Salty Stories

Ripe and Ready to Be Scammed

Now that I am gainfully employed, I can publish deets about the long and treacherous job search that I hesitated to publish before for fear that it would somehow make me un-hireable. But JOKE’S ON YOU, cause I’ve proven to be hireable AF and now I’m going to use this mouth of mine to megaphone into the universe the trade secret of job hunting, which is that it is AFLUSH with scams. It was a secret I learned back in May of 2020 and then again twice more before I finally realized it was time to stop applying to jobs on LinkedIn. No shade to LinkedIn, but also all the shade because they allow companies to post whatever they want without fact-checking and third time was a charm for getting a chain text message from a multi-level “marketing” firm asking if I want a job or not. Anywho, here’s the firsthand account of the time I became a YouTube star to sell Xfinity packages.

May 10, 2020

You wanna hear how much my life is a joke? Pull up a seat and I’ll gladly share. After one too many panicky moments about my career and how the hell I’m going to get a job out of all of this and being unemployed for so long, I decided the most productive way to handle all of this is to just keep trying new things. It wastes time during the day and it can’t hurt at this point, right? So for the past couple of months I’ve been filling my days with self-appointed and useless work. Blogging, taking photos to edit on Photoshop and relearn a program I haven’t used since college, designing new logos and social media graphics, shooting hype videos and re-learning how to edit. Essentially I took my brother-in-law snarkily telling me that I wasn’t a content creator to become a full-ass *UNPAID* content creator, TikToks included. When I wasn’t busy producing a livestream for my dad’s music or coordinating an Instagram story happy hour with my sister (like I said, I turned into a member of the Syracuse Hype House) I was overhauling my resume, starting from scratch and designing two new resumes to cater to job applications in both marketing and events. I also spent a certain amount of hours each day on LinkedIn being an interactive nerd who shares inspirational articles and makes compelling comments on other people’s inspirational articles *insert the deepest of eye rolls here.* And of course, I was AGGRESSIVELY applying to jobs. 1. Because I have to in order to lawfully collect unemployment (many people have been taking that as a loose suggestion, but I’m a rule follower til I die) and 2. because I really really really want and need a job ASAP. I created national job alerts and anything that surfed through on the east coast, I applied to. I applied to jobs in Virginia, Georgia, Delaware, Rhode Island, New Jersey, Connecticut, Pennsylvania, Maryland, Massachusetts and obviously New York. I figured whatever job will take me at this point, that’s where I’ll move to. That became my new plan. Move to where the job is instead of moving to a place and hoping to find a job I like. I figured I’d shake things up since it’s really failed me in the past. 

And finally, I got a response. I applied for a Marketing Event Coordinator for a digital marketing agency in New Jersey and they reached out because they liked my spiffy new resume, or so I thought. (Clearly I just reeked of desperation.) I was so excited about my first nibble that I had barely researched the company and yet I was already picturing my apt and the frequent trips I’d make to the shore. It was meant to be! I just had to get the job. The first round was a short screening video that they had started using in Covid times to prevent any phone calls or contact. The CDC has said nothing about Covid transmitting through the phone but whatever, we’re in the digital age so video it is. I also received an email and a personal text from the admin assistant. Again, weird, but quickly overlooked. I finally had a reason to shower and put on pants that day and that was uplifting enough. Without any real instructions, I went to the hiring page that I was directed to and suddenly this Marketing Event Coordinator dream job that I had applied for was no where on their website and instead my options for open positions were three categories: internship, customer service, or management. This job fell into none of these categories so I chose management figuring it aligned more closely with my skills even if I’m FO SHO not skilled enough to be a manager. The details were to make a short introductory video so they can get a vibe for my personality and my goals and see if they aligned with the company goals before moving me forward into a formal interview. Makes sense, I’ve done screeners before they basically just want to weed out the morons.

Except I’ve never done a screener solo video style. It said I could do it at my own pace so I figured I’d have unlimited amounts of time to F this up and fired up the ole webcam. The first question was introduce yourself and tell us about you. Obviously this is the most typical question to start an interview with and yet EVERY SINGLE TIME I blow it. I never know where to start, I never know what details to focus on and what details to forget. Do I crack jokes and make pop culture references or go straight to reciting my career experiences? I started panicking hard. I got sweaty and shaky and my first take I just got, “Hi I’m Julia Giantomasi” out before cutting. Honestly I was stuttering so badly I think I mispronounced my own name. That’s when I was informed that I only get 3 takes and there is a 2 minute time limit to my answer. That really put me in an iron vice. I was not handling this well. I flashed back to when I would force my sister to call places for me or write a script of what I was supposed to say so I didn’t stumble and mess it up. She got tired of this role and eventually started writing me notes like this:

Well my sister wasn’t there to write me a passive aggressive “tell me about yourself” script so I was on an island here forced to just wing it while talking about myself. RECIPE FOR DISASTER. I felt like I should’ve ended the submission with if you like what you just heard, hit the subscribe button below! No one should EVER have to make a video selling themselves for a job. I got to my last take after moving locations (I was lounging on a chaise and that was not forgiving for my double chin sitch) and spending another 20 mins overthinking this very simple question with sopping wet pits. It was do or die time. I started with, “Hi I’m Julia Giantomasi and this is the first time I’m wearing pants with a button in several weeks…but that’s probably not what you wanted to know about me! Other than being in quarantine, I’ve been an event planner and coordinated logistics for the past six years, mostly in the entertainment industry.” It got a little rambley after that but it was my last take and that had to be it. At least I nailed the casj cool humor opening line. It would either get me bonus points and make me stick out, or sink me. I was cool with either outcome because who wants to work for a company with no sense of humor, yanno? The rest of the questions I got with one take and finished that shit as quickly as possible. Most questions were general about company values, career goals and what I’m looking for in a role–no huge red flags in what they were asking. I sent in my Bachelor tryout tape and hoped for the best. A few days later I was contacted again both via text and email (still weird) and asked to do a formal interview via Zoom. THE PANTS JOKE LANDED! (Is what I texted everyone I know.)

Cut to a night before the interview, me researching *insert company name here* (I may be mouthy but I’m not bold enough to call them out directly…they KNOW WHO THEY ARE) in preparation. A little last minute, I know, but I stink at interviews and just the mere thought of them gives me anxiety diarrhea so it’s best to keep that contained as much as possible. First stop: Glassdoor to see if this company is a shitstorm much like my underwear before an interview. What I found out is EVEN WORSE. I stumbled myself right into the open door of a pyramid scheme. In the interview category of reviews, I found 5 very recent posts and all of them culminated to RUN VERY FAR AWAY FROM THIS COMPANY. Settling. If I may quote some gems:

“scam scam scammmmmmm”

“Overall, a very strange experience. There is also barely any information online regarding this company. Proceed with caution.”

“Company is horrible. pyramid scheme. no benefits but wont tell you that till 2nd interview.”

“please stay away.”

Then I kept reading because at this point I needed to get to the bottom of if I should axe this interview before it even happens. In their official company reviews, their score is 4.1 stars with a 75% chance they’d be recommended to a friend. I figured hm, it can’t be that bad if that’s their rating. I started reading some reviews. All of the reviews were written in the past month, some only a day apart and they all read EXACTLY the same way. A snappy title about how great the job is, a line about how long the “person” has been working there and then pros and cons. The con is always only ONE thing and it’s something about the company culture that they want to brag about and listed as a con in a funny way. Here are actual examples of cons in these SEVERAL VERY FAKE reviews: they need another Xbox in the lobby, we should have coffee and donuts every morning—not just on Fridays, needs another ping pong table, the chairs are too comfortable in the lobby, need another turtle for the tank, they left the office dog in the San Francisco branch. WHAT THE FUCK. Is the dog ok? Whose taking care of it? Will the turtle be affected by an extra Xbox using electricity too close to its tank? Why the hell is a company writing their own very obviously fake reviews to boost their score on Glassdoor? OH THAT’S RIGHT because if you scroll past all of this bullshit, you see three reviews of people who have actually worked here and they read like THIS: DO NOT WORK HERE! PYRAMID SCHEME! Fake job titles, nothing but a scam! They hire everyone to do the same thing, stand inside of a store and try to sell Xfinity packages.

Looks like they’re still at it, this is a recent review. YIKES ON BIKES.

Cool, cool, cool, cool. This WOULD happen to me. I get one bite for a job, it looks perfect on Linkedin and suddenly I’m planning my life in New Jersey and wondering when I should move. OH WAIT ITS A PYRAMID SCHEME. I thought those things only existed on Facebook with losers from your high school or girls who sell false eyelashes and want you to get in on the makeup industry. I literally just have to laugh…At the fact that a company just bamboozled me into making a YouTube pitch on myself that they probably put in their spank bank in whatever frat bro’s basement these company reviews came from. YO YOUR XBOX IS SICK NASTY ALSO CHECK OUT THE VIDEO OF THIS GIRL IN THE YELLOW SWEATER VISIBLY SWEATING AS SHE TELLS US SHE HAS REAL PANTS ON. If interviews didn’t mentally and emotionally wreck me, I’d give this one a shot for the entertainment value to see how you can spin a shitty sales job into a “Marketing Event Coordinator” but alas I’d like to keep my diarrhea quota at a minimum on the week that I turn 29 and remain jobless as hell and ripe for a scam.

