Right after I send this, I’ll be en route to Manhattan for you, my first blogging conference.
I must confess: Every time I say that, my inner nerd pushes up her taped-together glasses and giggle-snorts in anticipation. Then the other part of me rolls her eyes and goes, “Blogging conference? There are conferences? For blogging? Really?”
You can undress, I mean, address me ANY time, Mr. President.
How many conferences do you know of, Jules, that get the President of the free world to speak? I can almost hear you saying.
Today, thanks to you, I will see Katie Couric, Soledad O’Brien, Christy Turlington Burns and Malaak Compton-Rock. Not too shabby, but *pssst*, not nearly as cool as seeing JM, Misty and Thoughtsy.
Do you think I should promise a follow-up post tomorrow, or will you be so full of awesomesauce that it’ll take me until Monday to get a post up? …Okay. Fine. Let’s say Monday.
Love,
Jules
~*~*~*~*~*~*~
Have you been to any type of conference or convention for your passion? If not, have you ever met a pen pal or online pal? How did it go?
These posts talk about flaws and sharing those flaws, whether they’re the flaws of your fictional characters or yourself. Please don’t mistake this, however, for the social media ‘over share’ disease. The intent behind this movement is to allow yourself (or your characters) to connect on a more real level.
As someone who swims in the memoir genre pool, I’ve stuck to the shallow end a lot. Deliberately so. After reading these wonderful posts, I thought, “You know what? Sure I’m shameless about sharing my silliest guilty pleasures, but I’ve never even used the word sex on my blog, and my memoir’s working title is Virgin!”
Aw cruddy stink nuggets, you’re probably thinking. It’s like someone just told me Danny Tanner is totally raunchy during his stand-up routines.
I know exactly how you feel (c’mon, Bob Saget), and I promise, I won’t get too inappropriate on you. Or too sullen-like-Edward-Cullen.
In Virgin, I wrote about things that made me uncomfortable, that could even get me in some hot water. It’s no Shades of Grey, but it’s not rated G, either. I wanted it to be raw and honest; I’ve never cried harder than I did writing that first draft. I called it Virgin not to sensationalize, but to capture the heart of the story. Being a virgin influenced almost every event the book covered, something I couldn’t have realized until looking back.
Ultimately, I wanted to write the kind of book I love to read.
While I worry I hold my feet too close to the ‘over share’ fire in Virgin (and in this post!), I’m willing to take that risk. I’m Go Jules Go now, and I want to tell you about the ugly awkward stuff, too. Awkward stuff like flaws. Like the flaws below.
That’s right, Chipmunks – here is some major, major ammunition if you ever want to hit me below the belt (like Babs). At least you’ll be prepared if Virgin ever sees the light of day.
I have massive (pun intended) weight issues. I’ve lost and gained over 100 lbs multiple times in my life. I (voluntarily) went on my first diet when I was 9, and it’s been a hot, gooey, cheese-covered mess ever since. Food is my ultimate vice. Speaking of vices…
I worry I drink too much. But that usually goes away after a couple of drinks.
I married my one and only boyfriend. I made the first move. If you don’t think that’s a flaw, well, just know that my chronic singlehood wasn’t for lack of trying, heaven vodka knows. I have enough rejection stories to, well, fill a book. I’m still shocked when the male species says anything nice about me, but…
I think I’m pretty. In clothing. With the right make-up. From the right angle. With good lighting. All of the pictures and videos on this blog are very carefully selected and/or executed to make you think I look a lot better than I do (read: I’m vain). Except for that one time when I was high on those heroin cough suppressants.
I want everyone to like me, and sometimes keep opinions to myself and agree just so they will. But you know what? I don’t like everyone. I don’t like a lot people! (…Did that make you paranoid? I’m sorry; I totally wasn’t talking about you. You still like me, right?)
