Salty Stories

35 Things To Do Before I Turn 35

Anyone sick of my bucket lists yet?

Cause I’m gonna be doing them until I kick that MF’ing bucket. In addition to bucket lists that I make for the places I live, the places I visit, and just the general lifelong list that I maintain, I decided, you know what? That’s actually not enough. I saw lots of youths making a 30 things to do before they turn 30 list and I was like ME TOO, ME TOO! I want in on the age-specific OCD list-making action! If you want the surface sentiment behind always doing lists it’s because I like to do fun things and I loooOoooOove making a thicc checkmark after accomplishing something. Supes satisfying. (That’s the Taurus in me.) The *~*REAL TALK~*~ and much deeper sentiment behind these lists? I have accomplished absolutely nothing I thought I would have by this age. And I have zero control over it. I cannot control finding a husband, getting the dream job, having enough money to pay for cool trips let alone having enough money to buy a house, perhaps having children, etc. But I CAN control having new experiences on a budget. Which is how I approached this list. I didn’t put anything outlandish or out of the realm of being accomplished, and I had a year to get after it. Also, 35 things is actually a lot and I may have cheated and double dipped in spots, but I don’t see any of you doing THIRTY FIVE new things in a limited time period so everybody just be cool. Here’s the list and a blurb for each experience in the order in which they were accomplished.

#1 Join a Travel Retreat & #15 Visit Greece

Kicking things off with a good ole fashioned double dip. Just call me Double D, Baby, because this trip was TOO large, TOO expensive, and TOO much of a disaster to not count for TWO checkmarks. I’ve wanted to visit Greece since I was a teenager, and I always thought about pushing myself out of my comfort zone and trying some sort of group trip or retreat. If you’ve been following along on my journey, you already know how it went. Never again!

@gardenstategoofin

Concluding my posts about Greece with some real tawk. ๐Ÿ—ฃ๏ธ Traveling internationally by myself to a group retreat was a big swing and I had unrealistically high expectations for it to be life-changing. Spoiler alert: it was not. ๐Ÿคญ This video is the highlight reel of my favorite parts of the trip: beautiful beaches, flowers, and smiles. ๐Ÿซถ๐Ÿผ I didnโ€™t have the experience I expected, but Iโ€™m so glad I pushed myself out of my comfort zone and went. I got to enjoy the beauty of Greece and learn more about me. If you donโ€™t try the thing, youโ€™ll never know! ๐Ÿ˜‰ #GardenStateGoofin #inGreece #Halkidiki #sithonia #Greece #AegeanSea #WritingRetreat #greekvacation #solotravel #soloadventure #northerngreece #lifelessons

โ™ฌ original sound – Garden State Goofin

#3 Attend A Concert Alone

Sandwiched the previous items with two solo concerts and again, not going to beat a dead horse even though that’s my favorite animal to beat, but I unfolded this saga in a two-parter after a very solo dolo June. A theme you’ll for sure see unfold from this entire list is that I already have an inkling on how the activity will go and I guh head and prove myself right. In the future, I’ll need a concert buddy always.

#10 Sit Front Row at a Concert

This one I fell into under incredibly unfortunate circumstances but it was a first time experience for me so ON THE LIST IT WENT. My sister is a magician at beating the Ticketmaster screw job when buying concert tickets and scored 2nd row to Old Dominion at CMAC. I’ve never seen them in concert nor have I ever been able to sniff at the stage, even in a General Admission show, so it was a pretty cool night. They put on an amazing, high-energy show, and I learned that they can actually see you when you sit that close, which made me very self-conscious. It also led to a very weird situation with the opening act where the fiddle player basically eye-banged me because I felt bad no one was seated for their set and wanted to show some encouragement so they didn’t think they were smelly losers. Bottom line here is that I don’t think I’m confident enough to be that visible by the talent. Also, not something I’ll ever need to worry about again as I’ve never once successfully gotten good seats nor can I afford them. Grateful I got to have this experience one time even though I would’ve much rather preferred a world in which the original ticketholder got to be there.