This exact scenario happened two more times although at least the later times I was wise enough to sniff them out via automated tandem email/texting rather than go through with step one of filming myself answer cookie cutter interview questions in my bedroom. It turns out Marketing has MANY different definitions in job application land and what I learned is that most of those definitions are “low-tier sales job for big brand names that use fake ad agency names to cover up the fact that you’ll be cold-calling people asking if they want to change their cellphone plan to Cricket.” But don’t worry guys, just give them a quick google search and you’ll learn…they’re not a regular company, they’re a COOL company cause BAGELS on FRIDAY’S. Thankfully I didn’t settle and I held out for a very legitimate job also in New Jersey and the dream of being a Shore Whore can finally be realized and I didn’t even need to enter a pyramid scheme to get here so HA. Also, I can eat a bagel whenever I damn well please and the chairs are mad comfy because I work from my living room. LiViNg LARGE.

Could really use a ping pong table though…

Standard
Salty Stories

Thirty, Flirty & Full of Anxiety.

Your life is over when you’re thirty. That’s what my older sister used to say. I think she started saying it in her teen years when 30 was SUUUPER far away. She was a fun party girl who could befriend a rock and I think she assumed the party would be over when she hit thirty. All I know is that I heard this so many times, I started to believe it. Thirty is when life gets a little more boring. You’re past the happy hours that turn into nights you come stumbling home at 2am shoving pizza into your pizza hole. You’ve got a stable job that has probably become a little stale and boring. You’re starting to settle down maybe by getting married, buying a house, perhaps having kids? When my sister turned 30 I laughed directly in her face and told her that her life was over because that was what she always said, right? And now that I’m 30, I’m hitting a very hard realization that I’d much rather be “boring” if it meant that I had everything she has. If you had asked dramatic emo teen Julia who whined in her journal every night where she’d be at 30? She would’ve said career, house, hubs, dog & maybe a kid on the way. See below for my 12 year old fantasies of my wedding:

Well folks, that couldn’t be further from my reality. In fact, even typing that out felt like I was writing a fictional fairytale. So now that I’ve gotten real with y’all, I’m gonna do what I do best. I’m taking my crushing insecurities about reaching a whole new decade and being nowhere near where I wanted to be in life, and spinning it into laughs. It’s a little thing we in the biz of comedy like to call a coping mechanism. Let me tell you, it’s a whole lot healthier to poke fun at myself through the written word and let us all giggle it out together than it is to drown my sorrows in rosé, which I will probably also do later on tonight so DON’T JUDGE ME. Anyway, for this milestone birthday I recruited most of my family members to coordinate a photoshoot one might have for a baby turning 1 so that I could get glammed up, overserve myself some champs and pretend I’m a model in downtown Syracuse. Then I jetted off to the West Coast to guarantee there wouldn’t be snowfall on my blessed day of birth and *hopefully* reenact LC & Lo partying at Les Deux with my bestie Kat. (TBD if Les Deux is still open or if partying is allowed post-covid but I was willing to shoot my shot.) And last but certainly not least, I’ve whipped up this blog for your entertainment. Rather than focus on the things I haven’t accomplished yet…

The Salty Ju’s Biggest Failures (as determined by where she wanted to be by age 30): 

-Laid off and on her third round of unemployment in the past 8 years.

-Has moved 11 times since she turned 18. (Not including the parents’ moves)

-Most certainly does not own a home.

-Does not own a car.

-Has not paid off college loans.

-Does not have a dog or offspring.

-Single AF.

-Severely lacking a career. And also, as noted above: a job. (Editor’s Note: this was factual when this was written but as of post date, ya gurl has a job so HA. Career to follow.)

I’ve decided to list out Thirty things I HAVE accomplished. Since this is completely subjective to what I FEEL is an accomplishment rather than what the outside world tells me SHOULD be an accomplishment, you’re in for a real wild ride through my dumb brain. BUCKLE YO’ SEATBELTS. (Wine may or may not have been consumed in the making of this list.)

30. Smoked hookah, drank white Russians and played tonsil hockey with a bartender in Spain. All in one night, BOOYAH. Also, I was 15 (but I said I was 17, duh.) Hot start. My parents are already proud of this list, I can tell. Fernando, if you’re still out there…you tried to swallow my head whole and I hope you’ve learned how to dial it back on the tongue usage otherwise T’s and P’s for your wife. Having to take a shamwow to your face after every smooch is less than desirable.

29. KFC Said I Was Funny. This is a very niche audience accomplishment but it was a turning moment for the sake of my “brand.” As an avid follower and fan of Barstool since I was 17, my favorite blogger through the years and the one whose angry and spiteful rants inspired me to finally strike out and start publishing my own angry and spiteful rants *about celebs* was KFC. He used to blog on the side at his full time job as an accountant and when I finally caved and started The Salty Ju, I was writing TV show recaps while I temped at Boston College. I’d do an expense report then look around and switch over to WordPress to talk about how unhealthy Kim and Kyle’s relationship was on RHOBH. After shooting a tweet to KFC saying I felt like him leading a double blog life, he followed me on Twitter. I geeked out like nobody’s biz. But that will never compare to me going to the KFC Radio live podcast in Boston and hitting up the meet and greet afterward with KFC not only recognizing who I was but also shouting “The Salty Ju! You’re funny, girl!” Music to my ding dang dong ears. My blog was FRE$H on the streets and not only was I being recognized as the Salty Ju but I was being recognized by my fave blogger of AWL time. It was an ultimate starstruck moment and I told every single person I knew. No one QUITE understood why it was such a big deal but it was to me. Would’ve been chill as hell if that compliment rolled into a job at Barstool but that’s just not the way the cookie crumbled (despite my several attempts). So at least we’ll always have that magical night when The Salty Ju became known to Boston as ~*~FuNnY~*~. Tysm to my OG Saratoga bestie Alex for not only agreeing to go to this show without knowing a single thing about Barstool because everyone else bailed on me, but also turning into a straight up paparazzi to catch the palpable energy of me attempting and failing to keep my chill all over a bunch of bloggers/podcasters. It’s probably for the best that I never meet Taylor Swift if this is how I acted around normies.

28. Accounting Superstar. I worked on a film set for exactly 4 weeks before Covid shut the world down and it took me exactly one week into production to win my first award. I know, I know, it’s like I was put on this planet to impress others. How did I get this award, you ask? Oh, I filled out all of my HR paperwork in a timely manner. Although I probably should’ve received a star cameo in said film, what I did receive was my photo hanging outside of the accounting office and a big ole bag of Syracuse’s finest salt potatoes. I try to stay humble but honestly once you win Accounting Superstar it’s like is there even anywhere else to go in life? 

27. Saw N*SYNC live in their P*RIME. N*SYNC is the greatest boy band of all time and Justin Timberlake is the greatest performer of all time so seeing their glorious choreography and flashy coordinated outfits with my own two peepers was an all-time moment. What made it even more memorable was the fact that it almost never happened because I was a little a-hole (shocking, I know) and my parents took the tix away from me. Plot twist, they felt so guilty for killing this dream for my sister and I that they rebought a second set of tix so we could go after all. And now it’s making my life accomplishment list so I GUESS IT WAS WORTH IT AFTER ALL, MOM AND DAD. (Update: my dad shared that he was much more educated for his second ticket purchase and got better seats right next to where N*SYNC appeared to kick off the show so just goes to show that bad behavior pays off.)

26. Reenacted Weekend at Bernies all for a Yanks spring training game in Florida. There’s no one more desperate for some vitamin D in an upstate winter than the girl who will fly down to Florida for a weekend while also dying a slow death from Mono. Soldiered through though thanks to the dream team propping me up—literally. Touched mad stingrays, took mad naps & saw Jeets and that toight ass play one last time before he retired.

25. Learned how to grill like a Pitmaster. I may have exaggerated a little bit there but I didn’t think knowing how to grill stuff was an accomplishment until I realized that most of my friends and all of the women in my family are not grill savvy. So now I feel preeettttyyyy cool about the fact that I can grill a dawg like nobody’s biz. Last summer under the advisement of my v. grill talented brother-in-law I even made myself a mean sirloin that straight melted in my mouth. CHEF’S KISS. What a solid life talent it is to be able to fire up the grill and BBQ some meats. I may make 90% of my meals in an air fryer but oh buddy, when summer comes, I sure know my way around a grill.

