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?
Okay, fine. There was that time I played a trivia game with friends and thought Interpol was only the name of a band, not the International Criminal Police Organization.
You might recall I recently started a new position at my company (Big Pharma, Inc.), developing training. I’m pretty sure my dog, Uncle Jesse, got me the job – he was part of the Sudoku lesson I had to put together during the intense interview process.
My new group is creative, fun and hilarious. I’m finally among colleagues who appreciate my memes!
This team of 13 celebrates everything. On my first day in the new office, it was No Diet Monday, and my manager brought cheesecake for breakfast. She decorated my new cubicle, too. “I think I’m gonna like it here,” I thought.
For the past two weeks, they’ve been trying to plan a surprise birthday party for two of the women in the group. A difficult task, since people work from home a lot.
The first Monday, I made cookies. The birthday girls didn’t show. This Monday, I made tortilla roll-ups, and one woman didn’t show.
“Well, as long as Laura comes in, we’ll still have the party,” everyone kept saying.
Later that morning, I popped my head next door to say hi to my cool, spirited cubicle neighbor. We’d only spoken a couple of times, but had bonded right away.
“Hi! Have you ever seen Finding Nemo?” she had blurted when she’d first shook my hand.
I had blinked back my surprise and laughed, dying to know where this conversation would go. She had had a point, eventually.
That Monday morning, I repeated the refrain of the day, “As long as Laura shows up, we’re still having the birthday party!”
She smiled and said, “Okay!” and we started talking about wine. Because of course.
At noon, we all hid in a nearby conference room and set up the food. In walked my cubicle neighbor, and everyone clapped and sang “Happy Birthday.”
I sang along merrily.
“Do you know what you said to me this morning?” the birthday girl asked loudly. I was sure she was going to regale the group with some amusing tidbit I’d dropped, letting all of my new coworkers see how charming and funny I could be, even unawares.
“No,” I replied, grinning.
“You said, ‘As long as Laura shows up, we’ll still have the party’! I thought you didn’t know who I was!”
Yes. That’s right. I told Laura we’d still have the party as long as Laura showed up. Then I sang “Happy Birthday” to Laura, forgetting I’d talked to Laura at all.
Sigh.
I distracted my colleagues with stories of Uncle Jesse and the beautiful chickens down the road. Later that day, Laura sent a thank you e-mail to everyone. I replied with this:
Dear Whoever You Are:
Sincerely,
Uncle Jesse’s caretaker
Any embarrassing work stories to share? Blonde moments?
Today things get ugly. As ugly as your babies. I kid, I kid.
Grab your boxing gloves, Chipmunks, because Don, of don of all trades, and I are going head-to-head over:
Dogs vs. Babies
We each get up to ten points to make our case. Don may be a father, lawyer and cop, but totally lets me boss him around little does this man-of-allegedly-every-occupation know, I have experience in blog debates. Many moons ago, Third Husband proposed we discuss the merits (or lack thereof) of Glee, and I think we can all agree that after taking a slushie to the face, I emerged the clear victor.
Sweet, sweet, cherry-flavored victory.
I’m a little scared to read Don’s opposing argument, though. Not because I’m worried about valid points, god no, but because he’s a shamelessly verbose, terrible person with zero filter; there’s no telling where he’ll take this. He’s already cursed and posted fake sonogram pictures on my Facebook wall, sending both my mother and mother-in-law into a frenzy:
Don’s caption? “Awesome…SOOOOOO excited for you guys!!”
So, Don. As much as I like to play dirty, get your mind out of the gutter and grab the leash (that one’s just killing you, isn’t it?). By the time you’re through reading this, you’ll be ready to trade your ten thousand sticky offspring for a downy-soft ‘doodle.
Why Dogs Doodles Are Better Than Babies
1. They sleep a lot.
Like, a lot a lot. Soooo much.
2. They’re not smart enough for college (can you spell S-A-V-I-N-G-S?).
3. They don’t bug you when you’re hungover sick.
I’ll be here. If you need me. Remote’s by your pillow.
