Pop Culture, Salty Stories

Celine Dion Made Me Do It

Welp, I’ve officially done the most ridiculous and embarrassing thing a grown adult can do. I understand that I say that a lot and perhaps have dramatized a scenario or two, but this one truly takes the cake. Let’s set the scene. It’s my third week in my new apartment. A few nights ago I’m doing my nightly TikTok scroll when I stumble upon an official Tok from Celine Dion’s account. She (her team) posted a clip of her greatest hit of all time (don’t fight me on this, I will win) “It’s All Coming Back to Me Now.” This song is uncontested for best car scream singalong and when I saw the dramatic snippet of the music video and her call for people to recreate it, I immediately knew what I needed to do. I’ve never felt more of a sense of duty to Celine. It was like she had cast the bat symbol into the dark Gotham City sky and I was Batman (Christian Bale’s version obviously.) I didn’t grow up imitating her French Canadian accent for laughs amongst my family members for nothing. It was my time to shine. Please feel free to immerse yourself in the original creation to really set the tone for this candid peek behind the scenes of my life imitating what it would be like if a 30 year old moved into the Hype House. (For fellow olds like me, the Hype House is a home where a bunch of teenagers live and create TikToks 24/7.)

The next day it struck me that I live alone now. I can really commit to the bit here and not fear someone hearing me or interrupting my stupidity to ask what the hell I’m doing. This is an insecure content creator like myself’s true wet dream. I began to prepare the creative of how I was going to tackle this video. The original music video (in case you didn’t have a spare 7 and a half mins to review it above) takes place in a castle during a stormy night as Celine mourns her ex. Those theatrics were really going to need some dedication and I was up for the job. First I had to unearth the only silk robe I own that also happened to be my gift for being in my sister’s wedding. It very boldly says Maid of Honor across the back. I’d have to make sure my hair covered that as I’m confident Celine has never been anyone’s maid of honor. She’s the star of the show or she doesn’t show up at all. I mean come on, did James Cameron win a buttload of Oscars for Titanic because he’s a great director? No he won them because he got Celine to create and sing her face off to the smash hit My Heart Will Go On. I’ll never let go, Jack? More like I’ll never get over how much of an iconic diva Celine Dion is.

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Anyway, next I started to brainstorm how I could make it look like a stormy night in my opposite of a mansion new apartment. I only have one curtain in this shack to separate my “office” from my bedroom and I knew that’s where this tomfoolery was about to go down. It’s about time I used my office for some real work. I lit a candle for ambience and because she had a shit-ton of burning candles in the video (my production budget only allowed for one), got dressed in my silk robe, did my hair and makeup and began my grind of setting the scene. I don’t mean to brag but I’ve worked on a movie set, and sometimes you just need to do a little behind the scenes magic to make something believable. As it is now winter and I no longer have fans hanging around, that behind the scenes magic was the one, two punch of my space heater and my hair dryer to create a wind machine. Rigging both of these together to blow at the curtains was not only difficult but also was blowing the bottom, which was out of frame. I won’t reveal how many times I propped that hair dryer higher only to have it flop back down. I finally conceded and figured it was good enough. I also noticed that in this very 90’s music video, the lights flickered to really amp up the drama of the storm and also her ex haunting her, probably. So after several HQ takes of some of my FINEST acting running towards the curtains in disarray…

It was time to up the ante. With both my hair dryer and space heater on full blast for several minutes now, I decided to do a shot of just the “blowing” curtains and flicker the lights on my own. I hammered that light switch a few times then went to what we in the biz call “check the gate” (took a film class once) and suddenly I was in pitch black darkness. My little moviemaking antics for a TIKTOK had blown a fuse. Spielberg over here had gotten so carried away in the process that I forgot that I was in a 220 year old brick house and not a Hollywood soundstage. Panic ensued.