24. Went to a Rave (twice) and lived to tell the tale. This is the most out of body experience I’ve ever had. Literally because I drank so much that I vacated my body. Can’t call myself a true 90’s chick until I’ve attended a rave and I had absolutely no business being there. The first Barstool Blackout I missed the memo that girls essentially attend nude with some neon accents and made myself the below VERY sexy oversized men’s neon tee with a bunch of barstool catchphrases on it. I then took the theme way too seriously and blacked out for the first time in my life. Fell down an entire flight of stairs and lost all of my belongings including my fake ID that I demanded my sister replace. At least I still had my dignity, amirite?! Not. Round 2 resulted in a much cuter homemade shirt and a harsh realization that I had already aged out of this phase and standing in a sea of sweaty neons tripping their faces off was not my idea of a good time. Tough stuff, lesson learned. On the bright side: Blackout 2.0 occurred the night after the Boston Marathon bomber was finally captured and arrested so the rave was kicked off with Darth Vader leading the entire crowd in scream-singing the National Anthem in hands down one of the most patriotic moments ever. Still out on raves, tho.

23. Made this masterpiece. Once you learn that this was the FINAL project that I did to earn myself a Bachelor of Arts degree, it really puts things into perspective about how much of a joke college actually is. Not only was this music video inspired by a bunch of Taylor Swift lyrics, it was also just my backup plan. After spending an entire semester planning a completely different project, traveling to another college 3 hours away to film it, then promptly dropping the camera and ruining all of my footage…this music video was made in 2 weeks right down to the deadline wire after I begged my sister and her husband to help a girl out. I think we all know why I never became a filmmaker. 

22. Two-Time Scavenger Hunt Champ. If there is a themed scavenger hunt taking place in a downtown area that includes drinking, you can bet your ass my sister and I will participate and dominate that B. Although our Jesse and the Rippers team showed a lot of heart in the 90’s pub crawl, it was Team USA in the Olympic pub crawl and Team Who Let the Dogs Out in the Pup Crawl that were my two championship moments. Adult bevvies were consumed, clues were found, photos were taken & prizes were won. Although, once we found out our Olympics prize for Best Dressed was tickets to the circus, we told them to give those to a family in need. #Charity #ItsJustAboutTheThrillOfWinning

21. Pooped my pants as an adult 3 times. First time is an accident, second and third times…it’s a problem. That level of humiliation really humbles you. It’s a badge of honor that I wear proudly. I’ll spare you the messy deets but take comfort in the fact that each accident was mortifying in the moment, but hilarious to recount afterward. Sorry not sorry that I’m thirty years old and ANY story that involves a fart gone wrong will have me in full tears.

20. Learned how to not be terrified of babies. I may not have mastered how to control my bowels as a grownup but I’m very proud to say that when my little niece-monster was born, I was forced to adapt to the baby lifestyle. Since her father abandoned her a week into her life for a Mexican “work trip”, I got a crash course on feeding, burping, changing & making sure her neck was supported as hell. S/O to my little Babs for making me an Auntie and also twinning, selfie’ing & dancing with me.

19. Graduated College. I don’t really feel like this is that large of an accomplishment because it’s essentially 4 years that I’ll be paying off for the rest of my gosh darn life but the fact that I graduated college in a hurricane wearing 100 layers underneath my soaked robe and my hat literally flew off as I walked across the stage…that was priceless. Shout out to my entire family who also sat outside in a monsoon just to watch me receive an empty folder and cry about it afterward. It was the worst day ever and now that I look back (hindsight’s 20/20, yo) it was for sure an omen to my future. BUT I’M STILL KICKIN!

18. Climbed 463 *very* narrow steps to the top of the Duomo in Florence. You’ll notice that this is on the list and hiking a volcano isn’t because it was 100x harder than that hike and also way more claustrophobic so I take more pride in this one. I’m guessing our Italian homies in the 1400’s did not build the Duomo with thousands of tourists trekking through its narrow passageways in mind. 

17. Partied all night before a flight. This is one of those things that you get talked into when you’re inebriated and looking back I would probably never fall for it again. On my last night in Florence closing up my semester abroad, my friend and I were painting the town buzzed and decided to never let the fun end. We stayed out all night bar hopping and traipsing the streets of Firenze then stopped back home to grab our suitcases and share a cab to the airport in the morning. Would’ve been smooth sailing to just pass out on my flight back to the US of A except that Italy had one of their many infamous transportation strikes that day which led me to a 6 hour bus ride to Rome to re route my flights. Wanna know what a 6 hour bus ride feels like when you start to sober up? It feels like the seventh circle of hell. Was it worth it? My heart says yes but my intestines said nope. (Surprisingly, this was NOT one of the three times I’ve crapped my pants. Close call tho.)

16. Lived with a boy. This is smack dab in the middle of my list because it is CERTAINLY an accomplishment that I was able to cohabitate with a boy and yet if you’ll recall from above I’m very single so obviously it wasn’t the greatest success story. HOWEVER, knowing how neurotic, OCD and clean I am and how I’ve done everything in my power to never have roomies again due to my very specific way of living, I’d still call it an all-around win. The bennies far outweighed the negatives on sharing a small dwelling with a smelly boy. Also important to note: this occurred pre-pandemic. Throw a panny in the mix and all bets are off on co-habitating.

15. Bought a couch. The couch saga of 2020 is one that will go down in history as a real shitshow. It includes being persuaded to buy a used couch I didn’t want just because the guy was hot, reselling it a week later, checking way too many furniture stores, roping everyone I know into the dramatic process and then FINALLY finding the grey couch I wanted for a budget price. This isn’t just a couch, this is a symbol of my independence, GURRRLLLLL.

14. Peed in the ocean. Anyone who knows how I have crippling pee anxiety understands what an accomplishment this was for me. It was such a monumental moment that I literally cried out into the ocean breeze, “I’M DOING IT!!!!” Totes understand why everyone quickly swam away.

13. Rosé on Broadway. Bringing in unlucky number 13 on the ole accomplishment list because as everyone knows it was the greatest wine festival ever planned to never ever take place. My addiction to pink wine and all things basic betch drinking festivals allowed me to create this bangpiece of an event that maybe one day people will actually buy tickets to attend.

12. Held a Joey & Fed A Giraffe. Call me Joe Freakin’ Exotic because nothing makes me happier than cuddling/interacting with wild animals. TYSM to the trash-hole backyard zoo in ‘Nango for giving me all of the opportunities to embrace my inner Bindi Irwin, sans khakis.

11. Survived the Great Zucchini Toss of 2019. The world (and more specifically, my hibachi chef) tried to take me out at my own 28th birthday dinner, but I said IT’S NOT MY TIME YET. One perfectly arc’ed raw zucchini took a smooth dive right into my trachea and I sucked air and sputtered with wide panicked eyes until I eventually gakked it up underneath the table. Not only did I learn that not a single soul in that restaurant was even remotely concerned that I was choking to death, but also my favorite simple pleasure of an onion volcano on fire being pushed around an open grill while a chef shouts CHOO CHOO will forever be marred by this incident. No more Hibachi birthdays.

10. Explored Porto Solo Dolo. I’m not the type of person who is confident enough to grab dinner alone or see a movie with me, myself and I. So on a trip to Portugal with my dad and his work colleagues, when I was left to my own devices for the day I was ready to just hide in the hotel room and read my trashy novel. But I decided to face my fears and explore a foreign country by my lonesome and boy am I glad I did. I worked on my “stop thinking everyone is always staring at you” mentality and even stepped directly into the ocean in my sneakers trying to get a self timer pic of me beachin it up. Crushed it.

9. Shot a gun. It was A W E S O M E. Shouts to the Poultney gang who helped facilitate this and trusted me to operate a firearm 30 seconds after meeting me. Double shouts to my friend Kass who realized how important it was to document every second of my transformation to a country girl for the gram.

8. Got rejected more in one year than probably most of you have in your entire lifetime. This is a sore subject, cause on the one hand I’ve cried my face off about it way too many times. HOWEVER, positive spin—I can probably handle rejection better than the average person now. You don’t get stomped down every day for a year and not come out stronger, amirite? Plus check out my sick Wall of Rejection that I made to keep me humble. It’s strategically placed behind me so that if I never look back, it’s almost as if it never happened. HA. TAKE THAT, REJECTION! (Also, a framed photo of me dancing in a sunflower field because I dance right in the face of people telling me no.)

7. Biked 20 Miles. When I first started dusting off the ole wheels a few years ago, a five mile bike ride was more than enough for me to feel athletic but not actually exert myself. Biking to drinks was my MO, especially when I was gifted my adorbs teal beach cruiser. It was more of a lifestyle than an achievement. Then quarantine hit and I realized I had no goals on the horizon so I told myself I would bike 20 miles by the end of the summer. It took me MUCH longer than that. Going from a few miles up to 20 was not easy breezy but I stuck with it through all the trials and tribulations (of which there were many) and finally nailed a 20 miler. RIP to my lady bits.

6. Picked out, hauled in & decorated my own Christmas Tree. Nothing brings me more satisfaction than the look on my neighbor’s face as she peeping tom’ed through her upstairs window at me hoisting a robust pine tree over my shoulder and dragging it through my front door. Ya that’s right, betch, JUST CALL ME PAUL BUNYAN. The tree looked and smelled majestic for two whole months and I got to send everyone I know an OBNOXIOUS solo Christmas card to brag about my accomplishment.

