I know it’s been a little over a week since I’ve regaled you with talking animals and my ceaseless wit, so I thought I’d pop in just to let you know my life is in utter turmoil.
I kid, I kid.
Although.
Right now I’m sitting in a spare office waiting to see if I still have a job [in project management]. They’re laying off 20% of my division’s workforce this month, and today everyone in my department is getting called down to the principal’s office to find out their Fate.
You might think this is an odd time to blog. Especially since I might have a lot of time to blog in the very near future (ba-da-BUM!), but what else am I gonna do? Work?
Nah. I’d rather reminisce about last weekend in Hershey, Pennsylvania, where I did a little of this…
…and a little of that…
…and a whole lotta this:
Troegenator might -seriously- be the best beer I’ve ever had.
“I can’t wait to rent a boat in Long Island!” my first husband, Peppermeister, said several times before we headed east last week.
Once again, my aunt and uncle were generously letting us stay in their vacation home for our anniversary. We had fond memories of relaxing bay side, playing mini golf and binge drinking waterfront dining.
“Let’s scope out this place, The Station,” Peppermeister said. “They serve food and rent boats.”
More importantly, they serve Tröegs on tap.
While recreating one of the menu photos…
…we noticed an entertaining boat name:
I swear on snot rockets and turd buckets, this detail becomes important later.
“Do you think that’s the boat they rent?” I asked.
“Nah, that one’s too nice,” Peppermeister replied. “They probably rent those.”
He pointed to the glorified row boats on either side of Butthead. I quickly let go of my mai tai drinking, bow bathing fantasies.
“We’ll come back on Monday – the weather’s supposed to be beautiful.”
And the weather finally WAS beautiful, on Wednesday. The young man preparing our boat barely put down his sandwich to attach the motor. Knowing nothing about boats, I brushed off my first thought: “Is that from a lawn mower?”
At 10:15am, we were finally ready to hit the open seas Shinnecock Bay.
In between bites, our boat hand, who shall henceforth be referred to as “Boris,” explained where to fish for fluke, and gave us a map with the emergency phone numbers on it.
What’s that? This paper looks like it got wet? Huh. Spoiler alert!
We didn’t even make it out of the marina before the motor stalled and we drifted into sand. We shoved ourselves off with our one sturdy oar, and Peppermeister got us going again.
The weather was so flawless, I paid little mind to the hiccup.
Wheeee! We must be going 2.3 knots by now! Surely we’ll never need those life jackets!
We cruised steadily west while Peppermeister grabbed a beer and we tried to pick out our own marina.
Hey, did you leave the porch light on?
About 45 minutes into our cruise, the motor cut out again.
When it happened for the third time, we Peppermeister spent 20 minutes trying to start it.
“I’m just going to call the guy to come get us. This is a waste of time.” He fished out his cell phone from the Ziploc bag in his backpack.
Here’s a summary of how that went down:
“Landmarks? …Yes, there are buildings nearby! THERE ARE HOUSES EVERYWHERE!”
…
“We’re IN THE DUNES. DRIVE by the DUNES.”
…
“WE’RE DUE SOUTH OF TIANA BAY! DUE SOUTH! We’re IN the DUNES on the OTHER SIDE of the BAY. We’ve DRIFTED SINCE WE HAVE NO ANCHOR AND ONE OAR!”
…
“Like I said, we’re to the LEFT OF THE BRIDGE. DUE SOUTH OF TIANA BAY. We’re THE ONLY BOAT HERE.”
…
I tried to help, too.
One hour and five phone calls later, Boris arrived in none other than…
Butthead!
He, of course, managed to get our motor going, and told us to follow him back. The motor stalled a minute later, and it took him three minutes to notice we weren’t following. He circled back to tow us.
He tangled up his lines in his motor, and then attached one line to the front of our boat.
“He’s doing it wrong,” Peppermeister muttered. “You’re supposed to tow with two lines.”
We lurched forward, and Boris started swerving Butthead left to right, right to left, while we tipped from side to side in our boat.
I should probably say something.