I immediately made quick work of unplugging the hair dryer and stashing it back in the bathroom. I tried to listen for outbursts from my upstairs neighbors, not knowing if I had affected their power as well. They seemed normal amounts of loud and not angry at the new girl for cutting electricity loud. I glanced at myself in the mirror wearing a silk robe with my name embroidered on it and a red lip standing next to a tripod. My worst fear was that someone would abruptly knock on my door and find me like this. Do you know how hard it would be to explain that I’m not sharing solo footage for my OnlyFans account but in fact just getting in touch with my inner Celine circa 1996? I’m guessing they wouldn’t buy it. I immediately erased all evidence and texted my landlord after searching high and low for a fuse box. Of course it wouldn’t be in my apartment. I acted casj cool in my text. “Hey it’s me, your new tenant! I made an oopsie and blew the fuse because I was drying my hair with the space heater on. Can I get access to the fuse box to reset it?” He was kind enough to zip right over and power things up again, with a gentle reminder that this house is old as dirt and that there’s only 15 amps per 6 outlets, as if I would ever know what that means. What a guy. He has no clue he’s renting to a complete moron who thinks dressing her bedroom as a set for a 20 second video is absolutely necessary. Hopefully he never knows. He doesn’t strike me as the type to google somebody, but should he stumble across this blog one day—I wasn’t blow drying my hair at 8pm when I haven’t left the apartment all day. I was trying to Beyonce the SHIT out of a music video shoot. Sorry not sorry. (I’m just kidding I actually am sorry pls don’t evict me, I just got everything unpacked.)

(I mean seriously are the curtains even moving?!)

It should come as no surprise to you that the shot that blew the fuse STUNK. In fact, I forced it into the final video (a measly 2 seconds) as homage to my landlord and the fact that he rectified the situation at lightning speed so that the shoot could continue without additional production days. Once the power was back on we were off to the races and by that I obviously mean I spent another 1-2 hours shooting 6 zillion takes of me lip syncing because I’d rewatch it and immediately coach myself that I could do it better the next time. Thank GAWD there were no witnesses to this. Then on top of that, I started the editing process and realized that when you’re not a 14 year old who lives and breathes TikTok, it’s actually super hard to use and since there was no way on EARTH I was going to shoot that thing in one take live (was any accredited feature film shot live?!) I was forced to spend hours using two different apps to match me and Celine up as best as I could.

The final product is below. It’s probably the shittiest 20 seconds that’s ever caused a power outage. But if you watch it enough times on repeat like I did trying to sync our powerful singing up, you’ll start to see that I basically am Celine Dion. Is there a difference between the two of us? No, no there is not. Unfortunately for my ego, which reached its pinnacle right around the time I did a full face of makeup and decided adding a dramatic rosé sip at the end would really incorporate my own personal brand into this reboot…my TikTok got a measly 49 views and 2 likes. On the bright side someone did comment “10/10.” So thank you for your kindness, stranger. It is words of encouragement like that I’ll remember fondly the next time I’m spending an entire evening by myself with my tripod, convincing myself I’m Celine Dion in the flesh, creating a city-wide blackout.

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Salty Stories

The Salty Ju Trail of Blood

When I was twenty-five and stringing together a bunch of part-time jobs, living on my own, it was not uncommon for me to have a day off in the middle of the week. I worked primarily as a hostess at a restaurant and I typically didn’t go in until 4pm anyway. I’ve always been a goddess of the sun, taking every opportunity to lay out and fry my skin off that was presented to me. Before beach/pool season began, I would do this thing where every time the sun was out, I’d lay a blanket on the grass in front of my apartment and sit on it in a skimpy tank top and athletic shorts hiked up as much as I possibly could to soak up some of that UV good good. My dad used to call this trashy—I call it innovative. I didn’t have a backyard so this little public patch of grass was my sunning oasis. Alright, fine, it was super trashy but I paid a steep rent and the least I could get out of an apartment that had original windows from 1930 that I had to SARAN WRAP in the winter to stop the frosty windchill from taking over my living space was claiming a square of green. Well one fateful day as I came down with my blanket in my “it’s too soon for bikini season so I’ll respectfully wear gym clothes” tanning outfit, there was a sign on the lawn that said: “pest control—stay off the grass!” Was it strategically placed there just to keep me from sitting? Probs. I scoffed and quickly changed plans, marching across the street to Congress Park where the stoners play frisbee, the homeless people snooze on the bench and the ducks get too close for comfort. It was not my slice of partially enclosed apartment heaven, but it would have to do if I was going to erase this blinding whiteness that 5 months of winter had created. Dress season was upon us and I didn’t want to have translucent legs anymore.

