I consider it my inner goddess-given duty to embrace these endeavors with both Zest and Zeal, so that you may one day be willing to accept your own guilty pleasure spirit.
Second of all – Jimmy! Yes! It happened! Peppermeister and I saw a taping of Late Night with Jimmy Fallon on Friday. While I’d hoped to provide you with a picture of Jimmy “Hotter than Christian Grey” Fallon in ‘stache glasses, the NBC knuckleheads had other ideas. Please forgive the mundane photos:
Things that may interest you about the experience:
1.) I’m not special. Click here if you want tickets to a taping. It’s free!
2.) Questlove and his ‘fro Jimmy might be the only celebrity I’ve ever seen who looks bigger in person than on TV. (In a good way. Oh yes.) Seth MacFarlane, of Ted Family Guy fame, looked much thinner. …Am I the only one who thinks Seth MacFarlane is full of secrets?
3.) They taped out of order because Blake Lively got “stuck in traffic.” I suspect it was really because she was artfully cutting holes in both her shirt and pants before taking the stage.
4.) Jimmy only talked to the audience once between breaks (to explain #3), but ran through the crowd to shake hands, an end-of-show custom. He was friendly, but takes his job seriously, mouthing cue cards and talking to suits between breaks. Except for that one break where I caught him staring at me. This may be a slight exaggeration.
And lastly but certainly not leastly, speaking of things that are hot, The Byronic Man [and his weekly contest]! Yeah! That’s right! I said HAWT. Let’s all pause and stare at him!
Oh, and, please vote for me in his current Question of the Week contest, where I’m a finalist for suggesting Forrest Gump would be much improved with the addition of dragons. I know Titanic should win, but as the Fifty Shades series sold 15 million copies, I think we can all agree life is unfair.
(If you’re really not sure I deserve it, that’s okay. I forgive you. I’ve got next week’s contest in the bag.)
Have I told you how hot YOU’RE looking lately? My. This weather really agrees with you. If I had a Red Room of Pain, you’d so be invited.
Have I missed any guilty pleasures you’ve got going on? Any summer reading recommendations? ‘Fess up, Chipmunks.
P.S. – NOT hot: My blog disappearing from your WordPress Readers and inboxes. I have written a strongly-worded letter to the WordPress overlords, but am still trying to hunt down their address. In the meantime, click here repeatedly to ensure you don’t miss anything. (Or, you know, just assume I try to post 2-3 weekdays/week at 6am EST.)
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.
Well, fashion-forward Chipmunks. The time has come. I’ve given away nearly 200 slap bracelets since December, and your response has made my guilty pleasure heart soar.
I think we’ve done it. We’ve brought them back. A quick Google search of “slap bracelets” proves this. They’re everywhere. (Add “chipmunks” to that search and see what happens!)
Congratulations to you for being so awesome.
Oh and a final tip before we view some FLIPPIN’ FANTASTIC PHOTOS – I’ve noticed my few remaining slap bracelets are suffering from lackluster snappiness. Perhaps it’s the gawd-awful Jersey humidity. Anyhoo, it seems they like being stored rolled up, instead of flat. Here’s a helpful illustration:
And now – onto the final pictures (posted, as always, in the order in which they were received)! If you’d like to see past slap bracelet pictures, or Go Guilty Pleasures slap bracelets across the blogosphere, scurry over to my Slap Bracelets page. And of course,if any other photos roll in, you know I’ll be thrilled to brag about post them.
A.J.’s Mom and I bonded over the gloriousness that is guilty pleasure gift basket giveaways. Her submission [to win the basket] was wonderful (and earned her an Honorable Mention). I’m very excited to post her pictures and introduce any newcomers to her blog! I mean, just look at her annotations! You do me proud, A.J.’s Mom.
Chipmunks, I don’t even know where to start here. Peppermeister (Husband #1) just told me that I was talking in my sleep the other night (I blame the heroin cough suppressants); apparently I said the name “Angie” as I was chattering away incoherently. When he asked who I was talking to, I sleep-responded, “My bud, Angie, from Go Guilty Pleasures!” (I’m absolutely certain I used my own blog name so he would understand.)