I leaned forward and backward in the opposite direction of his swerving, trying to keep the boat level.
About halfway to the marina, the water grew increasingly choppy, as did Boris’s driving, and gallons of water sloshed into our boat. We tried bailing it out with our one bucket, a bleach bottle with the bottom cut out.
Peppermeister whistled loudly. Boris, who’d never once looked back to check on us, raised his eyebrows in mild surprise.
“Every time you turn, more water comes in! We’ve been trying to empty it this whole time!” Peppermeister shouted. “Will this boat sink?”
“No,” he replied, and kept driving, staring straight ahead.
The water rushed past our calves, almost as high as the seats.
Peppermeister whistled again and Boris stood there gawking.
Everything next happened in slow motion.
Peppermeister yelled, “You need to get off!”
With my brain still saying, “This boat’s not actually SINKING,” I grabbed our precious cargo -the backpack- and held it above my head. Suddenly, half the boat was under water. Good call on the Ziploc bags. As it capsized, my left leg got pinned beneath, allowing me to appreciate its sturdiness. Wow. No. I kicked off my flip-flops and paddled away, shouting,
“Here! The backpack! Get it on Butthead! Get it on Butthead!”
Because I’d be DAMNED if I was losing my cell phone and car keys over this little snafu.
Peppermeister threw the backpack at Boris, who let it hit his chest and slide to the floor. I swam for a second or two, watching the contents of the boat drift south (due south! Of Tiana Bay! Towards the dunes! In case you were wondering).
“Don’t worry about the boat! Don’t worry about it! Leave the stuff!” Boris called, finally looking rattled.
“Get a life jacket!” Peppermeister cried, and I grabbed the only one still within reach, passing it to him, confused.
Ooh, the water feels nice. It’s not as hard to swim in a denim jacket as I thought it would be. Bet I could swim back pretty fast. Great exercise.
“Do you need it? Put it on!” Peppermeister said frantically.
I took one look at his face and his next statement answered my unspoken question, “I’m freakin’ out a little.”
“It’s fine,” I replied. “It’s fine. We’re in a bay. You know how to swim.”
“I know, I know,” he said. “You get on first.”
Shouldn’t we get the stuff?
“Don’t worry about the stuff!” Boris called again.
“Go! Use our boat!” Peppermeister urged.
Our overturned boat was creating, I realized, a handy step up onto Butthead. Boris grabbed my arm firmly, “I got you, I got you.”
Man, I always thought that would be impossible, I thought as I tumbled onboard.
Once Peppermeister and I were safely seated, we began our 45-minute slog back to the marina. I didn’t realize why it took so long until much later.
Boris was towing our boat.
Upside down.
The Station owner was waiting for us on the dock when we returned.
“A ‘small’ problem?” he asked, glancing between Boris and his sodden passengers.
Boris stared at the ground while Peppermeister and I disembarked. Moments later, he handed us a full refund and two t-shirts.
“I’m so sorry about this,” he said.
He walked away, shoulders slumped, and I looked at Peppermeister.
What the sugar-free fudge is a Fitbit? Thanks for asking. It’s basically a pedometer on crack.
The only thing I HAVEN’T tried to lose weight.
Two weeks ago, a colleague showed me a nifty little device, about the size of a money clip, attached to her belt. “It tells you how many calories you can still eat for the day! It even monitors your sleep!” she said. Much like how Anna made pickle juice sound delicious in my last blog contest, the seed was planted. I wanted one. Bad.
“It costs about 100 bucks,” she continued.
Yeesh, never mind, I thought. Surely with my 40 mile/week fitness regimen, I can lose weight for free.
Except I couldn’t. I’d been stuck in a plateau, halfway to my weight loss goal, for almost two years.
I was sick and tired of taking blog photos from only certain angles.
Do you think Adam finds this acceptable?
Of not wanting my profile captured.
Ah, those carefree, single-chinned days!
Don’t even get me started on full body shots and bathing suits!
Back in 2005, I thought I could even get away with a fanny back.