5. Created The Salty Ju six years ago and have now maintained it for longer than any job I’ve ever had. Can you imagine if I didn’t have a highly esteemed platform that I pay an annual fee for to share this ICONIC list?! That’s not a world I want to live in. Thank GAWD I invented The Salty Ju. 

4. Published by a humor site thus allowing me to refer to myself as a comedy writer unironically. This was a BIG moment for ya girl. Blogging was a hobby and my audience was my immediate family and friends. Once I was published by an outside source, I could officially call myself a writer and there’s a slight chance I really overused it. In case you missed it…here’s my claim to fame. And also my second published piece that was rejected by everyone else so a blog called Rejected Writers threw me a bone. STILL COUNTS. I’M A COMEDY WRITER!

3. Saved Money. Just a couple of years ago I was going into the back room at work to call Bank of America and yell at them for drilling me with maintenance fees because my “savings account” dipped below $300. I got stuck in a cycle of those dirty MF’ers just repeatedly taking what very little money I had. I think at one point I got so mad that I told them it would be more beneficial for me to have a piggy bank at this point with the way they’re punishing me for being poor. Anyway, I tell you that sob story to make you realize that ever since I graduated college, I’ve lived paycheck to paycheck—typically with multiple jobs. For the first time ever I have a savings account and it feels good as hell so suck on THAT, BANK OF AMERICA.

2. Wrote a book. A national shutdown and almost two years of unemployment can really take you to new levels of boredom. For a type A chick like me, I just did everything I could to stay busy, which included writing a collection of my personal essays and compiling them into a whole ass book. It may not be published (yet) but it is one of the greatest accomplishments of my life and I feel pretty freakin awesome that I did it. I taught myself everything there is to know about submitting to publishers and agents, formatting into a manuscript and thanks to my family, I even got my own collector’s edition (art by my fave cousin Ray Ray.) Maybe one day it’ll be sold at a bookstore near you (or like…Amazon) and then I can call myself an AUTHOR too. 

1. Got a REAL DEAL job. I purposefully left #1 open as I crafted this blog over several weeks and wouldn’t you know it, in a total Hail Mary down to the buzzer moment, ya girl got offered a job before entering a new decade of life. WHAT A SUCCESS STORY! Since October 23, 2019, I’ve applied to 215 jobs and had 50 interviews. I’ve updated my resume countless times. I’ve joined networking groups and mentoring groups. I’ve had zoom meetings with strangers “just to connect.” I’ve walked into places and asked if they’re hiring. I’ve been served some cold rejection emails and I’ve been straight up ghosted after interviews. I took a one week hiatus in late January after a particularly rough rejection to cry a lot, binge Real Housewives of NY and contemplate the meaning of life with Disney Pixar’s Soul. And then I kept crushing my own soul by applying to more jobs. Let that be a lesson to all of you, if you try REALLY REALLY hard to get a job for a solid year and a half, you just might finally snag one. Or in my case, two. When it rains, it pours, amirite?! So cheers to the Dirty 30 beginning with a new adventure in the Dirty Jerze. Say dirty again. THE SALTY JU TAKES THE DIRTY JERZE COMING TO A THEATER NEAR YOU THIS SUMMER!

Standard
Salty Stories

My Body Was Not Built To Climb Mountains

It’s that time of year again in Upstate NY. The snow is “melting” into black-spotted mounds surrounded by mud, the temps are hitting 50 which brings out society’s inability to dress appropriately and it’s no longer pitch black outside while you drive home from work in the freezing cold. SPRING HAS SPRUNG, Y’ALL! And not only does that mean seeing bozo’s wearing flip flops with their disgusting feet that they prematurely pulled out of winter hibernation loudly on display, but it also means all of your hiking friends come out of the woodwork. You know the type, the people who CHOOSE to wake up at 4am on a Saturday morning, scale the rocky side of a mountain and then sit unnaturally close to the edge of a cliff to watch the sunrise. I say this with the MOST jealousy because I’ve forever wanted to post a cool-ass Insta of me at the top of a mountain with the sun cresting behind me, bragging about how casj and effortless it was to hike my 14th high peak. I want that for myself SO badly, that I’ve attempted hiking. I’ve attempted hiking knowing that on a regular Tuesday, I trip over my own feet an alarming amount of times. A few days ago I slid stepping into the shower and smashed my shin off of the tile so hard that I screamed and just stood there in the water for a hot second contemplating how I haven’t fallen to my death yet. It’s a valid question for someone as uncoordinated as I am who also lives alone.  

Not only am I clumsy but fun fact numero dos: I get VERY winded from exerting myself physically. If you’ve ever been on a phone call with me while I’ve gone up a flight of stairs oh baby, are you in for a treat. I gasp for air from the slightest activity. So yeah, this ganglerod disaster who is regularly out of breathe from walking voluntarily scaled a mountain. THRICE. The first time was in Hawaii. Humble brag. I climbed Diamond Head. Climbed is a generous term. I feel like I need to get ahead of the story here and admit that I had absolutely 0 plans to do any physical activity on my work trip/vacation. My vacay mode is beachin and drinkin and it is almost NEVER climbin. Except for the fact that it stormed for the majority of my trip, which really put a damper on beachin. So that’s how I found myself agreeing to join a VERY fit friend on the Diamond Head adventure. I figured I didn’t have anything better to do and it sounds BADASS as hell to tell people you climbed a freaking volcano. I was doing it strictly for the story and for the ‘gram. (In case you haven’t figured it out yet, that’s basically how I live my life.) As our gang started the hike, I knew I was in trouble when families with small children, all wearing flip flops (at least they were summer-ready feet) were immediately lapping us and we’d barely just begun our journey. Nothing kills your confidence quicker than a 4 year old in beach gear showing you up. The rest of the hike was no less than 15 years long. Built for tourism, it was essentially paved with railings the entire way and yet I still felt as though I was being personally attacked by this volcano. If it had erupted, I would’ve just nodded in understanding and lied down, letting the hot lava solidify me there in my huffy embarrassment. I kept chugging though. I wanted that money shot at the top and I would die getting to it if I had to. As if Diamond Head was a salty bitch and knew my intentions for hiking her weren’t pure, she decided to do me dirty one last time. The last segment of the hike is just a staircase. It quite literally looks like the stairway to heaven. You can’t see the top, you just see stairs going up toward the sky. And there were A LOT of them. This was like a 7 floor walkup just to finish this damn hike. I stopped at the bottom and literally laughed out loud (and took the picture below.) Well played, you fiery volcano, you. My friend ran full speed up the infinity stairs because clearly she didn’t feel challenged enough by being forced to keep pace with a 26 year old trapped in a 96 year olds body. Sorry bout it. I took the steps one by one, thinking about the consequences of my actions. This is what I get myself into when I live for the gram. On the bright side, after that giant stairmaster, and a very rusty spiral staircase immediately afterward, I can only hope I was one step closer to buns of steel.

My friend, Rocky’ing the shit out of these endless stairs
Not sketchy at all

Plus, the view WAS pretty flawless. I also took it one step further and hopped a fence that said “don’t cross this fence” to literally sit on the ledge and dangle my feet. If I was going to do the equivalent of a year’s worth of workouts in one afternoon, you bet your ass I’m gonna illegally dangle (trembling with fear the entire time) to make it worth my while. The over-edited shot that I posted accompanied by my supes casj cool caption basically qualified me as a fitness influencer, so my job here was done. Everyone believed that I do this every weekend and didn’t just almost keel over and die on a hike that toddlers were doing with ease. And I bet not a soul knew that while I was “livin on the edge” I was also crapping my pants with fear. Insta-magic.

The second and third (final) hikes of my life just so happened to be the same exact hike. Again, motivated by aesthetics. I’ve always wanted to peep the foliage from a mountain as well, so I took a poll from my hike-happy friends and all agreed that the tamest one for me to tackle while still getting an eyeful of orange leaves was Pilot Knob in Lake George. After a Saturday full of drinking, I forced my boyf at the time to do nature with me for a nice Sunday cleanse. Our definition of cleanse started with eating hot dogs and cheese fries out of a food truck first. I’m not sure exactly what is the correct hiking fuel, but if I had to guess, wieners and processed cheese probably isn’t it. Whatever, it was delicious. This hike turned out to be the real deal. In fact, it had a journal at the bottom for you to “check in” aka if you go missing in the woods, at least the cops looking for your dead body know you’re definitely there and how long you’ve been gone for. The boyf and I were unaware of that feature and felt very confident charging into this hike until roughly 3 minutes in when we were confused where the actual path was and started to second guess if we even knew how to follow a marked trail. Thankfully a family was near and we could follow them…until we couldn’t see them anymore. SERIOUSLY WHAT IS IT WITH TAKING YOUR SMALL CHILDREN ON HIKES? It’s just downright embarrassing for us fatties. They’re like speed racers, I tell ya. This hike was directly uphill. There were leaves and branches scattered about, the stairs were just jutted out rocks and there were multiple times that I slid on a wet patch. It was horrific, but again, I wanted that leaf porn. We huffed and puffed to the top, and honestly, leaves weren’t even peak anymore. I didn’t feel accomplished. I just wondered, probably out loud, “Who actually enjoys this?” After a photoshoot to mark our athletic achievement, the boyf and I agreed that this was a one-time deal and never under any circumstances would we become hiking people and we beat it down the mountain back to the comfort of our couch. 