Angie, I’m sorry if that creeps you out, but I really just love you a lot. You even got me to share my horrifying kid pics. If people don’t understand why I feel this way, all they need to do is read this slap bracelet letter and see the accompany photos, which take us back to a simpler time, when slap bracelets weren’t yet shanks.
I received my snap bracelets in the mail and couldn’t be happier. They are everything I ever wanted in vinyl wrist accessories.
In fact, what I would’ve given to have them years ago. (I could’ve been the coolest girl in high school.) What I would’ve given to have them in the summer of ’93, just in time for my senior year photo shoot.
Can you believe we’re seniors? It’s gone so fast!
After giving it some thought, I’ve decided to take matters into my own hands — quite literally. Because who says you can’t reinvent the past?
That’s right — with my very own snap bracelets, I decided to recreate my senior pictures. I happen to have some of my old clothes even — the early ’90s certainly paved the way in high fashion. I think you’ll agree that we gave up the hair bump far too soon.
I’ll always remember the homecoming party at T-Bone’s house when we karaoked to Ace of Base. I’ll always remember how you proposed marriage to Mark Calderon from Color Me Badd. I’ll always remember how we ruled the school in our band uniforms. My memory is a little fuzzy on that last one.
Stay cool, never change, and never stop wearing your velvet choker,
P.S. Why does my old letter jacket stink like Cool Ranch Doritos?
In a short time, L has become one of my favorite favourite Canadians. First of all, she makes delicious food for a living and has great stories, and second of all, she’s very funny. Her blog focuses on her effort to lose weight, and while she needs no help from me, I keep offering to take those croissants off her hands.
I just sent L’s bracelet out on Tuesday, so she neither confirms nor denies the authenticity of THIS photo:
I can’t even tell you how stoked bloody delighted I am to have another Brit in my corner. Kate has a great sense of humor, which complements her green thumb, and probably means I should never introduce her to Peppermeister. It would be love at first sapling.
She’s so thoughtful, she even brought the Jubilee to me!
Ashley gave me a right scare this week when she said her slap bracelets STILL hadn’t made it to Dubai after several weeks. I would have had to take down my ‘Number of Slap Bracelet Incidents: 0’ board that I keep next to my Second Husband shrine.
Luckily, there was just a little mix-up at the office, and they showed up on Wednesday, just in time for Ashley to snap some amazing pictures of…
The slap bracelet letter…
Her handbag, which didn’t think it could get any hotter, until…
Alfred, who recently graduated and is allegedly quite the braggart, never taking off his graduation cap…
Alfred’s pal, Creamy, who wanted to join the fun, but you can just imagine what Alfred had to say about that. Snob.
Pictures in Dubai – the famous Emirates towers…
…And the world’s tallest tower, Burj Khalifa…
And last, but certainly not least, 3 of Ashley’s guilty pleasures: The Post-Its in her room…
And her all-time favorite, her love dices (now THAT’S what I call well played)…
Sprinkles is one of my oldest and most cherished blog buddies. I ADORE Sprinkles, the way some people adore, well, sprinkles. She just gets it, you know? I mean, just ask her about any of TLC’s latest offerings.
Meet Sophie, whose guilty pleasure is bubble watching (I could watch this all day):
And here is Sprinkles’ new(ish) tattoo, designed by her oldest daughter – how amazing is that?
Thanks again, Chipmunks. I really believe you are special. And not special like you can’t eat cereal without spilling milk down your shirt. Special like I’d totally watch your stand-up comedy even if you used props like Bob the Snake.
But she claims she has her reasons. And she might even tell you what they are. (Seriously. Who does she think she is?) So I guess in the meantime, get snappin’ and sending’ to Julie.Davidoski@yahoo.com. I’d hate to see what she’ll do to you if you’re late.
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)?
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.
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.
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
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.
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.
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.
Do you enjoy risking your own life?
#1 (Darren Criss – before annotation) – people.com