On Thursday morning, I hopped on my whore of a scale and the writing was on the wall. An hour later, one thing was already lighter. My wallet.
And now this little piece of black plastic between my breasts tracks my every move, dictating my remaining caloric allowance based on activity, height, weight, age and gender. (Provided I honestly report my food intake using my Fitbit online account.)
Thankfully, for the project manager in me, it displays all of these goodies in some pretty neat dashboards and charts, which I can view on my computer or smart phone.
It wasn’t long before I realized I was a walking stereotype (pun intended). Despite my self-proclaimed diet savvy, I was severely underestimating my calorie consumption.
Yikes. Guess I should cut back on the zucchini.
I even signed up for a trial premium subscription to check out how I compared to other Fitbit users in my country.
Competitive? Moi?
So now that I know every calorie going in and out, how am I doing?
Super!
I’m not even sober, hungry and cranky!
Have you ever used any fitness gadgets? What are your dieting pitfalls and how do you cope?
Alternate titles: R.I.P. Big Toenail; I Can’t Feel My Butt; Who Needs Heel Skin, Anyway?
I logged 17 miles in hiking this weekend, Chipmunks. (And I saw you! Yes. I saw my first chipmunk since December!)
Local hiking splendor.
You’re probably wondering who I am and what I’ve done to Jules. I have a confession. When I’m not drinking and Googling bacon recipes, I like to go outside and get my sweat nature on. I can’t stand running, and cyclists make me think devil thoughts, but give me a dirt path, some shady trees and a mountain view payoff, and I’m there faster than you can say, “Does this trail mix have chocolate chips? Because that’s really the only kind worth buying.”
Mt. Monadnock, 2005.
It’s been a while since I’ve hit the hardcore trails , but in order to combat the three B’s (boredom, bumming and broke-itude) that have slammed me lately, I decided to get my Timberland mojo back. I’ve been tackling the relatively tame local trails over the past couple of months, and had planned on spending the summer working up to trails like the steep ‘Stairway to Heaven’ in northern New Jersey, with the ultimate goal of hitting Mt. Monadnock in New Hampshire this fall.
But.
The stubborn Taurus in me had other plans. “Did the 6+ mile loop again today,” I told my first husband, Peppermeister, on Saturday. “Doing 10 tomorrow.”
Then I picked this trail:
Then I drove an hour there. I was ready and rarin’ to go.
6 Things You Need to Know Before Taking Up Hiking
1. Just because a sign seems to promise bears, this does not mean you’ll finally carry out that long awaited convo with the Shakespearean meme bear.
2. Hiking Guide Books ‘under’ embellish.
3. By mile 7, you will not look like someone from an LL Bean catalog. Even though everyone else you encounter, inevitably, won’t have broken a sweat.
4. In New Jersey, you can run, but you can’t hide. From cicadas.
5. Some Most times, you’ll see some cool ass shiz.
6. You will have every right to come home and do nothing but act superior, drink champagne and eat all of it. Just… all of it.
Is there a sport / activity you think is borderline insane, but you love it anyway? Or one that, no matter what, you’d never be caught dead doing?
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.
While mustaches are kinda my thing, and I constantly wax poetic (pun totally intended) about the merits of the handlebar, the Groucho, the walrus, etc., there’s something that’s bothered me for years.
Discovering the vanity-inspiring MacBook photo booth application, circa 2008.
Let’s take a closer look, shall we?
“It’s probably just a shadow,” I told myself. But it continued to eat away at me. For the next five years. I could have been curing cancer, saving tigers Britney, learning sign language, but I was simply too busy worrying about It.
So. Last week I went to the drug store and picked up this:
I didn’t think it was a good sign that this is what happened to the box when I opened it.
The instructions mandated that I test it out and wait 24 hours to see if it caused an allergic reaction.
“That’s probably wise,” I thought.
Two seconds later, I was mixing the cream and slathering it on my face.
Go Jules Go: Living Life on the Edge Since…Today.
“If it starts burning, I’ll wipe it off,” I thought.