After a couple hours of worshipping the sun, I began my sweaty trudge back to the apartment. I came up to the top of the park on the “Welcome to Saratoga Springs” statue and noticed that the red tulips surrounding the park were in bloom. At the time, I was running my dad’s small business Instagram account and my first thought was how bomb this would look on his page. I don’t mean to toot my own horn, but what a star employee I am. I snapped a few artsy pics, getting those angles all up in those tulips, went to hustle across the street without a Walk symbol because I like to play it fast and loose and mid-crosswalk, I was shot at. Just kidding, checking to see if you’re still reading. Mid-crosswalk I felt something in my flip flop. I thought it was a rock so I just kept scooting as there were cars approaching now. Once I got to the other side, I looked down as this rock was really starting to hurt and saw a WHOLE ASS glass bottle STICKING OUT OF MY FOOT through my flip flop. I’m not sure how dense I had to be to not notice peg-legging across the street with a glass bottle as a heel, but clearly I needed to get a little more observant. Obviously my first instinct upon this discovery was to get the foreign object out of my body. Had I known that dislodging the bottle would create a whole other bloody situation, I would’ve kept it inserted in my foot for the rest of my life. Because oh buddy, once I yanked that thing clean, my foot started spouting blood like a spigot on full blast. I was now standing on the sidewalk of a main street splooging blood everywhere. It was puddling at my feet on the sidewalk. If this is too graphic for you, please know that I almost puked at the amount of blood that was collecting in such a short span of time. (I have many photos of this incident including a close-up shot of my blood covered stump but I’ve decided to only include the tamer ones here…if you’re squeamish with blood consider this a courtesy warning to scoot past these pics without a glance.)

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I was in complete shock and I still had two blocks to walk back to my apartment. I’d be lying if I said I didn’t contemplate calling an ambulance. Instead, I called my parents. My dad answered and as I described the bloody sitch and cried to him about how the hell I was supposed to get home and what if I bleed out and die on this very sidewalk? He said, “I don’t know what you’d like me to do from two hours away.” THANKS FOR NOTHING, DAD. My flip flop was soaked in blood, my foot was sliding off of it, and I seriously considered using my blanket as a tourniquet then quickly realized I had no idea how to execute that. Apparently several years of watching the crew at Seattle Grace perform all sorts of medical duties in a pinch did absolutely nothing to prepare me for my own medical emergency. THANKS FOR NOTHING TO YOU TOO, DR. MEREDITH GREY. As I attempted to do something useful with that blanket, all that ended up happening was covering it in my own gore and dragging it on the sidewalk as I limped home, leaving a trail of blood in my wake. No one stopped to help or even question why someone who could be a freshly bronzed runway model was bleeding out all over the sidewalk, midday. Fuckin’ Saratogians. Buncha bougie a-holes who can’t be bothered with a little casual B negative overflowing onto their pristine walkways. I made it home alive and was able to clean my stump of a foot without sobbing. Possibly the worst part of it all was that when I finally mopped up all of the fluids, what I found underneath was one incision in my heel, the size of a regular paper cut. All of this fanfare for a measly little cut.

