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.***
This upsets me more than you could possibly ever know.
Sometimes, when I’m not busy fantasizing about getting paid to blog about guilty pleasures or chipmunk tea parties, or asking myself why on EARTH anyone would put a scorpion in a paperweight, I like to think about money.
money? More specifically, 1 million dollars? Would I allow myself to indulge in any guilty pleasures (like, I don’t know, say, a state-of-the-art karaoke machine)?
My answer might surprise you. But you can blame the cost of living in New Jersey. Here’s what I’d do:
1. Pay off the mortgage. Quit my job.
2. Pay off the mortgage.
3. Hoard Invest the remaining $100. …Kidding. But I would invest the rest.
4. That’s it. (Unless my investments pay off, then I would travel, travel, travel!)
I know. My answer is so boring. Which is why I really want hear YOUR answer.
So, if you were given 1 million U.S. dollars (after taxes – it’s all yours), what would you do? How would you spend it? Any guilty pleasures? Would you loan/give any to family or friends (…you would, wouldn’t you? Don’t you ever watch those specials about lottery winners? You are so one step away from wiring money to a “bank” in Nigeria)?
Yesterday at 8am I found myself driving to the closest drug store. Giggling.
Peppermeister had a bout of…well, he had an upset stomach, and it was all my fault.
Back in our uber blonde days, I only laughed at him when he fell during band performances.
The previous night, I’d convinced us both that getting food from Sonic, a fast-food chain where you park and order old-school style, was a really good idea. Never mind that we’d recently eaten at a post-baptism party*, and that normally trans fat is about as appealing to me as watching 30-year-old men play video games in their parents’ basement.
On Saturday, Sonic cheese tots seemed absolutely necessary. It might have been the after effects of the heroin cough suppressants talking. (If you’re doubting my commitment to the guilty pleasure-ful life, know that I indulge in bacon and butter in a way that would make the Two Fat Ladies proud. It’s all-natural fat… Okay. *sigh* Sometimes White Castle just RULES.)
We perused the unfamiliar menu on our lap tops. Peppermeister fixated on the Sonic Blast shake, which was vanilla ice cream mixed with candy bar bits. He wanted Snickers.
What I’m trying to say is it was big.
When he returned home with the “food,” I couldn’t see him behind the cup in his hand. Picture the Duggar family lined up side by side, and all their cousins stacked on top.
“It’s got to be a whole gallon of ice cream,” I marveled in the way people marvel at puppeteers and Charlie Sheen.
“I know!” Peppermeister replied gleefully as he dug in. Between his only two options, medium and large, he was confident he’d made the right shake-size decision.
My own super-sized cheese tots were less than satisfying, despite the promising heat-saving foil sleeve they came wrapped in. Melted American cheese slices covered the tots, as opposed to the globs of glow-in-the-dark Cheez product I was looking forward to.
We passed out watching the only unseen episode of Modern Family we had left (you chipmunks were right. That show is the shiz!).
I woke up several times during the night to down large glasses of water. The amount of salt in my meal rivaled the Dead Sea. My lips are still wrinkled.
Peppermeister faced a far worse fate. I witnessed a true guilty pleasure overdose.
“C’mon, Uncle Jesse!” I called to the dog in the morning, loudly enough for Peppermeister to hear. “We’ve got to go get daddy some moreice cream!”
Giggling during the ride to Rite Aid, I immediately realized I was a terrible wife. But I couldn’t stop picturing that giant cup and his utter delight as he devoured the shake, and maybe you just never get too old for potty humor.
If you’re expecting that I learned some kind of lesson as a result of this ‘terrible wife’ revelation, you should probably know that while Peppermeister moaned beneath the heating pad, I suppressed laughter and wrote this post.
What regret looks like. (That’s a full-size bottle of water! …Okay. It’s not. But still. Don’t even think about trying to tackle this shake without a well-stocked medicine cabinet.)
Have you ever laughed when you shouldn’t have?
*filed under: Things I’m Not Allowed to Blog About.