The deadest leaves in all the land
vs.
What I edited the shit out of and posted on IG:

I hate to even admit this, but the next time I did this hike was the following summer with a group of friends and if you’re wondering how I ever agreed to join them…so am I. You know when women say they forget about the pain and trauma of childbirth when they’re having more kids? I think that’s what happened here. Enough time had passed for me to look back on Pilot’s Knob with an easy breezy attitude like it was a walk in the park. I remembered it not being that bad and also this time, there was alcohol to be had at the top for sunset. Call me an alcoholic but that was for sure a motivator. Apparently I had blacked out that HIKING IS THE ACTUAL WORST AND THIS BODY WAS NOT BUILT TO CLIMB MOUNTAINS. But if we learned our lessons the first time, that wouldn’t really be life, now would it? I accompanied a friend of mine who invited a bunch of her other friends I had never met. Essentially I was hiking with a pack of strangers and guess what?! They were all pro hikers. Some of them were even wearing hiking boots. It was clear from the jump that my tank top with slits up the side that read “If only sass burned calories” wasn’t going to cut it with this seasoned outdoor gang. After a late start and the realization that the sun was about to set in 20 mins, everyone kicked it into high gear essentially running to the top of the mountain. Again, quick reminder that I was surrounded by the kind of people who grew up playing sports…and not in the participation trophy kind of way I did. I was quite literally wheezing to keep up while simultaneously mortified that this would be a long lasting first impression to this new crew. I finally waved everyone off to go on and leave me alone on this mountain to hopefully die and leave my horribly out of shape body to be eaten. My beefcake of an ass would be a delicacy to whatever roamed the Adirondacks…at least I have that going for me. For a brief moment, I considered chugging a seltzer as I dragged my body up thinking a buzz might put a little pep in my step but honestly I probably would’ve just given myself a foot cramp and tumbled back down to the bottom. I will also be forthright with you and admit that there were tears. Not like a sobbing moment…more like a who the hell do I think I am teary-eyed moment. When I finally crested the top, I tried to play it off like I went that slow on purpose to take in the scenery and not because it’s exhausting for me to support my own body weight when it’s not laying horizontally. I chugged the seltzers that I earned, took some shitty sunset photos that I refused to be in because I looked like a sweaty garbage can, and got ready to reach my grand finale of forest-related walking. Another key factor that I didn’t think through all the way, if you’re climbing a mountain to see the sun set, YOUR HIKE DOWN WILL BE PITCH BLACK. Guess what doesn’t have lights? The woods. *cue Taylor Swift’s 1989 sleeper hit are we out of the woods yet are we out of the woods yet are we out of the woods yet playing on loop in my terrified brain.* I saw exactly one snake on my descent using a cell phone flashlight and it never for a second crossed my mind that ALL THE CREATURES WOULD BE OUT AND I WOULDN’T BE ABLE TO SEE THEM. So that’s it for my hiking career. I tried guys, I really did. I envy your outdoorsy adventures solely for the pictures because I’m a real picture whore. But NO PHOTO is worth stumbling over rocks on a steep incline amongst woodland creatures for. When Elon Musk invents a way for me to get the breathtaking shots without the exertion– a quick elevator ride to the top, perhaps? Then I’ll be all in on hiking.

Seltzer hit harder than this sunset

PS I also attempted a brisk walk in the woods this spring (level ground), gasped for air the entire time, tripped over twigs and ended up with blisters on both of my heels so let’s just go ahead and cancel my body because I’m not even 30 yet and walking in general is a no for me, dawg.

Standard
Salty Stories

Aloha, Bus Driver From My Nightmares!

It was this time three years ago that I was about to embark on the biggest trip of my life. Through my esteemed work as a beer festival event coordinator, I was granted the opportunity to travel to Hawaii to run Honolulu on Tap—because when you live in paradise, why wouldn’t you buy an overpriced ticket to hang out in a giant convention center and drink beer for an entire day? Never one to pass up turning a once in a lifetime work trip into a tropical beach vacay, I recruited my bestie to come with me, mostly so that I could have a snorkeling, beachin & drinkin buddy but also because returning to upstate NY shouting Mahalo and crushing the dubz hang loose hands is WAY funnier tag team style. The plane ride from New York to Honolulu was going to be 11 hours and that is without a doubt the longest I’ve ever been trapped in a plane over the ocean. So how did my body prepare? Oh, glad you asked. By getting a Biiiiiitch of a cold/flu/sinus infection exactly one day prior to my travel. My friend and I started our journey to the land of loosie goosies by taking a four hour bus ride from Albany down to NYC where we would then spend the night with another friend and wake up at the ass of dawn for our 11 hour flight. After mainlining Emergen-C and taking a midday snooze the day before did absolutely nothing to stop the freight train of sickness from ravaging my body, there was 0% of me that wanted to travel for the next few days. Little did I know that it would be a real shitstorm with or without snot profusely leaking out of my nose. 

We boarded the bus and found our seats, ready for naptime as the sun had already set. I was just getting as comfortable as a 5’9” ganglerod can in a very limited legroom bus seat when we heard the crackle of the loudspeaker. As soon as our driver began his announcements, my friend and I knew we were in for the ride of our lives. It appeared as though luck had placed us on a vehicle driven by Satan himself. I’ve never experienced “announcements” on a bus past age 11 and yet here I was at 26 listening to a driver sternly tell a packed bus of grown adults that this would be a QUIET ride and we would NOT want to find out what happens if someone speaks. Uh, RED FLAG MUCH? As someone who had sneezed about 14 times just boarding the bus alone, I immediately began to shake with fear that my body would betray me and I’d get ejected at full speed on the highway for my noisemaking on the silent bus. It turns out, I didn’t need to stifle my sneezes or dab at my waterfall of snot quietly (not being able to blow your nose just makes it 100x sloppier) because I wasn’t going to be the culprit who took this ship down.

About an hour into the ride after SEVERAL shushes from our fearless leader when someone dared to crinkle a snack wrapper (it was me…snacking is life), a cellphone ringtone echoed through the prison that was our ride. A collective gasp was heard as we wondered what the punishment would be but THAT WASN’T ALL. Following the jingle, we heard a normal speaking voice carrying a godforsaken cell phone conversation. The driver was swift to hit that loudspeaker again and tell this renegade to get the hell off of her phone or get the hell off of this bus. She did not oblige. He continued to harass her via tiny bus megaphone, while the rest of us cringed out of our skin and wanted to die on the spot rather than find out what happens when in a free country you take a phone call on a bus that you paid to sit on. The crew was getting restless, people shouted from the back for this woman to just get off her phone and save us all. Amongst the vocal unrest, a hero that we didn’t ask for, but that we all needed came to this cellphone yapper’s defense and fired back that this woman was receiving news of a death. I mean, you can’t script it, folks. This seemed to settle the Lord of the Flies crowd forming in the back preparing for a forced takedown of cellphone lady. You know who did not settle for one single second?

Nazi bus driver.

We could now hear that the lady was upset and rather than easing up on the code of silence, our bus driver doubled down as someone who probably kicks puppies does. HE PULLED THE BUS OVER. This MF’er whipped that bus right off the side of the highway, slammed it in park and warned us he would not be putting it back into drive until this bus was noise-free. A riot ensued. Shouts went from back to front, the driver continued to prove he was an incredibly mentally-unstable individual and most importantly, our safety was in this man’s hands. A man who PULLED THE BUS OVER ON THE HIGHWAY LIKE WE WERE HIS CHILDREN FIGHTING IN THE BACK AND HE WANTED TO TEACH US A LESSON. Nope, no children fighting here, Sarge, just a grown woman receiving a death announcement via telephone and crying about it. I obviously sat there in silence, clutching a tissue to my face to hide the fact that I was downright terrified of not only this much stranger interaction, but also that this unhinged man was put in ANY position of power. Obviously I would be the first to be eaten on a desert island. After much convincing, and a promise from the grieving lady that she wouldn’t dare use her cellphone again and would dial her sobs down to a suppressed hiccup, Driving Hitler allowed us to continue our journey of silence. There would be no round robin singing of ‘The Wheels on the Bus go round and round’ on this ride.