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I bandaged it up and for the rest of the week wore Converse to work with my sundresses, telling the restaurant that I was severely injured and would not tolerate feedback about wearing kicks to work. I hobbled people to their tables and sat on a stool with my foot dramatically elevated (think Michael Scott when he burned his foot on the George Foreman), sneaking bread and olive oil underneath the hostess stand to ease my pains. I just took it one day at a time, ya know? It’s all any of us can do. And not to brag, but I pull OFF sneaks and dresses—a trend that I still crush to this day. I was getting mad compliments, so if anything, my injury just upped my cool girl fashion game. A few days later, I was finally ready to return to the scene of the crime. I needed closure. What I found was that my blood still decorated the sidewalks (and there was A LOT of it.) I also found the culprit. A broken Grey Goose nip. And you know what? If I’m going to get shanked in a crosswalk and nearly need to amputate my entire foot, I’m glad it was top shelf liquor that did me dirty. I respect it. Should they name Circular St. as a Saratoga landmark for tourists to visit? That’s not for me to say. I did, however, take it upon myself to pen a strongly-worded letter to the Mayor in favor of some sort of ribbon-cutting and celebration of this new historical site. The Salty Ju Trail of Blood.

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In the weeks after, I managed to re-teach myself how to walk with both feet and straighten out that limp like Verbal Kint at the end of The Usual Suspects. Eventually a hard rain fell and washed away my blood from the sidewalk. The Instagram post that I nearly died to capture got 19 likes. If you’d like a point of reference, anyone from Gen Z could post a dog-face filtered selfie on Instagram at any time of the day and it would reach hundreds of likes within the hour. I stabbed myself with a Grey Goose mini all for a photo that will fade into oblivion. You bet your bottom dollar I demanded a raise for my no compensation, family favor social media job. MY TALENTS ARE NO LONGER FREE WHEN I’M GUSHING BLOOD ON A TUESDAY FOR A PRETTY PICTURE OF TULIPS. Obviously it’s been several years since this incident has occurred and it still feels just like yesterday. The mayor never replied to my letter or erected a statue in my honor (with one foot missing) but I will never forget the day I learned walking might kill me before skin cancer does.

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Salty Stories

The Salty Ju and the No Good, Very Bad Haircut

Ok, here’s the deal. I’ve been blogging my face off about celebs and pop culture for the past six years, but I’ve been ranting about the more ridiculous aspects of my life FOR-EV-ER. I’ve found that the best way to stop myself from crying (or sometimes cry even harder, but in like a healthy way) is to write my shitty circumstances into funny stories. And now it’s time to share those funny stories on The Salty Ju. Cause sometimes I just wanna talk about myself and not relate it back to a celeb headline from that week. So now, if you want to laugh at my life instead of the rich and famous, head on over to “Salty Stories” and start cackling. 

My first installment is equal parts sentimental and hilarious. Today is the one year anniversary of losing my grandma AKA “Gams.” Gams told me I was hilarious all the time and always loved my writing, so I’m posting this story in her memory about the time I got a no good, very bad haircut the same day as her funeral. I hope she’s down there (or up there, but more likely down there–where I will join her some day) surrounded by beanie babies, uproariously laughing at my jokes and still wondering why I didn’t just become a model because I’m so beautiful. (True Story.) Miss you, Gammy Gams.

I’ve always been a fun mix of unfiltered word vomit (usually at inapprops times) but also with a heavy dose of refusal to speak up for myself in the real world. Confrontation gives me the nervous poops and therefore I end up apologizing and scampering away into the shadows rather than saying what I want. And as every woman in the world knows, there’s no bigger risk than your hair. Getting your hair done is putting complete trust in a stylist to do the exact thing that you want them to do, and you’re usually paying them an obscene amount of money to do so. There has been far too many times to count when I’ve paid hundreds of dollars that I saved up to have my hair colored, to then come home, look in the mirror and immediately burst into tears. Once I finally realized that $200+ dollars will never buy me the hair of my dreams, I started settling for regular trims from my mom, FO FREE. This went swimmingly for a few years up until Mom started mixing in a glass of vino while snipping and I ended up with one side that was clearly longer than the other. It was time for me to stop being ratchet and take my haircare to the professionals, but still keep it dirt cheap, which leads me to SuperCuts. I’m sure this is what they love to be referred to as–dirt cheap “professionals”. 