4. They understand Full House quotes at 10 weeks old.
5. You get to pick the cartoons / car music.
None of this creepy sh*t.
6. No back talk.
Just incredibly telling soulful gazes.
7. Chick / Hunk magnet.
HUGE hit with the neighborhood AARF, I mean, AARP crowd.
8. As long as you feed them regularly, they don’t judge your alcohol dependency.
I think he’s just hungry.
9. You get to pick their halloween costumes. Indefinitely.
Hakuna matata, dog owners. DYFS is just for humans.
10. You don’t have to deal with other dogs’ parents if you don’t want to.
Although everyone knows ‘dog people’ are a superior breed.
Note how I kept this nice and short, for your reading pleasure. Because I care about you, and respect your time, Debate Decision-makers. Unlike some people.
Several years ago, there was a brief period of time when Peppermeister (Husband Numero Uno) and I would get sloshed and watch America’s Funniest Home Video reruns. In our defense, we were kids during its pre-YouTube heyday, and Bob Saget’s goofy mug and painfully corny jokes still make us feel warm and fuzzy.
For years -YEARS- following this, we’ve been quoting one particular video that we thought might, in fact, be: America’s FUNNIEST Home Video.
We were never able to find the clip.
Until now.
I love you, Peppermeister.
ENJOY, Chipmunks! (I’ve built this up way too much, haven’t I?)
Do you have any favorite viral (or should-be-viral) videos?
Two months ago, my best friend, Jenn, said, “Everyone is going to [our friend] Cami’s wedding in Houston in April, but I don’t know if I can do it. I hate flying, and I don’t want to leave the dog, and [my husband] Pete won’t dance with me.”
Jenn and Jules (pic from our Secret Wedding)
I took a quick inventory of my life: I hadn’t flown anywhere in four years. My future career was uncertain. I was restless as hell. I liked to dance.
“I’ll go with you,” I blurted. After all, I knew the bride and everyone going.
Jenn’s face lit up, and within the hour, she’d booked our flight. This past Friday morning, I rose at 4:45 and picked up Jenn.
“You don’t trust me to get to your parents’ house on time [since your mom is bringing us to the airport]?” she asked.
“Absolutely not. Don’t argue with me,” I replied, recalling the previous weekend, when Jenn was supposed to come over for lunch, and slept until 1pm.
To Jenn’s credit, she was all ready to go when I arrived, and in a stroke of genius, had booked us aisle seats across from each other. We strained our necks, but got the ab workout of a lifetime, each trying to out-joke the other during the 3 1/2-hour flight.
“You were those people?” our friend Mary later asked.
Yes. Yes, we were.
“We’re just a couple of classy broads,” Jenn said, stowing her ancient cell phone before take-off.
“You put the ass in class,” I replied affectionately.
“I just don’t understand people who have no sense of humor,” I said some time later. “My only problem is I think everything is funny.”
“Your only problem?” Jenn fired back.
Jenn wound up rebooking our hotel so we could stay where Cami (the bride) had scheduled a shuttle to the wedding venue, never mind that Jenn still had to pay for the first hotel because it was nonrefundable.
“We don’t know anything about a shuttle to the wedding,” the front desk told us when we arrived.
Jenn called Cami and found out that the shuttle “never materialized.”
Whoops.
We decided to worry about our ride later. We still had 3 hours to spare, and we were on a mission: hair dye (for Jenn) and vodka (for me both of us).
Gettin’ ‘er done at Walgreens.
“There’s a Walgreens and a liquor store within walking distance – 2 blocks,” the front desk assured us.
We found the Walgreens, but walked at least a mile, stopping people to ask where the liquor store was. Our boots were not made for “walking distance” in Texas, but the weather was beautiful.
“I just saw a cop in a cowboy hat, but I’m still starting to think we belong in Houston,” I told Jenn. “We’ve already gotten hit on by three different men.”
“And you don’t think it has anything to do with the fact that we’re asking for liquor at 2 o’clock in the afternoon on a work day?” she replied.