I used to have panic attacks. I assume they stemmed from either abandonment issues or bullying. Or both. They were so bad I missed a year of middle school, and…
I never went to high school. I got my GED, took the SATs, and went to college, but I never got to wear an embarrassing prom dress still feel very intellectually inferior. Don’t ask me about chemistry unless it’s the kind between Jim and Pam from The Office.
Well there now. Don’t we all feel better? …No? Just me?
Zest and Zeal, my life coaches.
How do you feel about sharing flaws in a public forum (yourself and reading others’)? Do you think it’s necessary for honest writing? If you’re uncomfortable with all of this, who’s your favorite character on The Office (mine’s Jim. Duh.)?
Photo Credit (“It’s all your fault”): stickerchick.com.
Now that my slap bracelet giveaway/comeback campaign has wound down, I feel a little empty inside. Or I did, until I realized something.
‘Stache Glasses.
No caption could do these glasses justice.
Those amazing glasses in my header and profile picture! Why did I not buy them when I had the chance?! Back in April, I simply tried ’em on, took that picture, and moved on. While I loved them, the price tag seemed steep. I had no idea they’d become the new me.
Last week, I realized I had to rectify this grave error in judgment. Immediately. So I went hunting for that same pair of mustache-y goodness.
I was deeply moved to find there is an entire ARRAY of ‘stache glasses to tickle your follicle fancy. (Note: I am in no way associated with this company, but am happy to sell out at the first opportunity, so please. Email me.)
Now that I’m marvelously mustachioed once more…
…I am going to share my bacon with you.
That’s right. I want to send you a pair of mustache glasses! So, in the comments section below, ask me a juicy, probing question (PG-13 or safer please, Chipmunks; Babs [my mom] reads this blog).
I’llchoose a favorite and answer the question in a post on Friday, June 22, 2012. This winner can pick a pair of ‘stache glasses(by browsing here), and I’ll have them shipped as a gift, from my guilty pleasure-full heart to theirs.
Deadline: 12pm noon EST, Thursday, June 21, 2012.
…I love you.
Print that’s as fine as that Liam guy from “90210”: This giveaway is open to anyone who is willing and able to ask a kick-chipmunk-tail question, and to email me their address in the event that they’re the winner. If you have any trouble leaving a question in the comments section below, you can ask your question via email: Julie (dot) Davidoski (at) yahoo (dot) com. Multiple submissions are acceptable.
Recently, I may have suggested my dad was only one of the great things to come out of Long Island. The truth is, not a lot of people can do the things my dad does. Like, he can read in the car without getting sick. And hemakes really good steak. Not at the same time; don’t be ridiculous.
Oh and when I was 2, I was way ahead of my time and awesome I saw a swimming pool and was like, “Deep end, here I COME!” Bam, I jumped in to join my older brother and sister, and my chubby bum sunk straight to the bottom. Without a second thought, my dad lept in to save me, breaking his glasses along the way.
I think that’s why we get along so well. I could have been all, “Well, you brought me into this world, it’s your job to keep me here,” but instead I was like, “Thanks for that, Pop. One day I’ll join the swim team and make you proud stay afloat.”
As if that wasn’t enough, he used to take me on father-daughter trips to Bowcraft, this tiny, creepy amusement park next to a highway, and then across the street to Burger King. Those were the days, back when trans fat was what was for dinner, and winning enough tickets to get chinese finger cuffs was all you needed.
My dad is also a genius. I mean, yeah, okay, the real kind with a doctorate and Ivy League-y things, but whatever. I mean the practical kind of genius. Street smarts. Case in point: We used to go on long road trips in a small car, with all three kids crammed in the backseat. It was a recipe for disaster. So he came up with something called the Points System. We earned points for being good, and got them taken away when we were bad.
If we didn’t have enough points by the time we got to Burger King, we weren’t eating.
I know, right? Genius.
Happy Father’s Day, Pop! (Does this post win me any bonus points?)
