Tag: humor

Marriage, Uncategorized

Royally Screwed

Go Jules Go
"Just keep smiling, Crumpet, or the Queen will poison you."

There ain’t no guilty pleasure party like a guilty pleasure party ensconced in quail eggs and corsets. But is marrying a prince really all it’s cracked up to be? If only I could get Kate Middleton in a room for five minutes.

"I am so very glad we're not the real royals. You should have seen the bong rip I just took in my trailer."

Kate, is the recently-aired Lifetime movie “William & Kate” remotely accurate, especially the part where you jump out of the row boat and swim up to meet William, who has finally come to beg your forgiveness for being such a whorish d-bag?

Is it true the Windsors take the phrase ‘stiff upper lip’ so seriously that you were not permitted to move your top lip while speaking to ITV News about your engagement, or did you suffer a minor stress stroke that day?

Why did you invite the convenience store owners from your home town of Bucklebury to your wedding? Don’t you already get free Cadburys and crisps just by being the future queen of England? And won’t you get crumbs on the throne?

Could you please settle a debate and confirm for my husband that the monarchy still carries great influence, and though it might not seem like it, you will be the direct link to the passing of the law that allows same-sex marriage?

My ivory tower.

How many royal jewels and/or hats are you permitted to wear at any given time, and can I have the ones you’re not using?

Is realizing you’re going to live in Buckingham Palace like realizing you’re going to live in a bi-level with a spiral staircase? If so, then I can totally relate.

100% Pure Inspiration.

What was your initial reaction to seeing this coin? Would you be impressed if I told you I have not one, but two draft blogs inspired by it? How many of these things would it take to hire a hitman to kill the guy who designed it?

…Because of the nature of [and likely answers to] these questions, along with many other reasons (e.g., curtseying, caviar, polo and having to find a tactful way to tell the queen piss off), I’ve come to conclude that I feel very sorry for Kate Middleton. She’s gone from Waity Katie to just plain screwed.

Project Management, Uncategorized

Change Mismanagement

Go Jules Go

Change management, much like project management, is big these days. With companies going under or being bought by other companies, a lot of people feel like they’re up a creek without a paddle. Or, they’re not sure if they’re even in a creek, but they have a paddle and they’re using it to hit themselves over the head.

To see if you work in a place of constant churn, ask yourself if you’ve heard any of these things in the last week (also I encourage you to play B.S. Bingo at your next meeting):

“It’s like the blind leading the blind.”

“Well I can tell you how we USED to do things.”

“I don’t think we’ve met. I’m your new boss.”

“Hold off on that until we know more.”

That’s what I thought. Well, I’m here to help you. I’m here to share what I learned recently in change management training (by the way, there’s good money to be made in this field, if you don’t mind tears, hysteria and people being escorted from buildings by security).

Change Management training tells you the following:

People Are Like Sponges.

Everyone Has A Maximum Saturation Point.

Some People Reject Change Passively, Others Let You Know How They Feel About It.

Some People Simply Cannot Accept Change.

If you’re dealing with the last issue, there seems to be only one solution. And that solution is something I learned a long time ago from despair.com, so we might have all just wasted our time here. I’m sorry. I’ll let us both get back to Googling “how to find Darren Criss‘s cell phone number” now.

Uncategorized

Straight Men Click Here and I’ll Make It Worth Your While

Go Jules Go

I worry, sexy hetero men, that I may have alienated you with my proclamations of, “Let Your Gleek Flag Fly!” and “I saw Daniel Radcliffe’s Naughty Bits!”

I never meant to shun you, studly man muffins. Look, I even wrote a post about farts just for you. Here’s one where I talk about the crazy stuff people have said to me. I know you’ll like that one.

I can be brunette, too. Baby, I can be anything you want me to be.

Don’t make me think about how I always lose the “who’s funnier, men or women?” argument with my husband (I see no reason why this has to happen, just because he is, in fact, funnier than me), or that you will only ever like male singers, male comedians, and male talk show hosts.

You should know that my favorite authors are predominantly male (Bill Bryson), if not straight (David Sedaris, Augusten Burroughs), and I think that you look very cute in your mismatched socks and 5 o’clock shadow.

Remind yourself that so many guilty pleasures are universal, as is exceptional writing.

I am open to your suggestions, Beefcakes, so please let me know what you’d like to see on this blog. I normally wouldn’t put any restrictions on this invitation, but just remember that I’m trying to get Freshly Pressed (i.e., on the home page of wordpress.com), and for some strange reason they don’t seem to support nudity, nor does my husband.

Toodle-loo, boys.