We arrived in NYC without another incident and I’ve never scrambled off of a bus faster—and that’s saying a lot because my middle school bus driver’s nickname was Chomo for child molester. And that was just the first leg of our trip. I danced in and out of a fever throughout the night, taunted by nightmares of our bus driver hitting the gas off of a cliff plummeting to our death because I had audibly farted in my sleep, then boarded a plane for 11 hours of mouth breathing and a fiery sore throat. The good news is I survived. The bad news is it rained all week in Hawaii, our snorkeling excursion was cancelled due to high winds, I reversed the rental car into a cement parking beam, and exactly 3 days after I returned from the biggest trip of my life and finally kicked my sinus infection, I was laid off. You know who probably wasn’t laid off after terrorizing his passengers? That bus driver. MAHALO.

Standard
Salty Stories

Hydration Is For Suckers

There’s a whole lot of annoying people in this world. Believe me, I live in a constant state of annoyance and if you give me about thirty seconds I could fire off a list of things currently grinding my gears and point out everyone’s obnoxious qualities. See? That’s MY obnoxious quality. Near the top of that list are people who tell you to drink more water. These people are usually females, and they will always promise that drinking more water will CHANGE 👏🏼 YOUR 👏🏼 LIFE 👏🏼 GURL! In addition to being as irritable as a small baby with colic, I’ve also lived my entire life in a constant state of dehydration. I’m very aware of the fact that I don’t drink enough water. I drink water with my three meals a day, toss in a coffee every morning (which basically deducts that first water) and that pretty much sums up my day. Way, WAY back when I had a desk job, I’d keep a tumbler of water at my desk to sip during snacktime, but often didn’t finish more than one cup a day. Water washed my food down my gullet and that’s pretty much the sole purpose it has served in my life. Here’s a few other fun facts about me though: I have heavy digestive issues with an emphasis on the D for Diarrhea, I get horrifically crippling hangovers and sometimes my foot will seize off of my body at stupid times of the day in Charlie-horse style cramps—usually when I’m exercising or in the middle of the night when I’m just trying to catch some Z’s. You don’t need to be a doctor to assume that all of these ailments could probably be cured by having a few more glasses of water a day. But I’ve just never been able to bring myself to do it. Obviously counterpoint number one to drinking more water is the inconvenience of needing to pee every few minutes. As someone who has performance anxiety when it comes to peeing in a public bathroom–why are bathrooms a thousand times quieter when there are other people in the stalls?–I never felt the need to create even more stressful situations just by drinking more water. Plus, water just doesn’t taste that great. I mean, be honest with yourself, water is a pretty trash drink. Oh, just continuously sip something that tastes like NOTHING all day long? Get outta here.

So I carried on living my life like the H2O-lacking heathen that I am. Whenever someone brought it up and was like GIRL, just drink eight glasses a day and you’ll NOTICE a difference. I just nodded my head and smiled like you do when someone yaps about a show on Netflix you MUST watch that you 100% know you will never watch. These water worshippers would RAVE that drinking more water will make you lose weight, and clear up your skin, and help your digestion and overall just make you feel like a QUEEN. Ya, ya whatevs. I’m just going to keep destroying my body at an alarming rate. But then, something changed. On my 9th month of unemployment, I was listening to the Token CEO Podcast where someone else was being interviewed about being laid off as well. She pointed out that since it was her second time around on unemployment, it didn’t feel as bad…plus with a national pandemic, there are a lot of people in the same spot. And I thought to myself PREACH. I’m on my third bout of unemployment since graduating college and subsequently my LONGEST one and yet I think I’m the least phased. It’s just a way of life now to never have a G-D job–not for lack of trying of course. I felt connected to this podcast soul sister. At the end of her interview she gave out a tip of advice and it was “drink more water” immediately followed by, “I know everyone says that and shit and I always ignored it but I’ve been doing it lately and honestly I do feel better.” And once again, I felt a kindred spirit in this asshole who was equally as unemployed and also scoffed at people bragging about the health benefits of the plainest drink in the world. And I thought, well what the fuck else am I doing? Now seems like a great time to finally succeed at something rather than fail for once. Clearly I had reached the point where I’d do anything for a win. So the next day, I downloaded a water tracking app for accountability and because my Type A ass NEEDS to check off boxes. Did I really DRINK water if I didn’t log it? Nope. Obviously not.

After testing one app for about 30 seconds and immediately getting annoyed by the ads crowding up my eyesight—no I will not pay for a water tracking app, I don’t even know if I’m going to keep up with this for more than one week. The next free app I downloaded had a lovely percentage bar graphic that was pleasing to the eye and made me feel like I had something to work toward each day. I entered my weight and height and this almighty app told me that 76 oz was my recommended dose per day. It seemed low to the naked eye but seemed even lower when I realized that I own a water bottle that’s 28 oz and I was slurping several of those a day. My first day of tracking I logged 138 oz without even trying. I was ALREADY crushing it. And true to my fantasy life, I was already envisioning eradicating all my tummy probs, having glowing skin, a model bod, and never getting hungover again. The next morning, a reminder to drink water alerted me at 6AM and I quickly turned off the annoying notifications. I was lapping this app, I didn’t need to be told before my eyes even opened that I should be drinking water. LET ME HAVE MY REST TIME. Plus I was reaching my goal by 12pm every day and this app needed to learn to respect my water-drinking hustle during waking hours only. I continued my waterboarding for weeks. I wanted to kill myself with the constant dribble of pee that was threatening to burst out of my urethra every time I breathed, but I assumed much like breaking the seal, this was something my body would get used to and would lessen over time. To distract myself, I took to bragging to everyone around me that my water intake was off the charts and therefore I was superior to them. This made me feel a whole lot better about the fact that I was spending roughly all of my day in the bathroom and dedicating all of my efforts to tracking my bevs like it was my full-time job–to be fair, it kinda was.

And yet, all these days of basically drowning myself and I was still constipated. So much so, that I had to take a laxative to create some movement. I paused to feel confused about the fact that I was basically on a liquid diet and yet my intestines were still like nah, we’re at capacity and we don’t really care. I also was expecting to basically never see a zit again and I was getting chest acne like nobody’s biz from working out and generally being sweaty 24/7 (cause summer, duh.) Another red flag that caused me to wonder if this water thing is really all it’s cracked up to be. Finally, I reached my breaking point. On a particularly sunny Wednesday, I ate a full lunch and then saw a beer sitting in the fridge leftover from a beach day. The beer was a Pina Colada Wheat and I had chosen it specifically for the sun and sand because I wanted to also be drinking alcoholic sunscreen, obviously. I never got around to it and it got pushed to the back of the fridge. I was feeling rather frisky from the nice weather and I decided to give it a try. It was a craft beer of 7.4% alcohol—something I would certainly not find on my trusty water tracking app, and knowing the lightweight that I am, I took it nice and slow. I drank that bad boy over the course of almost two hours. And when I finished it, I kid you not, I was trashed. Kinda a low point for me if we’re being honest. Rather than pass out for a midday buzzed siesta at 4pm on a weekday, I decided to power through the buzz and chug another 28 oz water. I was obviously well above my “goal” at this point in the day and thought surely this magically-powered drink that is supposed to change your life would bring me down from this buzz and also eliminate any bad feelings that would come my way by dinner time. NOPE. By dinner I had a full blown hangover. FROM ONE BEER, FOLKS. And that’s precisely when I called bullshit on this whole drink more water to become your best self philosophy. I ranted to my mom as loud as my headache would allow. How is it that I am THE MOST hydrated, and yet got hungover from one lousy sunscreen tastin’ beer? HOW?! Riddle me that, WATER DICK SUCKERS. After months of drinking over 100 oz of water per day, not a thing about me had changed. My skin was still pre-teen zitty garbage. My flabby muffin top was ever-present. My intestines constantly reminded me that I’m no better than a nursing home resident. I either needed a healthy dose of Prune Juice or an adult diaper and there was no in between. And ya know what? Why don’t you just go ahead and saw my brain in half every time I indulge in an alcoholic beverage. I’m over it. Water worshippers go back to being the most annoying people alive that I’ll ignore for the rest of my life. Nope, that’s a lie. I won’t ignore them. I’ll tell them point blank that they sit on a fountain of lies. AND I HAVE THE APP AND CONSTANT STATE OF DETERIORATION TO PROVE IT.

Editors Note: Due to the fact that this was originally written in August 2020 and it is now February 2021, I wanted to give you all an update on the watering process. Despite my untethered rage toward hydration, I have maintained tracking my agua intake so that I may continue to poke holes in the theory that being hydrated does anything for your body other than giving you bragging rights for drinking the recommended dose of water daily. I appreciate your concern for how much I have to pee in a regular day and I can confirm that I have adjusted, but as I sit here with a sizable zit on my neck, I can also confirm that nothing good has come from my great H2O hustle. Therefore I will continue to shout from the rooftops that WATER IS STUPID. I look forward to the day when I have health insurance again and can boom roast my PCP with my well-researched findings that hydration is for wieners. No further questions at this time.

Standard
Salty Stories

Let The Creatures Take Me.

