back at me"...I'm afraid. Very afraid. Photo credit: cbs.com.
I told SIL I could handle Hugh Hefner, but Eric Camden was another matter. Seriously. Remember all those icky storylines where he’d counsel someone from his church in a far too intrusive way? I think pamphlets were involved, or at least I always imagined they were. And there’d constantly be uncomfortable sexual innuendo with his wife. Let’s not forget, Aaron Spelling was behind this 11-year-long (!!!) trainwreck, so I really don’t think I’m imagining things.
I concluded with SIL, via Facebook, that they were definitely keeping extra, unseen children in the basement of that huge white house of theirs. After the conversation, though, I still felt unsatisfied. I needed to prove -perhaps only to myself- just how inappropriate this show really was. And so after half-assed extensive research, I now present to you…
The Top 3 Most Ridiculous “7th Heaven” Moments*
*that I could find on YouTube
#1 – A Heavenly Arsenal
#2 – Read Between the Lines, Mom
#3 – This is Uncomfortable. Er, PERIOD.
And now, just for fun (I like to imagine they’re saying, “Puh-leeeeeeease noooooooo. Make it stooooop!”):
There’s nothing better than a guilty pleasure born of what shouldn’t be funny, but in fact soooo is! I have 3 notes to share with you, and the best part is they’re all real. As in, I’ve seen them with my own two beady little eyes just this past week!
#1 – Dangerous Mind
My husband has been helping out a new fellow teacher at work, whose taste in memo pads makes a little piece of him die inside. Last week, he left her an ‘inspirational’ note, quoting one of her many memo pads. Just to see if she would notice. She didn’t. She now operates under the very false assumption that my husband is a dream-weaver, and, well, I really can’t think of anything better.
#2 – The Backed-Up Boy Who Lived
Spotted this weekend outside of our local Wal-Mart, there’s no way this can be considered vandalism.
#3 – Neighborly Love Hate
A dear (the dearest) friend of mine often receives notes like this from her neighbor, which is something to consider if you’re thinking about moving into a gated community. This note is one of many from Unit 12 and will be filed with the rest – under Trashy Fiction.
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).
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.
Go Jules Go 