The aforementioned eye banger. Can cut the one-way sexual tension with a knife.

#20 Be A Mom For The Weekend

On the way to the Old Dominion concert, it was brought to my attention that my sister was looking to outsource her parenting for a much-needed mid-summer break and suddenly I was volunteered to step up. To which I replied: “I’m not old enough to be a mom.” She wasn’t concerned about basically a teenager being in charge of her kid, so that’s how I ended up being a mom for a weekend. Obviously I have spent much time with my niece and nephew and most women my age have several children to look after, but I had never been ridin solo longer than a babysitting stint. Certainly not overnight and away from any sort of backup. Would a boyfriend have been super helpful in pinch-hitting the sudden parenting in this circumstance? Of course, but God has not blessed me with a man who wants to hang out with me forever and therefore I was a single mom who works two jobs, who loves her kids and never stops. (This is only funny to anyone who knows how often I milk Reba’s song for sympathy when I’m in charge of the children.)

I made lots of plans to keep us busy with all the fun things the Jersey Shore has to offer, with a Taylor Swift party being the main event. I HOPE that I gave my 8 year old niece lots of fun experiences and memories and didn’t show her that I was actually having a full-on menty B. I hid in the bathroom and called my parents crying because there was not a quiet moment and I was expected to be “on” every second of every day. I had such a meltdown mid-weekend that I quit my freelance job because I couldn’t handle another thing annoying me in such a small period of time. It was a rash decision I’ve regretted every day since because without that job I cannot afford life. Here’s what I learned about me: I should not be a mom. I have a very quiet household and lots of little OCD daily routines, schedules, and organization. I sleep a lot. If I don’t get a tight 10 hours, I’m a mess. I get overstimulated by noise VERY easily. I hate when people ask me a lot of questions. As it turns out, none of these qualities lend themselves to having children in the house. So even though I love my niece so very dearly and I have so much fun with her. I must decompress from that fun immediately afterward and having 3 days with just me and her actually broke me. Here’s a highlight reel of all the things I hope she remembers about our weekend together and none of Auntie Juj being a snappy bitch. I’M A SURVIVOOOORRRRR.

#14 Make Business Cards

How cute are these?! Shout out Canva for letting me design a sunshiney biz card for cheaps, especially because I still have the entire box almost a year later.

#21 Attend a Networking Event

Here’s me being awk on camera with my pal who convinced me to show up to a networking event in the first place.

Obvsies these two go hand in hand. I got the biz cards made after attending my first networking event, giving out my state job business card and having SEVERAL people say why the hell are you at this networking event when you work for the state? Noted. I went to exactly two more networking events after getting those snazzy personal cards and pooped my pants at each one. Not literally, but as someone who has severe social anxiety, dropping me into a room full of strangers and forcing me to make the smallest of chats when everyone is standing in pre-formed circles with their backs turned to me is my own personal hell. However, I was so desperate after losing my second stream of income in July (because I couldn’t handle being in charge of a child and working) that this seemed like the only option to pick up some work.

I did end up scoring a much smaller freelancing gig through my few appearances but I also got creeped on by grown men (networking events are 98% male), and reminded by people who literally take networking more seriously than their job that not only am I bad at it because I don’t have a pitch or a dream job, but I’m also not bold enough to “put myself out there.” In one particularly direct moment, a woman told me I’m not going to get a job standing by myself at a networking event. Little did she know that not only was I standing by myself but I was also in a full flop sweat panicking about going up to a group to introduce myself. So, all in all, I’m terrible at networking and have been for my entire adult life. Cheers to pushing yourself out of your comfort zone and being validated as to why you maybe shouldn’t.

#9 Make an Ocean Resin Serving Tray

As soon as I moved to a place with an ocean, I finally had an excuse to put my already somewhat beachy decor on steroids. I’d seen these resin style crafts that mimicked the sea and knew I needed to make one. My crafting Queen of a mother came into town and we blew the waves into place. Not too shabby for a couple of beginners. Now my table has the perfect centerpiece.