He still has his hair. And I can easily get more barrettes…
As I explain in my updated About page, the reason for saying goodbye to the “Go Guilty Pleasures” blog name can be boiled down to: I got tired of search engines sending people here after they sought ‘naked gypsy girls’ and ‘strippers covered in ketchup.’
Other than that, you’re gonna find the same ol’ side pony-sportin’ Jules with the same ol’ stories about the guilty pleasure-ful life. Except better. Because I have so many hilarious tales that don’t involve guilty pleasures. …That may be a lie. I’m pretty sure every story I have involves a guilty pleasure of some kind. And I haven’t even realized it yet.
Maybe I’ve made a huge mistake here.
A Few Notes:
A big thank you to anyone who’s ever mentioned my blog on your site. I still own goguiltypleasures.com, so folks using the old link will be redirected here.
I am retiring my fledgling GoGuiltyPleasures Facebook account and focusing my attention on Chipmunks-4-President this exceptional blog and Twitter (@JulieDavidoski). For now.
I have some ideas about how to upgrade your GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelets to version 2.0 slap bracelets. Because I’m a visionary like that. Stay tuned.
A question to bloggers – have you made any tough blog-related decisions? Do you think you have a ‘brand’? To non-bloggers – if you had a blog, what would it be about?
So you’re probably thinking I’m going to start this post like I always do, by greeting you as my fuzzy, wuzzy, li’l Chipmunks. Well, I would, but Peppermeister (First Husband) told me snakes eat chipmunks. And I just don’t want to take that kind of chance here.
You see, on Saturday, amidst hour number 8,002 of yard work, I went over to the pool filter and lifted the cover so I could clean it out. We had just had a big storm, so I knew it would be full of crud.
Oh, I was right about that.
Yup. THAT just happened.
I’d like to take this time to remind you that I live in New Jersey. The reason I stay here is simple: NO SCARY CREATURES (unless you count our politicians). No scorpions, no box jellyfish, no dementors, and no grizzlies (I don’t think. Don’t burst my bubble).
Now, okay, this snake was probably only 18 inches long, and a harmless garter at that, but that didn’t stop me from letting out a strangled cry and jumping back 5 feet.
I made Peppemeister repeat the process when he got home, so he too might have something to blog about. Which is when we discovered it was still very much alive.
Now that I’ve had a few days to recover, I’ve decided I’ve given this snake far too much power. And I know I’m not alone; so many people are terrified of snakes.
I’m going to take care of all that for you, right here, right now. It’s the least I can do considering you’re probably still pissed from hearing that I have a pool and haven’t invited you over.
Allow me to present to you:
BOB, the Worst Stand-Up Comic Snake of All-Time
And so you see, snakes are nothing to be afraid of. Until they start telling jokes.
Have you ever encountered any unwanted critters in your dwelling?
***SUPER IMPORTANT ALERT THAT YOUR HAPPINESS PROBABLY DEPENDS ON: I’m wrapping up the Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelet extravaganza, so if you have any unseen slap bracelet pictures, the deadline is TODAY, JUNE 6th. I hope you’ll send them to me at Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. Oh and I think you’re swell. Even if you don’t have a slap bracelet.***
So, I maybe had a little too much to drink the other night, and started having an imaginary conversation with Second Husband, Darren Criss (of “Glee” fame). This is that conversation.
Honestly, I’m surprised this doesn’t happen more often.
GO JULES GO: I love you so much. I don’t even care if that makes you uncomfortable.
SECOND HUSBAND: Um…
GO JULES GO: It’s funny you say that. When I was about to molest First Husband, he had a similar reaction.
SECOND HUSBAND: Um…
GO JULES GO: Yes! Exactly like that. I was all, “Do you think I’m pretty?” and he was all, “Um…” and I was like, “How would you feel if I did something stupid right now?” and he was like, “Um…” and then I attacked him.