I don’t do creatures. You’re probably wondering, what are creatures? Oh wow, great question, thanks for asking! This is my all-encompassing term to describe anything that creeps me out and thus should not be allowed in my vicinity, let alone sharing a home with me. In middle school one of my friends told me that you’re always within three feet of a spider while we were camping out in her backyard and I almost didn’t walk in the grass back to her house for fear of how many spiders my feet would come in contact with in the grass. I would’ve become a permanent resident of that tent just to avoid being NEAR a spider. There have been multiple incidents since then where I have considered torching my car upon finding webs INSIDE the vehicle but the culprit was missing. It’s like it couldn’t help spinning that home with it’s butt and then going into hiding, knowing what a psychological mind fuck it is for me to find a new cob web every time I go to drive somewhere but the architect was still at large. In fact, now that I really stop and think about it, I’ve been taunted by creatures my whole life.

There was a very significant stink bug phase of my adult life where every apartment that I lived in had an infestation of stink bugs during peak season and I just had to fight them off as they took over my home, knowing that if I squashed them, they would FURTHER punish me AFTER THEY HAVE PASSED by releasing their stink into the atmosphere. And that’s not even my biggest complaint about stink bugs because a little bit of smell is overshadowed by the comfort of knowing they are done haunting me. My biggest issue with them is that they fly. WHY OH WHY did we let these insects grow wings? If they were just stationary bugs I would have no issue stomping on them, but instead they turn into freaking pterodactyls and buzz all over the joint making them ten times more terrifying. The first time I learned that they can take to the sky was in my first solo apartment. I was making dinner when I heard a buzzing so loud I could only assume I was being swarmed by locusts and then it was INCREDIBLY close to my ear and I went to touch my hair and felt a hard shell. A stink bug had flown directly into my head and gotten stuck there. Naturally I screamed and flailed and then it fell to the back of my sweater and got stuck there. As I stripped down throwing clothes and contemplating shaving my head, I knew that this was just the beginning of my story with stink bugs. My hate for them reached its peak in 2017 when I was working at a new job and they were RAINING FROM A VENT IN THE CEILING ONTO MY DESK FOR WEEKS. So obviously the stinks and the spiders have always had a personal vendetta against me, see below for a journey through the years of definitely not at all dramatic live tweetings of each insectual encounter.

Although spiders, centipedes (WHY DO THEY HAVE SO MANY LEGS?!), stink bugs, bees (if they didn’t have a needle as an ass they wouldn’t be so horrifying), bed bugs, cockroaches and ants (one time I had carpenter ants in my wall and I could hear them building an empire at night) all fall into the creature category, we move up the chain of scary the bigger that the animal is. For example, I’m more afraid of bats than I am of spiders. Bats are creepy as hell with their red beady eyes and the fact that they swoop down without a sound and drink your blood and turn you into a vampire. As you’ve probably gathered by now, I’m a very impressionable girl. Someone will tell me a fact that may not even be true and I’ll carry it with me for the rest of my life, repeating it to everyone I meet. Back in my teen years when I held a cashier job at Wegmans, there was a bat loose in the store one day and a fellow cashier informed me that bats LOVE curly hair and tend to be drawn to it because it reminds them of their nest. Again, I immediately considered shaving my head. All I could think of was having a bat go after my luscious ringlets and then someone capturing it on my head with a bag, Dwight style. 

For the rest of my life, whenever I heard a bat story I relayed this fact to whoever would listen and told them I was deathly afraid. During a night of debauchery a few years ago, I was walking into a friend’s apt for a little pregame and as we were going up her back steps in the dark, something hit my head with such force that I obviously screamed. Without missing a beat, my friend goes oh that’s the bat that lives underneath our porch. HOW CASUAL. MY FEAR HAD BECOME REALIZED. THE BAT WANTED TO NEST IN MY CURLS AND RICOCHETED OFF OF MY DOME. I may or may not have rabies. I was never tested.

As if the 20 years of insects and bats preying on me WASN’T ENOUGH, we’ve arrived at DEFCON level 1 of creatures: Rodents. To be perfectly clear, even though people keep hamsters, guinea pigs and rabbits as pets, they fall into the creature category for me. Ever since my childhood trauma of a friend who knew that I was afraid of hamsters PUT HER HAMSTERS—YES MORE THAN ONE— ON TOP OF ME, I’m OUT on both domesticated and wild rodents. I don’t care if it lives in a cage and you feed it and name it, get it the hell out of my life. My family learned just how a small furry critter could cripple my life in my teen years when I would spend hours upon hours in my basement in front of the family computer on AIM. Each night I would go down there at 10PM with a can of Pepsi and a snack and not re-emerge until 2 or 3AM. Who was I talking to? Realistically no one. I was probably updating my profile to highlight my 3 BFF’s initials or create a dramatic lyric with the right word italicized or just waiting for my crush to log on with that open door squeak while I blasted emo music and refreshed my Myspace page. I was “cool” in that basement. Until one night a tiny little mouse scampered across the carpet near me and I almost fell out of my chair and beat it up the stairs. To be clear, I did beat it up the stairs every single time I turned those lights off at the end of the night and if you didn’t also do the same to escape a possible serial killer then I don’t want to know you as a human. But anyway, after I ran from the furry foe, I declared that I wouldn’t return back downstairs until there was definitive proof that the mouse was gone and it did not have any remaining relatives or friends also kicking it rent-free in our basement. Do you know how much of a commitment it was for a teenager in the AIM days to boycott the computer?! It’d be like giving up your cell phone today. And I stuck to it! My dad caught the mouse almost immediately, shamed me for being afraid of it claiming it was the smallest mouse he’s ever seen and yet I still doubled down that it might have homies and didn’t return to my desktop throne for almost a month afterward. That’s when my family learned that I don’t F around when it comes to mice. 

My co-workers unfortunately had to learn this lesson many years later when I was pretty fresh on a job and was asked to help unload theatrical sets off a truck into a warehouse. I’m not sure of how someone could take one look at my bitch ass and think that I would EVER be helpful in this situation, but as I was new, I was on my best behavior and put on some sneakers to get to work. I quickly learned that not only was I useless because the set was made from steel and I’ve never lifted a weight in my life, but when we picked up a flat and uncovered A MOUSE GIVING BIRTH AT MY FEET, I solidified my role as top asshole by dropping the heavy set, squealing and nearly Kool Aid man running a hole in the wall to get the hell out of there. I’m sorry but once you VIEW A BLOODY MOUSE BIRTH CENTIMETERS FROM YOUR FEET, it’s curtains. I refused to even go on that side of the warehouse for the rest of my residency at this job. Luckily my soon to be boyfriend worked with me at the warehouse and I would regularly bat my eyes and tell him to go do my job if it required going into mousy territory. I’m not saying I’m a flirting expert but we DID date for three years after that so…I obv know how to reel ‘em in. I knew he’d be a ride or die when he went so far as to hide another Mickey on the loose situation from me a few months later knowing I would full on kill myself if I saw it. Also important note to any future suitors: clearly my only standard is can you deal with creatures so I don’t have to. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again, the only reason to get married is to have a full-time hubs to kill all the spiders and build all the things. 

Jumping for joy or away from mice? We may never know.

Here’s the thing, what I don’t know won’t hurt me. Seeing a mommy mouse with bloody baby mice hanging off of her scurry away (just wanted to give you that visual again because if I had to see it so do you) or finding a shredded marshmallow Santa in my overnight bag and putting the pieces together that a rodent joined the slumber party IS NOT SOMETHING I CAN HANDLE. I want to just exist in a bubble where creatures are not.

I feel like I needed to give you a full history of my creature interactions for you to understand why me finding mouse droppings on my kitchen counter the other night was THE END OF THE WORLD. I’ve been #blessed enough to never have a mouse-infested apartment…even when I lived in dirty water Boston. Well, the streak of luck has abruptly ended. I wanted to tell myself that it was just a little chocolate on the counter but I knew I had an uninvited guest and obviously texted everyone I know to alert them on the matter. I avoided my kitchen for the rest of the night, googled the best mouse traps to buy (and if renters insurance covers exterminators…it does not) and then promptly had 9000 nightmares about the mice crawling all over me in my sleep that evening. Everyone told me that would never happen and that they were more afraid of me than I am of them. UM. EXSQUEEZE ME?! I think we can all agree after reading this, that could not be further from the truth. Also, it’s an open apartment, these little fuckers are gonna go wherever they want and you know what’s super warm and cozy? MY BED. Jus sayin. As much as everyone tried to talk me down, shout out to my therapist who’s a real one and told me point blank that when she was living in Boston she woke up to find a mouse crawling up her arm and into her shirt where it then GOT STUCK IN HER HAIR. Nope. NOPE TIMES A MILLION TRILLION. ERASE ME FROM THIS PLANET IF THAT EVER HAPPENS TO ME. So IN YOUR FACE to everyone who told me I was overreacting. Obviously, I’m satisfied that I’ve proven everyone wrong with a real life incident but also I will now never sleep a wink again. The next morning I bought traps then FaceTimed my dad to learn how to set one. As my dad is telling me to hold the end down when putting the peanut butter in, I’m motioning to the spot where it goes and said, “Oh you mean right here?” And the trap snaps shut and OBLITERATES my finger. Immediate red mark, tears and permanent damage to my psyche when it comes to mouse traps. My dad rolled his eyes and told me that was exactly what he was saying. SORRY I’M NOT SMARTER THAN A MOUSE, DAD. 