S-Cut’s isn’t known for their expertise or fancy styling techniques. They’re known for giving you a $20 haircut, dry style. And that’s really all I was looking for. Anyone with curly hair knows that the longer and rattier the ends get, the limper your curls become. All I really need is a quick dead end chop to liven up my head again. The first time I went to SuperCuts, I used a coupon and it was a G-D steal. Breezed in, got a nice trim, and was out in 20 mins with a half dry/half wet bun on top of my head. Sure, it’s a real treat to have a professional blowout where your hair will LITERALLY never look that good again, but that’s for the richies. I can’t afford that lifestyle. Leave that to the people who drink mimosas and have someone blow dry their hair just for fun on a Saturday night. Maybe one day I’ll be wealthy enough to enjoy that luxury, but for now I was happy to have removed my split ends for a bargain. 

Close to a year later, I was desperate for another snip. In that previous year, I had witnessed my mom get distracted and literally shave a hole in my dad’s head because the electric trimmer was set to the wrong number. She also gave my boyfriend at the time a fresh cut before he had to be in someone’s wedding and the following weekend I had to even it out because it was so clearly botched. My mom had officially been fired (although now that I think about it maybe she had sabotaged her hair career on purpose because she was so sick of giving free cuts to everyone in this family.) Also, it was a few days before my grandma’s funeral and it wasn’t really an ideal time for me to be like hey mom, sorry your mom just passed but I could really use a snip snip before her services. So I begrudgingly returned to Supes Cutz, sans coup this time. I sat down in the chair and told her that I wanted a basic trim to clean up the dead ends. Nothing fancy. This particular hairdresser was on the young end and v. chatty. This was already a strike in my book. There’s nothing worse to me than forcing chatter with someone that I will literally never see again. Especially when this transaction should only last about 20 mins. Let’s get our small talk out of the way and be done with it, we don’t need to be besties. Am I a bitch for saying this? Obviously. But I’m ok with it. I think we need to normalize not talking our faces off with strangers. It’s not always necessary. My tip to you will not increase the more that you talk about your favorite TV shows, in fact, you run the risk of it decreasing if you tell me your favorite TV show is American Idol. Jus Sayin. Chatty was yapping about the weather, and work and the upcoming holiday. As it was only a couple days out from Halloween, she wanted to discuss costumes. I was closing in on 30 with no children and my grandma had just died a few days ago. Halloween really wasn’t a zesty topic for me at the time. In fact, I was looking to skip it completely. She shared with me that her and all of her friends would be dressing up as Beanie Babies. That perked my ears up. I took that as a sign because my grandma—who we so obnoxiously called Gams— LOVED beanie babies. She believed they were collectors items, purchased a new one for each of us at every occasion, would wait in lines for the limited edition beanies or bid for them on EBay and had a particularly impressive collection of them displayed in a glass case in her home. She was INSISTENT that these would be worth big money someday. As all of you children of the 90’s know now, Beanie Babies are straight trash. You can’t even give them away to kids now. They are worth absolutely nothing. We constantly razzed my Gams about how wrong she was about that trend and then continued to use our knowledge of the beanies as a fun drinking game party trick, after all, we were Official Beanie Baby Club card-carrying members. 

Feeling sentimental from just losing my Gams, I told myself this HAD to be her way of reaching out to me from beyond the grave. Her last haha was to channel through this youngster SuperCuts employee and make a Beanie Babies reference. I warmed to this stranger and stopped being a twat about how yappy she was. I became more responsive and stopped telling her with my eyes that she was being annoying. Right up until she asked me if I wanted to angle my hair in the front. Knowing that this is something that my mom usually does, I said yeah that’s fine. She then gets in front of me and pulls out a strand and goes where should I start with the angling? And pushes her scissors up to my forehead as if she were going to completely obliterate all hair in the front of my head and call it an angle. I quickly told her that was a little high, so she moved and goes, this will still be long enough to put behind your ear, and then chopped. I watched in horror as this chatty monster cut me bangs without my permission and tried to pass it off as “angling.” I distinctly remember 7th grade when girls were VERY into the side bang trend. This was a less dramatic way to commit to bangs. Instead, you would have extremely short front pieces and call them a side bang. Essentially all they did was fall into your eyes and force you to brush them away every 30 seconds. Every girl who committed to the side bang ended up bobby pinning these monstrosities back until they grew out, immediately regretting their decision. I was happy to never have been a side banger. Especially because I desperately wanted them but knew they wouldn’t work with curly hair, was insanely jelly of my friends with silky smooth hair and then felt SO vindicated when it turned out to be such a terrible hair decision. Let that be a lesson to all that it’s not always great to blindly follow trends, ESPECIALLY when it comes to hair. 