SECOND HUSBAND: Guest…post? Is that like when you fill in for someone on security duty?
GO JULES GO: Ha ha! There is so much I can teach you, Second Husband! Let us start with the rules of plural marriage.
SECOND HUSBAND: I don’t like where this is going.
GO JULES GO: Oh, don’t be coy. You know I saved the best for last.
SECOND HUSBAND: So you’re stopping at two husbands? How am I supposed to believe that?
GO JULES GO: Well, if you’d just grow a handlebar mustache I’d feel a lot better about making this official.
SECOND HUSBAND: I would rock the shiz out of a handlebar mustache.
GO JULES GO: I know you would. And you just said shiz.
SECOND HUSBAND: So?
GO JULES GO: So I love you.
THE END
Who are you having imaginary conversations with?
***SUPER IMPORTANT ALERT THAT YOUR HAPPINESS PROBABLY DEPENDS ON: I’m wrapping up the Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelet extravaganza, so if you have any unseen slap bracelet pictures, the deadline is THIS WEDNESDAY, JUNE 6th. I hope you’ll send them to me at Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. Oh and I think you’re swell. Even if you don’t have a slap bracelet.***
Oh sure. This looks like a precious baby book to YOU. But what’s inside would make Stephen King cry.
Okay. We all know I have a great family, yadda yadda, and things couldn’t have been that bad growing up if I was on a swim team and had the language skills to say “Oh! Bless you!” after I heard someone cut the cheese when I was 2, blah blah blah…
Oh yeah. It’s all fine and dandy in the beginning.
…but there’s a dark side to my childhood.
I’m lulling you into a false sense of security with my sparse ‘cute’ pictures.
I’m revealing the horror thanks to an exceptional blog called Childhood Relived. At Childhood Relived, Angie Z. focuses on growing up in the 80s, which I think we can all agree is inherently funny. But her quick-wit and memory to match make this blog a non-stop Giggle Fest. I can tell you from corresponding with Angie via email that she is an extremely talented writer, both in and outside of the blogosphere.
Angie has an ongoing Dynomite! contest in which readers submit their most embarrassing childhood pictures.
I don’t know what possessed me to enter.
Because what began as this:
I wish that t-shirt still fit.
Somehow turned into, well, click here to find out.
***SUPER IMPORTANT ALERT THAT YOUR HAPPINESS PROBABLY DEPENDS ON: I’m wrapping up the Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelet extravaganza, so if you have any unseen slap bracelet pictures, I hope you’ll send them to me at Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. Oh and I think you’re swell. Even if you don’t have a slap bracelet.***
No no. This isn’t an Italian recipe post. It’s a post about a humiliating team-building exercise involving pasta. Obviously.
As some of you know, I spend my days working as a certified Project Management Professional in the pharmaceutical industry. Because what else would a gal with a Creative Writing degree and an aversion to doctors do? Don’t get me wrong – it’s a good job for many reasons, and I’m grateful to have it. The people I work with aren’t even nincompoops.
But there’s one thing I hate.
And that’s Team-Building Exercises.
No matter how well we know each other, or how team-y we’ve become, they won’t give it a rest. On Thursday, we had yet another staff meeting, featuring yet another mysterious team-building exercise. After seeing the draft agenda, I immediately tried to devise ways to get out early, before the game show questions or trust falls could begin. I still had 20 of those heroin cough suppressants; maybe I would O.D.
In the end, because I have a tendency to think one false move will get me canned, I went along with it. Again. This time the team-building exercise was a spin on the show Minute to Win It. They divided us into 4 teams, and we played 10 rounds. In each round, a single team member from the 4 teams had to complete a task in 60 seconds or less. Every time you did, you earned a point for your team. The winning team members all got $10 iTunes gift cards.
Not bad. And you know what? It was -I can’t believe I’m about to say this- fun.