Booze, Lists

The #1 Reason I Own A Monogrammed Flask…And It’s All Your Fault

Go Jules Go

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.

It is unforgivable, but at least we’re even now.

Uncategorized

This Post STINKS

Go Jules Go
Photo courtesy of http://www.allhealthsite.com

There’s something that no one is talking about, and I often wonder if it’s because they’re afraid to open their mouths. I say that because the thing no one is talking about is:

HALITOSIS.

(Not a guilty pleasure, per se, but something I take great guilty pleasure in blogging about.) I’m not sure why I have to keep explaining this unfortunate ailment, but here we go: Halitosis is the medical term for someone with odorous breath.

And usually, it’s CHRONIC.

As in, IT NEVER GOES AWAY.

The other night I went out for Indian, and the fact that I noticed (and by noticed I mean I think my eyes were tearing up) a table mate’s breath in that environment should tell you everything you need to know about halitosis.

Part of me wonders if it’s sort of like a patronus, where the smell is unique to the smeller. To me, halitosis breath smells like old man poop. And that’s the nice way of putting it. The other part of me wonders if the afflicted know they have it. My biggest fear is, of course, that I have it, and no one is willing to tell me.

There are official ways you can test this, one being a Halimeter. I’m not making this up. According to reference.com, a Halimeter is a portable sulfide monitor used to test for levels of sulfur emissions in the mouth air.

There is also something called halitophobia, or delusional halitosis. This is the intense fear that you have bad breath, and apparently may effect 0.5-1.0% of the adult population. (I’m not sure if that statistic includes me.)

In other words, this is serious stuff, people, and I don’t know why there aren’t charities and 3k walks set up for halitosis sufferers and those willing to stand in their immediate vicinity. It stinks of conspiracy, if you ask me.

Guilty Flavor of the Week, Music, Uncategorized

Introducing…Guilty Flavor of the Week!

Go Jules Go

I’m feeling a bit down, and I think I just figured out the reason: Reruns! One look at my DVR and you’ll feel as empty as we both do.

It’s time we both focus on the positive things the Guilty Pleasure Gods have to offer this month: 1) Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows (Part 1) is available on DVD beginning April 15th, 2) “The Warblers” CD drops April 19th, 3) Water for Elephants is coming to theaters on April 22nd,

…AND…

4) GOGP‘s Guilty Flavor of the Week Starts RIGHT NOW!

My amazing new blog feature!

You’re going to love it!!

It’s almost as great as when he/she said he/she’d marry you!!!

And it’s so much better than when all one/two/three/seven of your kids were born!!!!

This week’s Guilty Flavor of the Week honor goes to:

VOYEURISM!


…just kidding (sort of)…

BRUNO MARS!

I swore I wouldn’t fall in love with “Grenade,” but I. Just. Can’t. Help. It.  Enjoy (I double dog dare you not to)!!!

Animals, New Jersey is breathtaking, Uncategorized, Uncle Jesse

Things That Confuse Me When I Walk My Dog: A Photo Tour

Go Jules Go

My husband and I try to take our dog for a walk every day, which usually amounts to 3 times a week. The only option by our house is to do a full 2-mile loop, and some most times E.L. Fudge cookies in front of the T.V. wins.

Perhaps the real reason I am hesitant to embark on this exhausting trek is because so many things baffle me along the way. (Click on any of the pictures to enlarge.)

MILE 0.15: Here is where my dog decides to relieve himself. Every time. As if he KNOWS it’s just far enough away from the house to require me to carry his feces for the remaining 1.85 miles.

MILE 0.41: I cannot for the life of me fathom why climbing this hill mountain never gets easier. No matter how many vodka shots I turn down the night before.

MILE 1.05: I don’t have a picture of Mile 1.05, because Mile 1.05 scares me, and I’m fairly certain that if I showed you why, you wouldn’t be able to sleep at night, and then I’d feel really bad (but would mostly worry that you’d stop reading my blog). Suffice it to say, the house at Mile 1.05 has a rusted sign on the gate, leading up to a dome-shaped apartment/garage, and it reads: HONK BEFORE YOU ENTER.

MILE 1.11: And if you’re not already freaked out, look what I recently discovered behind this seemingly-innocent house: a legitimate cemetary! They did a very good job disguising it; it took me almost 8 months to notice. But this worries me even more. I have so many questions, the first being, as I’m sure you’d imagine, are those people or pets? …And this is why I need to stop asking questions.

MILE 1.18: Luckily, it’s not long before we land in Pleasantville, but this too perplexes me. Are forsythia bushes supposed to look like that, and have the rest of us been offending Mother Nature unwittingly? And, P.S., what kind of birds are landing at this residence? I didn’t think turkeys could fly that high.