@gardenstategoofin

Learning how to use resin to make an ocean-esque piece of art has been on our list for a while, so my mom and I are glad the stars aligned for her to visit and attend this J&J Sip n Paint event! ๐ŸŽจ It was a full house for crafting at Bakes Brewing Co and we had so much fun sipping and creating. ๐Ÿ–Œ๏ธ๐Ÿป The ladies of J & J were excellent teachers and reassured all of our doubts when we thought we made a mistake! Follow their account to catch an upcoming class with them for a fabulous night of creativity and socializing. ๐Ÿฉต #gardenstategoofin #newjersey #jjsipnpaint #bakesbrewingco #belmarnj #explorethejerseyshore #visitnj

โ™ฌ Glide – NEIKED & Portugal. The Man

#2 Visit a State I’ve Never Been to Before & #5 Ride a Ferry

For the 4 year anniversary of living in NJ, I always like to celebrate this monumental life change with a solo adventch and last summer I rode the ferry from Cape May, NJ to Lewes, DE. Can’t say I’ve ever been to Delaware, so I got I nice 2-for-1 checkmark on one day trip. Even though I could’ve swam faster than that ferry was moving, that didn’t stop me from getting seasick! Forever a boat lover whose body betrays her every time she sails the open seas. I saw about 16,000 jellyfish en route and when I parked myself on the beach on a swelteringly hot day, I realized that they were also blobbing around in the swimming area. I got in for about 1 second, got way too freaked out that I wouldn’t be able to see a jelly approaching, saw a small child scream bloody murder from getting stung and decided to cancel the beach day. I took a cold outdoor shower instead to cool off then biked around Lewes exploring the shops and most importantly, the espresso martinis. All in all, great success and would definitely take the ferry again to check out Rehoboth or Bethany Beach area (by car instead of bike) next time!

BONUS: ever the over-achiever, I also hit Michigan for the first time a month later, then Texas last week, so make that 3 states I’ve never been to.

@gardenstategoofin

Listen, sometimes you just gotta take a vacation day and romanticize a day trip via ferry. ๐Ÿšข It was my first time taking the @Cape May-Lewes Ferry and it was such a breeze and delightful adventure. I rolled my bike on (almost took it to my seat with me because Iโ€™m a novice at ferry & bike travel) and cruised through the Delaware Bay on a gorgeous sunny Monday. โ˜€๏ธ All of the staff on each end of the ferry were so cheery and helpful! ๐Ÿ™Œ๐Ÿผ And even though I never got to peep any dolphins frolicking along the way, I got to be a boat passenger princess and visit Delaware for the first time. โœ… It was a great way to celebrate 4 years of living in New Jersey. ๐ŸŽ‰ My only complaint is that the day went by too quick! When will you realize, Delaware waits for you?! Check out the ferry for a different way to explore. โš“๏ธ #gardenstategoofin #capemaynj #lewesde #capemaylewesferry

โ™ฌ Vienna – Billy Joel

#7 Get a Psychic Reading

Sorry for the cleave shot, Starr, but I had to document this excursion.

I forever want to be a believer in psychics and mediums but have yet to have a goosebumps moment with anyone of this nature where I know they’re the real deal. After a very expensive and hokey session with a psychic medium last March, where I learned a “gentleman in a hat” is following me around, I decided to give it another go–sans the medium this time. A dinner group I had joined suggested doing a dinner and a reading at a local coffee shop that is home to “Starr”, well-known psychic in the area, and I said sign me up. Realistically I had nothing to lose. It wasn’t expensive and I was getting a social event of dinner with some cool girlies as part of the package deal. Ya girl Starr gave me a reading that I obviously took way too seriously and acted as if it was my guiding light for the next few months until the due date came and she was proven wrong. Now I know never to give Starr my money again and I went into 2026 with my only resolution being that it’s time to quit astrology, woo-woo energy, manifestations, and just raw-dog life as a human who doesn’t know what’s coming for me…good or bad. Below is Starr’s reading, which I can now release into the universe because it was a big ole load of bullshit.