I waited the recommended 10 minutes, killing time by wondering if horse really tastes as good as people say, and whether Adam Levine’s tattoos make him more or less more sexy.
Got shame?
I don’t think that shiz worked at all. Look!
No but seriously. I think it did the trick. Thank gawd. Now I have time to learn how to sign, “Is Adam Levine a vegetarian?”
Sooo… how about sharing your embarrassing personal grooming stories? No? Um, okay, well, gosh. This is awkward.
If you want to check out the details about the 12-12-12 concert to support Hurricane Sandy Relief, or find out how to donate, please visit: http://www.121212concert.org/.
So, come on, it’s been a while: Who are you having “imaginary” (ahem. It might have happened. You don’t know) conversations with?
It might be possible to be more excited than I am right now.
But I doubt it.
Chipmunks, the internet is about to get EVEN COOLER. Marlene Rhein, or Myra, from the blog, My Parents Are Crazier Than Yours, is planning a [fictionalized] web series based on her life. If you’ve not read her blog, please trust that this is like finding out Halloween was extended an extra day. Or seven.
In order to get this fantastic project off the ground this October, she needs help. That’s where Kickstarter comes in; Kickstarter is a web site that helps artists raise money and give back to their supporters with fun incentives like swag or even cameo appearances.
Myra quickly met her initial goal of $8,000, but actually needs about $11,000 to properly fund the pilot and pay her staff their normal rates, which she’d really like to do. (Kickstarter won’t pay out if you don’t meet your goal, which is why she set a lower target.)
If you’re not sure you want to get involved, please check out the pilot previewnonetheless, because it’s THAT GOOD. And if you can’t swing a donation, your enthusiasm and support are just as appreciated, by both Myra and me.
Myra’s even letting me do some Production Assistant work! Did I mention I couldn’t be any more excited? Yeah. Life is good. Even with crazy parents.
Well. Chipmunks. Well well well. I promised you a guest post from my best friend, Jenn, this week, and she has begrudgingly graciously obliged.
The thing is, she owes me. It’s a long story.
You’re in for a treat.
Which I hope is clear based on the fact that this is my first guest post in a year and a half of blogging.
No pressure, Jenn!
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
As all you fabulous and wise Go Jules Go readers are aware, I am the lucky soul who gets to call herself Jules’ real-life BFF, as well as her heart’s — or at least her liver’s — inspiration. You wonderfully literate folks also recently learned that last Tuesday was my birthday.
When I’m not busy reading flattering blog posts penned in my honor, I like to think of my birthday as infrequently as possible. Way less than annually. Every four years like the Olympics actually sounds too frequent.
Like a double chin dented by the rubber band on a party hat, birthdays over a “certain age” remind us that, although the cake is gone, the scars remain. The buoyant charm of youth faded long ago, but the birthdays keep coming. Like Groundhog Day, with epsom salt.
I still recall (who knows for how much longer) the days when I’d carouse for hours, stumble to bed at dawn, and then pop up at the alarm, ready to start another glorious day of being young. These days, mornings at my house sound like a wounded herd on the move. A herd that knows its way around childproof caps.
I didn’t always hate birthdays. Once upon a time, nothing pleased me more than getting another year older.
It’s like she just saw her first pair of mustache glasses.
As an old man once said, youth is wasted on the wrong people.
These days… let me not mince words. These days, I hold birthdays right up there with fungal infections and rectal exams. Both of which, you’ll be tickled to hear, multiply exponentially with — you guessed it — birthdays. Sigh.
While I still have my faculties, let me leave you with a final thought on the aging process. The more birthdays we have, the more we realize that we travel from cradle to grave at a breakneck pace, and not all our body parts will cross the finish line. So enjoy your kidneys and your knees and your ability to sleep through the night while you can.
And live each day as if it’s not your birthday, my friend. Because time is one big Donner party, and you are magically delicious.
~*~*~*~*~*~*~*~
How do you cope with birthdays/the aging process? And how much do you love Jenn? (Well, just forget it. She’s mine.)
Go Jules Go 