That was right around the time when I gave up on this whole endeavor. If I moved out that day maybe I could find enough generous friends who allow me to couch surf until I’ve found a mouse-free living establishment. Instead, what I did was text my landlord with my uninjured hand and beg him to come over and set the traps for me. If you’ll recall, my landlord is a real baller having already dealt with me blowing a fuse for my Celine Dion Tiktok and clearly has a high tolerance for my bullshit and doesn’t just tell me to find a husband like my dad does. As he set the trap, I lowkey relayed to him that creatures terrify me and I was not doing well in this scenario so that he understood that in no way would I be dealing with these traps should they catch something. I think he picked up what I was putting down. I did not divulge that I refused to put the traps down because I was scared to get any closer to the crevices where I assumed the mouse was kicked back in a La-Z-Boy feasting on popcorn kernels. I had already been blowing in and out of my kitchen with hurricane force when hunger strikes, banging cabinets and talking out loud since I had found the droppings. I needed to remind my new roomie who was paying the rent here and more importantly, the heat bill. 

Needless to say, the next morning when I woke up, speedwalked through the kitchen to get in the shower and saw one of the traps on its side with a dark shadow, I had a full-on seizure of terror and almost knocked the door off its hinges trying to get into the bathroom. I slowly peered out of a crack in the bathroom door to confirm that the trap had a resident. I mean what if this thing was just playing dead or had somehow figured out a way to lap up that PB and not get caught? There was no way I was getting any closer to scope out the scene. I kept my eyes up and immediately texted my landlord to handle the disposal. And by that I mean I texted him (and everyone I know) “DEAD MOUSE ALERT sobbing emoji, puking emoji, skull emoji” and hoped that my colorful text would convey my crippling fear. It did. He got Mickey out of there REAL QUICK and just as I was feeling relieved that we were dealing with a dumbass who walked right into the trap on night one, he shared with me that mice are like rabbits and love to procreate. AKA THIS IS NOW A SAGA OF WAITING FOR THOSE TRAPS TO SNAP ON THE REMAINING TROOPS. So it was nice knowing you all. Thank you for your moral support and for laughing with me or at me through my struggles but this is it for me. I’ll just continue leading the great American bandstand through my kitchen when I need something and quickly retreating back to safety on my side of the apartment crippled by fear when I’m done. I’m no Snow White. I’m not equipped to handle living in the forest with the woodland creatures. We had quite a run. UhhhhBUHBYE.

Standard
Salty Stories

The DMV Did Me Dirty

Here’s the deal, I’ve got a real hot streak of GLAMOUR shots on my driver’s license and I’m not ready or willing to give that self-imposed title up just yet. (My passport photos are another story, anyone except Taylor Swift who knows how to closed mouth smile and NOT look like a serial killer, get @ me with some tips.) These are supposed to be my peak years and I’m RAPIDLY approaching the swift drop on that rollercoaster, so I really need to capture it when I can. On my driver’s license is really the best way to do so. It’s a government issued document and one that I’ll have to show to a stranger every single time I enter a bar or order an adult bevvy. That’s a lot of eyes on one pic, and I say that knowing that I’ve never gotten more than 15 likes on anything I’ve ever posted on social media. ID PHOTOS ARE ALL I HAVE ANYMORE. I never thought this day would come. 

On my 16th birthday, I took my driver’s test—told no one I was taking it so I didn’t have to tell them if I failed (old hockey trick)—and looked like a youthful babe soda in my very first license photo. I had a pre-summer tan, styled hair and an adorable teal dress. All of which could be seen as it was proportionately distanced and sized. In fact, anytime a friend, foe or stranger brought up their dreadful license photo, I paraded that shit around for all to see. Oh you look like you just drowned your kids in a bathtub in your photo? I look like a beauty queen, READ IT AND WEEP BITCHES!

It might be suggested that I annoyed everyone with how much I worked my ID into a conversation. I almost didn’t want to get a fake ID in college for fear of having a fake hideous photo. Fortunately, my sister provided my “fake” and she also takes a great pic. When I turned 21, I did everything in my power to keep my original photo. Unfortunately I was met with much frustration and eye rolls at the dear ole DMV. I took a shitty temp pic until I could get myself home to where my mom had recently become employed at the DMV and promised a full photoshoot to get the right headshot. I cannot stress this enough, I recommend everyone has a relative working at the DMV. Not only did I not have to wait in line and suffer years of my life in that soul-sucking place but I literally got to treat my license photo like a JCPenney portrait shoot minus the kickass 90’s backdrops. Plus my mom knows all of my best angles and I got as many reshoots as I demanded. Another stellar ID was created. Note the carefully curated white lace tank to once again, pop that bronze glow. (PRO tip.)

And now here we are in my 29th year, license expired. Thanks to COVID, I was able to push that renewal back for a solid 5 months before I could go into the DMV again safely. And you better BELIEVE I planned on preparing for this appointment with a full blowout and face of makeup after months of being a loungewear shut-in. Unfortunately for all involved, when the day arrived, I had a friend in town and poorly planned our morning. Eager to fit a scenic 14 mile bike ride in and soak up the sun before my appointment, I let the morning get away from me and all of a sudden I had 15 minutes to shower, dry my hair, put on makeup, curl my hair and pick out the perfect outfit to enhance my summer tan. On the 30 minute drive back to my house (in the opposite direction of the DMV) I began to panic that I would become * insert tone of absolute disgust here*: an UGLY ID holder. And not just like casual caught off guard for a pic ugly…unshowered, hair pulled up under a hat, just sweat my ass off in a high speed bike ride to try and make up for my poor time management, no makeup, in a tee with visible pit stains kind of UGLY. I wondered how horrible it would be to cancel my appointment. Or just commit to it and then immediately change my photo at a later date. All of these options were either incredibly inconvenient or more expensive. This is when I really had to look inward and have a stern talk with myself about what was important here. How I look in a photograph that’s the size of a stamp or keeping an appointment it took me a month to get for the renewal of my driver’s license that had been expired for almost half a year now. The answer was my looks and that is the most obvious thing on this earth. Having been born with naturally curly hair that I let air-dry, I cannot allow myself to be photographed within a few hours of my daily shower or I’ll look like ole ramen-head ass Justin Timberlake that immediately turned into a meme because of HOW BAD IT LOOKED. So it’s not even like I could trim time off of my prep by leaving my locks au naturel. 

I arrived home and I’ve never gotten ready faster in my entire life. And you know what? I looked like a 10. From the front. I never dried my hair in the back. Too time consuming and the back of my head will never be featured on an ID. I selected a teal dress to accentuate the new race I had become from 4 straight months of baking in the sun and even tossed on my custom-made Salty Ju jean jacket on top of that for clout. All of my fans and supporters (my sister and my friend) applauded my Herculean effort to transform myself into a top model in 15 minutes flat. I expected paparazzi to be hiding in the bushes when I exited my house, shoveling peanut butter crackers in my cracker hole because I skipped lunch in favor of my looks. I got to the DMV with two minutes to spare and ready to do the cover of Vogue, should Rosie at counter 8 impromptu ask me to. We got the long-awaited photo out of the way first and when I tell you it was horrific, that is an understatement. It turns out, no matter how GREAT I look (or dress…my outfit didn’t even graze the photo), if you close crop my head in the square, there is REALLY no positive way to spin that. Rosie snapped away and showed me the pic for review where my jaw resided on the ground. I didn’t think it was possible to look like the poster child for my 600 lb life and yet a super zoom WILL DO THAT. My chins were abundant and falling out of frame as the square went from my forehead to my first chin, also giving me a buzz cut in the process–so much for drying and curling my precious locks. That was a proportion that Rosie felt comfortable with and to be honest I would’ve asked for a reshoot, but I wasn’t sure if I was allowed to and it looked like the camera setup would be permanently unforgiving. I had just carefully curated a look and an outfit for a MEGAHEAD PHOTO THAT I’LL BE STUCK WITH FOR THE NEXT 10 YEARS. But don’t worry, the guy at counter 10 who processed my renewal told me it’s a great photo and he doesn’t just tell everyone that. He also complimented my nail polish so obviously he was just trying to bang me. My perfect ID photo streak has come to an abrupt and aggressive end and I will forever curse this stupid day. Ten years from now, I’m bringing my own photographer.

And as if NY State wasn’t cruel enough, they double up on your mug, hologram style. So that Salty Ju Megahead can also float in space on the right side of my ID reminding me to invest in a neckline slimmer.

Standard
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.

Celine

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.

Standard
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.)

Screen Shot 2020-11-02 at 9.32.16 AM

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.

Screen Shot 2020-11-02 at 9.31.39 AM

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.

Screen Shot 2020-11-02 at 9.31.52 AM

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.

Standard
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.

Standard