#6 Watch a Movie at the Beach

The weather really boned me on this one. I had checked all of the schedules all summer long and settled on a Thursday night showing of E.T. (a movie I’ve never seen) right at my local beach. The wind acted up that night and I missed the rescheduled date, so I was forced to catch the last movie of the summer in another town and that movie was none other than The Wizard of Oz, which I absolutely hate. So I hate-watched a movie at the beach. Here’s what was great though, I peeped a cotton candy sunset with my feet in the sand, it was the PERFECT temperature for a hoodie and a blanket, I came fully stocked with dollar store snacks, and I got to hear the sounds of the sea in addition to the wicket witch of the west’s cackle. Cannot recommend it enough to catch a movie at the beach sometime in your life.

@gardenstategoofin

Jamming in every summer activity I can! ๐Ÿฅน Caught the last movie at the beach for the season in Belmar last night. ๐Ÿ“ฝ๏ธAlthough it was one of my least favorite movies, and I opted to watch the Mets sweep the Phillies for a small portion of itโ€ฆI will say it was a top notch night for an outdoor movie. ๐Ÿฟ โœจ Toes in the sand, snacks in my boca, and enjoying good weather is what summer is all about. ๐ŸŒ™ Iโ€™m starting to miss it already even though itโ€™s not gone yet!!

โ™ฌ original sound – ๐Ÿ’•addison๐Ÿ’•

#30 Visit a New Ballpark

Friends of the program know that in the past 5 years or so, my dad and I have been actively trying to visit every MLB ballpark. This year’s trip brought us to Comerica Park, home of the Detroit Tigers and American Family Field, home of the Milwaukee Brewers. Most importantly, this trip was the debut of my brand new hot dog purse, which I love more than anything I’ve ever owned. Detroit WENT APESHIT for the wiener satchel and I was quite literally stopped on the streets for compliments, in addition to receiving MANY within the ballpark. Milwaukee didn’t give a flying brat. And I think we all know which park/city I favored. All jokes aside, Detroit’s park ranked near the top of the list. It’s right downtown and central to the city’s activity, it has a full-blown amusement park within it including a baseball ferris wheel, and the food was good. However, Milwaukee’s brat toss and mascot that slides down a spiral slide in his own chalet for a homerun were notable as well.

BUZZER BEATER BONUS: I added in two more ballparks before the big day, classic overachiever move, so technically this item gets three extra bonus points. (All credit to dear ole Dad who is my financial backer for all things MLB.) Globe Life Field in Arlington and Daikin Park in Houston were hit B2B on my birthday trip this year. And folks, they are not close to each other. Again, more credz to Dad who did the 9 hour drive RT so we could check off Houston. In fact, I complained at one point how I never wanted to see the inside of that car again and he told me that I’m not the one driving so zip it. Touchรฉ. Arlington’s hot spot has the ball park, the dome where the Dallas Cowboys play, and a fun conglomerate of bars and restaurants called Texas Live! all on the same property. We had bad espresso martinis and listened to live music before going into the park. Love a ballpark with fun things to do in addition to the game. Unfortunately, I received very few compliments on the hot dog purse, and their “dollar dog night” consisted of offering hot dogs that they pulled out of the bottom of the trash can for a dissy, or asking if you wanted to pay full price ($7) for an edible hot dog. Do better, Rangers.

Enjoy my 15 chins because the struggle is real when trying to capture a tall sign and our faces in selfie mode.

Houston had the roof closed (thankfully as it was 100 degrees) but it didn’t feel like a ball game to me. Their park was underwhelming and also in a very unsavory neighborhood. BUT, they friggin LOVED my wiener purse. AND their hot dog was suuuuuper juicy and delish. Plus, I branched out and indulged in some Mexican street corn minus the Mexican (too spicy) so basically as the woman said to me with the most judgment, “you just want mayonnaise and cheese?” YEAH BABE, I DO. And you know what? It was delicious.

The employee who snapped this shot called us a beautiful couple so barf all over me, when will people stop assuming my dad is my boyfriend?!