Back to the chair, where my “stylist” continued to prove that her expertise in hair extended no further than her practicing on her dolls’ heads in her childhood bedroom. When you start off “angling” by cutting someone bangs, where does one go from there? Nowhere great. She moved backward, snipping at my head like she was Edward Scissorhands on a creative mission. She was Picasso and my head of hair was her blank canvas. Might I also add, that a few months prior, I had paid almost 300 dollars to have this head of hair “painted” blonde for a natural sun-kissed look. And down the blonde went to the SuperCuts floor to die as she chopped away. I was horrified and there was literally nothing I could do to stop it. It’s not like I could ask her to glue the hair back on my head. The deed was done and there was no going back. I was no longer making small talk with this assassin. I stared at her in silence until she finished attacking my precious head, threw it up in a bun (it BARELY made it), over tipped out of guilt, walked out the door and texted everyone I know that I was hair-assaulted.

Here’s the thing about my friends and family—they know I have a flair for the dramatics. So when I texted them that I had the most horrific haircut of my life, that I paid a dum dum at SuperCuts $22 to take a rusty machete to my head and now I am bald, they all replied “it can’t be that bad, you’re overreacting.” And so, when I got home, I sobbed looking at my ugly mug in the mirror and then I sent them all a picture. And I KNEW it was bad when not one person tried to reassure me after they saw the proof. Responses varied from yikes to it’ll grow out to it’s not horrible but maybe just style it differently for a while. What I heard was, wear a paper bag over your head until it grows out. I tweeted out that I would not be returning to work or seen in the public eye until it grew back and then I went home for my Grandma’s funeral where I had to display my hack job to friends and family members I hadn’t seen in years. Hi, nice to meet you, I’m Nancy’s youngest granddaughter and I used to have beautiful hair up until yesterday when a poorly-trained hair stylist had a vendetta against my scalp. I sent a new round of pictures to my loved ones when I straightened it. Straight hair shows ALL of the flaws and you really got to see the varying dramatic lengths of my hair this way. People were floored by how uneven it was and how the pattern of lengths seemed to erratically change from front to back, toeing the line of a mullet.

In therapy that next day I pointed at my head and started to cry telling her that it may sound stupid but this was the straw that broke the camel’s back. That I was about to travel to Portugal in a few weeks time and I had SPECIFICALLY purchased a felt hat that I called a “trendy Euro hat” that I couldn’t wait to rock for far too many photos (because in Europe you can get away with wearing felt hats to bop around town and not be seen as a total a-hole like you do in small-town America because we are all uncultured swine) and this Euro hat would NOT LOOK GOOD WITH A KATE GOSSELIN HAIRDO. It’s possible that my hysteria had forced me to go beyond dramatics about my hair. But like I said, it was a breaking point for me. Since my therapist is chill as hell and gets that I can be a little ridiculous at times, she reassured me that it made sense to freak out about this because it feels like I have control over nothing in my life and then my hair, which I’ve always had control over just got chopped off and added to the list of things to make me spiral. And then she recommended a natural hair and nail growth supplement that I ordered on Amazon 30 seconds after leaving her office. I took those growth vitamins through the new year, until I felt like my hair had finally gotten back to an acceptable length. Unfortunately, Vidal Sassoon had cut so many varying layers against my will that even as it grew out, it still grew out unevenly, something that will probably be fixed in 5 years—thanks for that, B. But at least I survived my most horrific haircut. 