“Now hold it right there, young whippersnapper, you’re in vi-o-lation of Code 147: The Texas Ten Gallon. Where on god’s green earth is your hat?”
By the time we got back to the hotel, we had little time to pre-game. Our friends, who were staying in a different hotel and had rented a car, generously offered to pick us up. Now we had even less time to get ready.
Hang on! Almost ready!
Suddenly, there was a knock on the door. It was Cami and her soon-to-be-husband. She was holding an iPod.
“I just need you to dock this before the wedding, and play the ‘Processional’ playlist,” she told Jenn.
“O-okay…” Jenn replied, wet hair dripping on ivory shoulders.
“Then you play the ‘Ceremony’ playlist, then the ‘Recessional’ playlist.”
Jenn’s eyes widened, but she just nodded, paying close attention.
“And then the ‘Reception’ playlist,” Cami said, clicking through each one on the little silver rectangle in her hand. “I tried to make it as idiot-proof as possible.”
As soon as they left, we raced to finish getting ready. When our friends picked us up, they were nervous about being late, but in good spirits.
“[Our other friend] Dave just found out he’s the Maid of Honor!” they giggled.
“I just found out I’m the f*cking DJ!” Jenn retorted.
We arrived at the wedding venue early, as luck would have it. It was a Greek restaurant, obviously.
Because when I think Houston, I think…baklava.
The wedding coordinator frantically informed us that she was technologically challenged, and pointed to a CD player with no CDs.
“That’s not going to work with this,” Jenn replied, holding the iPod.
“Well we just got a new TV, maybe we can put music on that?” the wedding coordinator said breathlessly, her voice a fascinating mix of Southern and Greek accents.
When I attempted to turn on the TV, it was immediately apparent that the cable wasn’t hooked up. “Maybe if you point the remote here,” the wedding coordinator said, gesturing towards the closet where the CD player sat. I knew I’d never, ever come up with an appropriate response, so I said nothing and glanced back to see if the bar was open yet.
Here’s what happened when we asked the wedding coordinator to take our picture at the end of the night:
We found out one of Cami’s friends was coming by with the iPod speaker and tried to relax, even though the wedding was in mere minutes.
Or it should have been.
But.
The wedding party was two hours late. No reason. Texas time, I guess. My inner Project Manager hyperventilated into a brown paper bag, while my alter ego, Drunk Girl, just… well, you know.
In case you were wondering – the iPod speaker still hadn’t arrived.
“Can you tell everyone to hum the wedding march?” the blushing bride asked Jenn, just before the ceremony started.
“Yee-haw! I am worth the wait, cowboy!”
I should probably stop there.
After all that, did we have fun? You be the judge:
“My mom just had to pay a $1,300 overage on the bar bill,” said Cami at the end of the night.
While I hadn’t given it much thought until last week, it seems obvious now: If you fine Chipmunks got to pick between Adam Levine and your beloved blog hero, The Byronic Man, obviously The B Man would win [the title of Third Husband]. By a landslide.
In a way, it makes perfect sense.
The Byronic Man and I are so associated in the collective bloggy unconscious that on numerous occasions, I’ve had people email me messages intended for The Byronic Man. People have left me comments on his blog.
To be fair, we started it, touting our likeness and joining forces on numerous bloggy collaborations. We even send joint greeting cards to bloggy friends, trade sheet-folding tips, correct each other’s typos… It’s a bloggy match made in heaven, with or without the votes to back it up.
So let’s do this.
Bloggers: Do you have a bloggy BFF / spouse? Or better yet, a bloggy crush (SPILL IT!)? Bloggers / All: What other adventures should Drunk Girl and Byronic Man embark on?
P.S. – Don’t worry. Starting next week, I plan to blog about something other than polyandry!
Well I’ve gotta tell you Chipmunks, it makes a gal feel good to know some of you are so willing to snuggle up as my 3rd spouse, joining the ranks of First Husband, Peppermeister, and Second Husband, Darren Criss (of Glee fame).
When I put the question out there on Monday, I was delighted by your responses.