I really hope those of you with blogs aren’t writing anything good right now. Just try to hold off for a few more days, okay?
Because I’m sick.
And did you know bronchitis / sinusitis warrants opiates in the form of cough suppressant pills?
Whoa.
In my head last night, I wrote a whole post that ended in, “Is this real life?” In my head last night, I responded to all of your comments with funny, meaningful insights, like, “I can’t feel my legs.” In my head last night, I still had a voice, and that voice could SING!
Let’s just be glad all of that stayed in my head. Unlike this list:
Things That Made Me Cough Laugh About Being High Sick
Reading the facts about the cough suppressants and finding out they dilate your pupils. Ha! And you thought mine couldn’t get any bigger:
Don’t stare directly at them! …And don’t check the basement.
Telling the nurse, who asked for my family health history, that “we all croak from cancer”
Discharge papers that say both “avoid dairy” and “eat yogurt if taking antibiotics”
After the nurse felt my throat and asked, “How does this make you feel?” me saying, “Like coughing all over you”
…Dang. I guess that’s it.
Now, if you’ll excuse me. I have to get back to High School Musical. …These kids don’t look high at all.
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?
The weather in western New Jersey seems to finally be cooperating with Peppemeister‘s (a.k.a. First Husband’s) birthday gift to me plan to kill me. You know.
This:
Help me.
We leave in about an hour for our very first hot air balloon ride.
So close to the heavens, it’s only natural that I start to think: Once the angels catch a glimpse of my rocking side-pony and hot pink slap bracelet, they won’t want to let me back down to earth.
So in the event that I don’t return to you, please find…
The Last Will and Testament of GoJulesGo, PMP*
*Project Management Professional
Heartthrobs should stick together.
I bequeath my beloved dog, Uncle Jesse, to Second Husband, Darren Criss. Darling, it was only a matter of time before he was yours, anyway.
I bequeath whatever is left of my vodka supply to my best friends, Jenn and Mary, who will treat it exactly as I would. With cranberry juice and shamelessness.
Remember me this way, ladies.
To my mother, I give you all of Peppermeister’s musical instruments. Babs, he just killed me. Sell that shiz and take yourself on the shopping spree of a lifetime.
Go nuts, Pop. I love you.
To my father, I give you the money in my savings account. Take yourself out to a nice dinner. And what the heck, get the fries, too.
To my sister, I bequeath all of my dresses. To go with the ones you think I gave to you but really I thought we both understood this was a temporary thing.
And, finally, to you, dear Chipmunks, I give you this blog. May you honor my memory by ensuring that you indulge in your guilty pleasures, loud and proud, for all the rest of your days. And don’t listen to a word Zest and Zeal tell you. They have NO idea how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie Pop.
They are not to be trusted.
Do you enjoy risking your own life?
Photo Credits
#1 (Darren Criss – before annotation) – people.com
I now have enough GoGuiltyPleasures slap bracelet photos to do not one, but two Slap Bracelet Comeback posts! So, continuing on in the order in which they were received…
Olivia and I are new buds. I was excited to hear from her a few weeks ago, requesting a slap bracelet and bloggy feedback. She reminded me of the best part of blogging – connecting with other writers.
Isn’t she purdy?I think Russell is positively rabid for his slap bracelet.
Misty really wants everyone to put their best foot forward, especially her family. She reminds people to stay on track (and out of stretch pants) in her always-amusing Friday fashion disaster feature, Weekly Whacked. For even more hilarity, check out this recent post that is as humorous as it is horrifying.
You may remember Erin from her recent victory as a runner-up in the GoGuiltyPleasures gift basket giveaway. Her guilty pleasure submission, along with her AMAZING photo accompaniment, were simply breathtaking. She is a true chipmunk.
And her cat, Alex, may just be one of the cutest pets I’ve ever seen. Even if he is trying to mangle the greatest fashion look since side-ponies.
More slap bracelet pics to come next week! By the way, I still have some slap bracelets left, so email me ASAP., a.k.a., As Soon As Perfection-interests-you.
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.