Recently my mom pointed out that my hair was looking a little long and ratty and I had to admit to her that I was terrified of ever letting scissors near it again. Anytime the mere mention of a haircut comes up, I get a chill down my spine and PTSD back to that fateful October day when that sweet, sweet, dumb idiot fired up her chainsaw and beelined it for my hair. And for the record, my butt cut looked dumb as hell in my Euro hat. So not only did she take my willingness to ever get a trim again, but she took EVERY opportunity I had to look cute and Instagrammable as hell in Porto with a maroon felt hat. So I hope she reads this and has trouble sleeping at night. JK I hope she quit and pursued a job in sales where talking is welcome and scissors are not. I ain’t trying to curse her and get anymore bad juju surrounding this head of hair. I can’t emotionally handle another haircut trauma for as long as I live.

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Salty Stories

Flying is for the Birds

Since I’ve been a real lazymonster on the blog-o-sphere lately, I’m doing that thing again where I post a throwback blog that I wrote before I had an actual blog. Here’s my words about flying from 2014. This is especially ironic because 2014 Julia couldn’t handle a half hour flight to Philly under gusty conditions yet 2018 Julia just spent 10 hours on an airplane each way. Brings a tear to my eye to see how far I’ve come. Mahalo.

Ok so yes, flying is super safe these days and people say that it’s more safe than driving and people also say that planes basically fly themselves…which is supposed to be comforting, but also DO WE REALLY WANT TO PUT OUR LIVES ON THE FUNCTIONALITY OF COMPUTERS? Just a thought. So anyway as you can probably tell, flying makes me shit my pants pretty regularly, and flying with my 1000x more paranoid sister only exacerbates this. In addition to that, recently I had the great pleasure of flying on the smallest plane I’ve ever flown on, in windy conditions. This plane had 50 people maximum on it and I sat in the last seat and could see straight into the cockpit. Also I had mono or some similar virus that the doctors still have yet to identify, so that’s another story for another day. Basically it comes down to the fact that I was NOT on top of my game on this particular 3-day casj trip to Florida.

What I would like to address is 1. How does everyone in the world stay so calm when there’s abrasive turbulence? Like you’re in the air and the entire plane is shaking around town, but like there’s nothing underneath you. And when things are bopping, I usually look around with a panicked stare and people are sleeping, typing on their laptops or roaming around the airplane like it’s a playground. Like just sit down and think you’re going to die like a normal person.

And the second thing I’d like to address is the pilot. First of all, I’d like anyone with information to let me know how old one must be to become a pilot, because I’m fairly certain that BOTH pilots on my miniature flight were under 16. Is that even legal? I’m already terrified that I will plummet to a fiery death in a plane built for infants and now I have to see two high school kids stroll into the cockpit? Not cool. Also what is it with pilots taking dicey weather conditions and making them sound casual over the loudspeaker? It was windy as shit both days I was flying but instead of just saying to everyone, “Hey folks, it’s windy as shit and these take offs and landings will be rough city, in addition to the fact that while we’re in the air we will be ricocheting side to side,” Evan and McLovin have to use a thesaurus to find every non-threatening way to say that. We heard everything from “it will be a bit gusty” to “slightly choppy conditions will make for a less than smooth landing.” And those “breaths of wind” are exactly the reason why I ended up in my sister’s lap with my arms tangled UNDERNEATH her legs whilst landing.

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Salty Stories

My First Big Girl Job

This past week I went down a very, very dark rabbit hole of perusing the documents saved on my computer. Being the nerd that I was, I had every paper, presentation and video I’d ever created dating back to 2009 when I got my very first lappytop. It was all fun and games lawling over my powerpoint on the Kardashians from my joke semester in Italy until I found my pre-blog days. When I graduated college I would randomly regurgitate blog-type rants and save them to look back on when I’d made it as a screenwriter and was famous as hell. Well here I am, an events assistant, uproariously laughing out loud at the things I bitched about when I was 22 or 23 and I’ve decided that since I now actually have an avenue to share them on, why not toss one in every once in a while for a #tbt laugh. This week’s edition is my stream of consciousness from my first post-college job where apparently I spent more time watching Days of Our Lives and picking my bike shorts out of my buhhole than actually doing anything worthwhile. I aptly titled it “The Office.”