I don’t know why I think it’s so flattering, though. Taking a brief glimpse back in time, why wouldn’t anyone volunteer for Go Jules Go back rub duty?
I mean……obviously……I am too sexy for my shirt.
I face a tough road ahead. Figuring out how to keep those pics from popping up on your blogs who’ll be the 5th candidate (along with my BFF, Jenn, Adam Levine, Justin Timberlake and Bacon) for 3rd spouse.
Like choosing between champagne and more champagne.
Super rich; most likely to already have a Red Room of Pain
Clearly I need your help. Who’s your pick For the final 3rd spouse candidate? (Vote for up to 3!)
Cast your vote(s) by NOON EST on Saturday, March 30th. On Monday, April 1st, we’ll put the final 5 candidates head-to-head (because why do something in one post when you can draw it out in 3?)!
As many of you Chipmunks know, I have a long-standing polyandrous situation in my house. Sure, First Husband, Peppermeister, is great, but…Scrabble…is more fun with extra players. Cue Second Husband, Darren Criss (of Glee fame).
Things have been grand over the past year, but our bed is really, really big. So.
Enough chatter. I’m cold.
Let’s review the candidates…
#1 – My BFF, Jenn
My dearest wife Jules,
After all these years, I know it’s obvious to you I was born to be your third and only (hmmm, we’ll have to work on that – we have time). But perhaps your readers, like the majority of state legislatures in our fair nation, need a pinch of persuasion. After all, they haven’t:
fled to the arms of another man from dated YOUR brother
taken a kick ass road trip with me
nearly died with me
Okay, those last two are really the same thing, but I’ll make it count for two.
Jules, I was born to be your Third Husband, because let’s face it. I got this vow shizz locked up like a three-peat offender. In good times and in bad? How much better can it get than our impending wedding date in the banquet hall of a Greek restaurant in Texas that rents its second floor as apartments? (B-T-Dubs, my first guest post as Hub3 – just sayin’.)
JULES + JENN 4-EVER.
And bad times? Let’s be honest, we’ve already hit rock bottom together. Amazingly, I’m not even talking about vodka here. On our road trip [from New Jersey to Georgia in 2002], you lost your wallet, like, 27 minutes in. We were checked into the Blue Ridge Motor Lodge (I could stop here) by a heavily bleeding sexagenarian who begged us to take a plunge in his toad-infested pool (he really did have a surprisingly strong grasp on metaphor). Then our friend couldn’t meet up with us in Atlanta as planned because he was… oh, that’s right… IN JAIL. And to top it all off, we nearly died. On a cliff. We nearly went over a cliff together. Can’t you just see the Thelma and Louise motif on our engraved invitations?
When we I backed up on the freshly wet gravel, smack into the electrified fence that was then the only thing between my back tires and the plummet, and the passenger door was pinned shut by the… voltage, didn’t I demand that you climb over me to safety? Wriggle between my body and the steering wheel, out the driver’s door, before I even THOUGHT about escaping myself?
Jules and Jenn in Savannah, circa 2002. Five days from near death.
And when the farmer in denim overalls, sans shirt or underwear, came strolling out to look at my handiwork with his fence… and you asked him where exactly we were…. when he removed the hay from both his teeth to reply: “Girly, you’re in the middle of nowhere…” Well, girly, he couldn’t have been more wrong. We could never be lost as long as we’re together.
So, in conclusion:
I, BFF, take you, GJG, to be my unlawfully wedded wife, to have (mercy) and hold (your hair back), from this day forward. For better (see above) and worse (ditto), for richer (I’m not worried) and poorer (we got this), in sickness (check) and health (too late), until Blue Ridge Mountain death do us part.
Love,
Jenn
#2 – Adam Levine
No, I don’t, Adam. Show, I mean tell, me.
Hey Jules,
You know what they say about guys with tattoos…
xox,
Adam
P.S. – I do yoga.
#3 – Justin Timberlake
Jules,
You knew I’d come back for you, Jules.