Watching coworkers try to unravel rolls of streamers by flapping their arms like deranged flamingos (or in one man’s case, a flag squad champion), and others try to get a cookie from their forehead to their mouth without touching it, was breathtaking. In the good way.
Oh yes. I yucked it up.
Until my turn.
But my task didn’t look too hard.
I had to put an uncooked piece of spaghetti in my mouth, and try to ‘string’ 5 small pieces of penne on it – without using my hands. I put the spaghetti strand in my mouth and knelt on the ground in front of the table holding the penne, trying to ignore the fact that multiple people had their cameras out.
The timer started and the pasta wobbled between my teeth like Lindsay Lohan on the set of Glee. The circumference of the penne now looked like a pinhole. I somehow managed to get the first piece of penne on the spaghetti, then almost dropped it. “Aw, she’s shaking,” one team member called out, while another added, “You can do it! Don’t worry! Don’t look at the clock!” With 10 seconds left, and nearly a dozen people hovering over me, I had only gotten two of the five pieces of penne on the spaghetti. I was a pasta-stringing failure. How had I made it this far in life?
My teammates graciously applauded me, and I, red-faced and sweaty, tried to shrink into the background. I was 30 years old, for the love of all that’s vodka, and this was just a silly game. So why did it take a half an hour before I stopped wanting to cry?
Does this happen to you? Do you get freaked out in ‘public’ situations like this? How do you feel about team-building exercises?
P.S. – In case you were wondering, we came in second place.
P.P.S. – Screw you, team-building exercises. I never liked you.
***SUPER IMPORTANT ALERT THAT YOUR HAPPINESS PROBABLY DEPENDS ON: I’m wrapping up the Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelet extravaganza, so if you have any unseen slap bracelet pictures, I hope you’ll send them to me at Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. Oh and I think you’re swell. Even if you don’t have a slap bracelet.***
Girls is HBO’s latest 30-minute dramedy, airing Sundays at 10:30pm EST. Starring 4 young women trying to navigate the post-college waters in New York City, at first glance it sounds like the prequel to Sex and the City. Not even close. This show is awkward, edgy, and even a little perverted. And it doesn’t give a scratch about shoes.
The most gripping tidbit about this new show is its creator, Lena Dunham. She’s only 26 and oh yeah, did I mention she’s also the star and [typically] the director? Judd Apatow, the show’s executive producer, discovered Dunham after watching her independent film, Tiny Furniture (2010), and was so impressed he emailed her. (Dunham claims she thought it was a prank, because the email was titled, “From Judd Apatow,” and, seriously, who does that?)
Apatow and Dunham. …What’s that? Oh, I know. I should totally be there.
Apatow interviewed Dunham for a short feature on HBO, and mentioned one of the resounding lessons I’ve learned from starting this blog – humiliation makes the best comedy. (Apatow also offers another brilliant nugget: if you’re writing a script you’re going to star in, write yourself eating the food you want to eat. They have to bring it to you.)
It took me a few episodes to decide how I felt about Girls because, as I hinted, it’s a little twisted. Dunham is unabashed and -literally- bares it all. It’s not a show about geek-chic girls or career ladder-climbers, but it’s raw and funny. As Dunham has said, it’s a show about smart girls making stupid choices. It’s one of those rare gems that’s hyper-real; sadly, the kind that usually gets canceled after a single season (think My So-Called Life or Freaks and Geeks). I believe today’s viewers are much better equipped to handle a show like this, though, and am confident it will thrive.
Have you seen Girls? Do you think there’s such a thing as a fictional show that’s too real? Where do you stand on fiction vs. memoir/soaps vs. reality TV?
***SUPER IMPORTANT ALERT THAT YOUR HAPPINESS PROBABLY DEPENDS ON: I’m wrapping up the Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelet extravaganza, so if you have any unseen slap bracelet pictures, I hope you’ll send them to me at Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. Oh and I think you’re swell. Even if you don’t have a slap bracelet.***
Go Jules Go 