Starting out at a new office this summer and I’m the part-time, temporary receptionist. The title alone gives everyone in the office reason to ignore me. They only see me half the day, if they happen to come to the front desk, and the job goes for three months. So I guess it makes sense that literally no one talks to me except for the one guy that realized I also am addicted to Days of Our Lives and we talk shop. By shop I obviously mean we talk about whose having sex and whose been arrested in Salem. Unfortunately like an asshole I couldn’t remember what happened in an episode the other day and he hasn’t talked to me since. I lost my only friend because I was distracted at work and couldn’t watch TV. Yep, the job is going well. Anyway, my point of this rant is that I was in the bathroom the other day thinking of how I’ve completely proven that I’m a weirdo, making it much more difficult for people to want to talk to me once they get past the fact that I’ll be gone in two weeks.

Anyway, have you ever gone into a public bathroom or a bathroom at work and considered that they might have security cameras in the bathroom (not the stalls you perv) to prevent theft or like group sex? Well as I was in there I did my normal questioning of if there’s cameras and then decided that I reallllyyyyyyyy hope there’s not. Reasons why I hope there are no security cameras in my office bathroom:

  1. I didn’t learn how to use the automatic paper towel dispenser for three weeks.

Okay so this is not even a little bit a joke, although I really wish it were. About halfway down the paper towel dispenser there is a hand waving above a red light, which I assumed to be a sensor. So for three whole weeks I jived my hand around that and almost cried every time no paper towels came out. Usually there was a backup roll that I could end up using after my frustrating dance. One time there wasn’t, and I returned to the desk with sopping hands, which was real uncomfy. One day, on accident my hand went under the dispenser as I was walking to the sink and magically a foot of paper towels shot out. It was that exact moment in life that I questioned how I graduated college.

  1. I often go into the bathroom to pull up my skirt or dress and pull my bike short spandex that I’m wearing underneath out of my butthole. I have never once gone into a stall to do this.

As a 22 year old chick I own about 4 dresses that are long enough to be considered business casj, so naturally I think it’s AOK to wear my short dresses with bike short spandex underneath, thinking that when the inevitable bend over occurs, at least someone will be getting a glimpse of spandex instead of my asshole. The only problem being that these shorts often like to hang out in my asshole, especially after four hours of sitting, so adjustments are absolutely necessary.

So that’s why I’m hoping there are no cams in the bathroom, or like a bathroom peeping tom (ew.) I did discover about a month into the job that two security cameras cover the front desk where I sit. So it’s a mere miracle that I haven’t been fired from my activity up there. Again I questioned my intelligence if I couldn’t figure out that a news station in the seediest area of Albany would have security cameras all around the reception area. Once I did and realized how many dumb things I did regularly, I started staring directly into the cameras after I did something dumb. So that definitely doesn’t draw attention to me… Anyway, things that the front desk security cameras have caught me doing:

  1. Taking stupid snapchat selfies.
  2. Re-taking snapchat selfies several times when I inevitably have a double chin.
  3. Picking my wedgie. (We went over this…)
  4. Throwing my phone and pretending I’m not using it every time I hear someone coming.
  5. Going to great lengths to hide the cover of whatever inappropriate book I’m reading when I have to answer the phone or someone comes in unexpectedly.
  6. Putting the phones on night mode when I go to the bathroom and then forgetting to switch it back after I sit down again, then sitting for an hour before realizing the phones are off.

Whoa, that escalated quickly into things I could potentially get fired from my part-time temporary receptionist position for. My bad guys….shit got real, real quick. Confessional OVER.

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