MILE 1.30: Now not only am I in Pleasantville, but it is 1952 and the neighborhood kids have gone for a dip in the watering hole.

MILE 1.52: I have not yet figured out why these people have a miniature pony, nor why I feel so disappointed when it chooses to hide in its shack (in case you don’t already know, I could do without horses).

MILE 1.60: There were 3 sheep here before winter. It’s spring now. Where are they? Oh, god, don’t tell me they’re behind the house at Mile 1.11.

MILE 1.71: Every time I pass one of the three (yes, three) Christmas tree farms in our neighborhood, I wonder how anyone could ever think New Jersey is anything less than a magical, pine-scented armpit, where everyone says, “How YOU doin’, amongst this fine bucolic splendor?”

MILE 1.79: You might not be able to tell from this photo, but this mailbox’s general girth puzzles me. Just look at the massive posts holding it up. Do they often get large packages containing the parts needed to assemble Dolly Parton’s bra, or a shopping mall? Or do they have a very small-but-unhygenic houseguest who comes to visit frequently enough that it requires drastic sleeping arrangements?

MILE 1.90: Daffodils. They’re everywhere! Why?

MILE 1.91: I will never, EVER understand why this house always has a ladder resting against it. Not always in the same place, but always there. If someone is trying to sneak out (or in), they’re not being very sneaky, or consistent. And if repairs are underway, why am I not seeing any progress? That ladder HAS to be messing with their Feng Shui.

These are all things I don’t understand. What I do understand is that if <insert deity here> wanted me to walk 2 miles every day, he wouldn’t have made Fudge Stripes taste so good.

THE END.

Wait, wait, P.S. – a little shout-out to someone else who’s confused: click here.

Marriage, Uncategorized

My Engagement Story is Better Than Your Engagement Story

Go Jules Go
"I know. It WAS better than yours!"

I like to think of myself as Old Money. Not because I have, or have ever had, any sort of real money, I just think if I did, I wouldn’t brag about it. I wouldn’t buy a McMansion on Millionaire Row and send my kids to ivy-covered prep schools, and I definitely wouldn’t drive a BMW. (I would buy a real mansion on secluded acreage, send my kids to boarding school, and have a chauffeur.)

What I’m trying to say is, I know I shouldn’t brag about my engagement. It’s just that, well, I’m so POSITIVE it’s better than yours (and am excited to read your comments to this effect), that it seems like I owe it to you to tell you that you can stop trying now. You’re welcome.

Four years ago, I said to my boyfriend something like, “My entire sense of self-worth is riding on how you propose, so I really need you to pull out all the stops.”

Unbeknownst to me, he took my words to heart and began plotting. When we flew to Las Vegas for my 25th birthday, he already had the whole thing planned. We arrived the day before my birthday, and on the morning of April 30, 2007, I couldn’t figure out why he wouldn’t let his decrepit-yet-metrosexual shoulder bag out of his sight. I started to become suspicious, but when he took a shower and I poked around, no ring was to be found.

I tried not to sound disappointed when he gave me a toothbrush as a gift. I’m very passionate about dental hygiene, so it was quite a thoughtful token.

I won some money on the slots and we went to the Paris restaurant for dinner. Things were looking up. We were excited to go see Amazing Johnathan perform at the Sahara. I’d been wanting to see him live for FOREVER.

When we arrived at the Sahara, my boyfriend made a big to-do about going to get our tickets, and someone ushered me straight to the front of the theater as if they knew me. The suspicion returned.

The show began and, to my horror, my boyfriend started texting.

“Who are you texting!?” I hissed, reminding him through my narrowed eyes that not only were we two feet from the stage, but also that I knew how to make his life miserable because only one of us could cry on command.

He put his phone away and Amazing Johnathan asked if there were any volunteers in the audience whose name began with “E.” My boyfriend, Ed, raised his hand and was selected to go on stage. Amazing Johnathan asked if Ed was with anyone, and he replied,

“Yes, my girlfriend, Julie.”

This is it, I thought, and smiled. As I gracefully walked on stage, I can assure you that I was not shaking in the slightest (because that would be the normal reaction, and I was clearly far from normal, living out the most outstanding engagement story that was or ever would be told). Amazing Johnathan asked me to put my hand on an orange while he cut around it. It would have been an embarrassingly unfunny trick -for both of us- except that when he opened the orange, there was indeed a diamond ring inside! It looked so sparkly…and sticky.

“Do you know what that is?” Amazing Johnathan said, rather dumbly if you ask me, because we all knew why we were there, and Ed got down on one knee.