I’ve wracked my brain abs for a way to properly thank you for convincing me to finally bring sexy back. Are you enjoying my new album, The 20/20 Experience, which dropped March 19th? Oh wait, this isn’t about me. It’s about you. And how I plan to repay you…
Hugs and Harmonies (and more?),
JT
#4 – Bacon
My Jules,
Duh.
-Bacon
#5 – ?
That’s right, Chipmunks. Here’s your chance to nominate someone else, or throw your teeny, tiny, adorable hat in the ring. And take it from Jenn: I’m very open-minded…
Submit your 5th candidate ideas [in the comments section below] by NOON EST Wednesday, March 27th. Polls will open Thursday, March 28th at 6am EST!
Once upon a time, I drove a sparkly VW convertible, Aquarius blue with a gray soft top and interior. By sheer nepotism luck, I’d scored a well-paying job in Big Pharma right after I graduated college, and in May 2005, I bought her.
Nudge.
Named for her annoying ‘alert’ sound, Nudge had a habit of wailing the instant you sat down without your seatbelt, left the door open, or felt too smug for your own good.
She sure was cute, though. AND THE CAR WASN’T HALF BAD EITHER!
Now don’t misunderstand me: I hate to drive. No interest in cars. If I won the Mega Millions, the first thing I’d do is hire a chauffeur. But Nudge, well, she was special. A sign of independence, financial and otherwise.
Before Nudge, I had a series of hoop-dee cars. I never minded; I was grateful for my parents’ hand-me-downs, already used when they bought them, barely worth $1,000 combined by the time they were in my possession. I couldn’t stand the idea of high school kids getting brand new cars for their 16th birthdays. How would they ever learn the value of a dollar, or the thrill of gluing ‘NSync bobbleheads to the dash of their 1987 Chrysler Le Baron (“Toaster”) without consequence?
How did I have any friends?
When Peppermeister (Current Husband) and I decided to buy a house in 2010, I sold Nudge and paid cash for a used 2006 Hyundai Sonata with a buttload of miles on it. Aside from being in my price range, it handled well, had great pick-up, 4 doors, and most importantly, unlike Nudge, excellent visibility. At 28 years old, it was my grown-up car.
So it stunk like smoke for the first four months. It has a sunroof! That’s almost as fun as a brand new VW convertible that smells like hope and roses… Right?
Two weeks ago, I met up with a few lovely blogger friends for brunch: Rache from Rachel’s Table, Misty from Misty’s Laws, and Julie Maida from MaidaSomeArt. Julie had driven to Rache’s house in Delaware from Virginia, and Dash and I had come from New Jersey.
We traded war stories.
“So my heat knob’s not working now,” I began, as we I poured champagne and put Rache to work making delicious frittatas. “It used to work on the 1 and 4 levels, but now nothing. Which means I can’t use the defrost. Luckily, it was sleeting the whole drive here, so that was fun. I need warmer gloves,” I finished with the casual laugh of someone who knows all too well what it means to drive a car with the roof lining dangling on your head, loosely kept in place with multi-colored thumbtacks.
Julie Maida and her custom Rachel’s Table champagne glass.
Julie replied, “Did you have a bottle of water, at least?”
I looked at her quizzically. She explained, “To thaw the ice. I took my husband’s car, and the windshield wiper fluid doesn’t work. And you know it was misting just enough where the wipers only smudge up the windshield. Luckily, I had a bottle of water in the car, so I tossed that on the windshield when I stopped to pay the tolls – which is also when I had to open the car door because the window won’t roll down.”
It reminded me of one of my all-time favorite hoop-dee stories. Peppermeister drove a real winner when we started dating in 2003: A 1987 Chevy Blazer. There was an issue with the lock, but he was able to open the doors with… a dime. A dime in the keyhole. A dime he kept hidden in the rust hole at the bottom of the driver’s side door.
Let me repeat that.
He opened his car using a dime that he stored in the rust hole of the car door.
What’s your favorite hoop-dee car story? I really can’t wait to hear.
Go Jules Go 