“Will you marry me?” Ed asked, and I tried to think of something interesting to say. Why had I not been rehearsing this for the last 25 years?

“I suppose,” I replied, sure my wit would go unappreciated.

Amazing Johnathan congratulated me and then kissed me on the lips while everyone howled. Well, at least I can be the vehicle for someone else’s applause, I thought graciously.

For some reason, Amazing Johnathan decided to continue with his show after that, while I spent the remainder of the night grinning and cleaning orange pulp out of my new accessory.

Four years later, I’ve yet to hear a better engagement story, but if I do, I’m willing to give you my ring. I can’t wear it. It makes me break out.

Uncategorized

Incoming!!! Conversation BOMBS!

Go Jules Go

I was half-watching an episode of “Bizarre Foods” with Andrew Zimmern earlier this week when something alarming happened. You know, it’s the show where the bald guy travels the globe eating the most disgusting looking-sounding-smelling foods known to man. Normally, it’s all light-hearted fun, and you can easily half-watch while you’re busy a) working on blogs, b) wrestling the dog for the frisbee, and/or c) drunk. On this episode, though, he suddenly had my full attention.

“I was homeless for a year,” Andrew Zimmern said, which, no matter in what context, is ALWAYS out of the blue.

My head snapped up and I stared at the T.V. Did the effeminate host in the pink button-down shirt holding a scorpion kebab just say he was HOMELESS? For a YEAR? (And is THAT why he’s willing to eat anything?)

Yeah, he did just say that.

Naturally, this got me thinking about conversation bombs. Those little one-liners people drop, mid-conversation, that bring the discussion to a screeching halt, while you, bug-eyed and cotton-mouthed, try to figure out a way to get things back on solid ground or run away without being noticed. I always thought one of my own conversation bombs was a real show-stopper:

“I didn’t go to high school. …I was home-schooled.”

But really, homeless bomb trumps home-schooled bomb any day. Don’t you think (vote below!)? Here are some of the more memorable conversation bombs I’ve ever heard, all said directly to me over the past fifteen years. Recognize any?

“I don’t really like music.”

“Well, you get married at 17 because there’s nothing else to do.”

“Do you want to buy some of my homemade jewelry?”

“Don’t say ‘yeah.’ It’s rude. Say ‘yes.'”

“I started smoking when I was 10.”

“I don’t eat white food.”

“How much did you pay for that dog?”

Lists, Uncategorized

I’m Not Mad, I’m Just Disappointed

Go Jules Go

I realized something today, and I’m not quite sure how I feel about it. I’ve come to conclude that the more embarrassing something is for me, the more amusing it is to you, dear reader.

With that in mind, I’d like to talk about Parents. Don’t they just say the darndest things? (I know it’s a two-way street, Mom and Pop. Remember when I said I wanted to quit the flute? Or when I told you I wasn’t going to college because I was going to be a screenwriter?) More often than not, people claim that their parents are an ongoing source of shame. Usually, I disagree with these ungrateful little bastards.

Except this one time.

"My mom let me leave the house like this, and now I'm one of the first things to pop up when you do a Google Image search for 'embarrassing.'"

Now, I’m not going to talk about the time they put my dog to sleep without telling me, or the many times they let me leave the house in white tights and boxer shorts. No, no. That would just be unenlightened.

I’m going to tell you about something you can probably relate to. I’m going to tell you about the time they told me I could be anything I wanted to be when I grew up. What the fudge, right? Why don’t we try lowering the bar a little, Babs and John? Some days I can barely remember how to tie my shoes. Yesterday, I asked my husband which side the heart is on*. In case it’s not already abundantly clear, I AM grown up, and I CAN’T be anything. In fact, the list of what I CAN be is getting shorter by the minute. I can’t even audition for American Idol anymore!

Before I sound like one of those ungrateful little bastards myself, I should pay tribute to all of the things I CAN do, thanks to my parents. So here, in no particular order, are my inherited skills:

I make a mean carrot cake.

I can paint a room without taping up the edges first.

I can play Chopsticks and Heart and Soul on the piano.

I can recite most of Dirty Dancing.

I can ABSOLUTELY recite every lyric to every John Denver song ever recorded.

I can use “merkin” in a number of ways during family Scategories without getting in trouble.

…Thanks, Mom and Pop.

*My husband would like you to know that I can’t really be faulted for asking this question, because I have a severe case of [self-diagnosed] selective dyslexia, whereby I usually cannot tell the difference between left and right. “Even when you’re looking RIGHT AT the GPS!” he is saying now. He is sweet, but I don’t need his pity.

"You'd better not laugh, you stupid b*tch." ...Wait, I don't think that's it.