#16 Bike over the 35 Bridge

As someone who really only rides a beach cruiser to get ice cream, I always like to see how far I can push it on a bike. I think this is because I’m somewhat delusional when it comes to how in shape I am. (anyone remember Covid where I told myself I could bike 20 miles and trained all summer to do so?) This was kinda like that. I’ve already taken long bike rides, I’ve taken my bike on a friggin boat and used it to explore a new town (this was actually a true test on if I should own a bike because I quite literally almost rolled it right to my seat with me until several crew members waved at me like a lunatic and told me to park it.) So it only seemed natural to try to tackle the 35 bridge. To all you Benny’s, this is the bridge that connects Point Pleasant to the Northern shore towns (Brielle, Manasquan, Belmar, etc.) It’s a draw bridge and if you’re running late to be somewhere, you can pretty much guarantee that drawbridge will be up and you’ll sit for a solid 20 mins until it comes back down. The downside of livin where everyone vacays, I guess.

I biked all summer long to get my leg strength back up…and my wind strength. You can be a good little biker and if that wind is gusting off the sea, GOOD LUCK. It’s like pedaling in place. By the end of September I licked my finger and stuck it into the breeze on a Saturday and said TODAY IS THE DAY. My plan was to bike OTB, go to my fave bar overlooking a marina just at the other end, get a drink as a reward, and cruise home. Since I’m a worst case scenario thinker, I assumed I’d have to do the cyclist walk of shame over the bridge because of wind and/or incline and needed a bike buddy for this embarrassing moment so I voluntold my fellow PPB pal she had to come with me. Happy to report we built it up to be WAY harder than it actually was and the incline was so gradual that I barely needed to change gears. WHAT A WIN! Full video below…Wordpress and Instagram don’t get along anymore to embed, which is why I’ve been tossing lots of Toks in the mix.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DPMWTQ2jdMk

#35 Recreate a Childhood Photo

Thought this would be so easy that I’d recreate like 10 different photos throughout the year. LOLZ. Not only do I need clothing similar to those in the photo, I also need someone willing to be the precise photographer and recreate the scene. Which are both actually quite difficult! So hopefully I did this one justice. Proud of the fact that my mom kept the same apron and bowls from the original shot. We did our best. AM I STILL CUTE?! If only baby Juge knew what a hot commodity a bare foot pic would be in adulthood. Sad to report Ssips went out of biz.

@thesaltyju

Apronโ€™s a little tight. ๐Ÿ˜ฌ

โ™ฌ I’m Just a Kid – Simple Plan

#24 Ride a Horse

Ride a horse has been on VARIOUS bucket lists for roughly the past 8 years. No one has ever wanted to do it with me. Turns out people don’t really feel great about trusting a giant animal to not kill them…how LAME. I was set to go solo on this mission after asking quite literally everyone I know until something told me to step out of my comfort zone and float the idea to some new friends at the dog park and WE GOT A TAKER! Thank God because I was honestly terrified. You don’t have the episode of Full House where Michelle falls off her horse and loses her memory on VHS and not allow that to give you PTSD around horses. Though it was a genius plot line to get both twins in the same room when her “memory” comes back, it was still a traumatizing moment of my youth. Thankfully, my little coffee & horses Sunday morning went exactly how I wanted it to go. I chose a Fall weekend so the leaves would be POPPIN, and thoroughly researched places that allowed just any joe schmo to mount a horse. This particular place also offered a pre-ride bonfire with coffee and bagels. I would absolutely make this an annual tradish because not only did the horses move so slowly you’d have thought they were chained together on a for sure abusive carousel at a county fair, but I got to soak in nature and pretend to be a cowgirl. Hot tip for all you city folk, stuff falls out of a horse’s nethers pretty much 24/7. I got a real zoomed-in personal viewing of lots of number ones and two’s that I’ll never be able to erase from my mind’s eye. But that’s just country livin, folks. Here’s the beauty of a trail ride and none of the bathroom biz.

#31 Cruise to Lady Liberty

Since I moved close enough to skedaddle into the city, I wanted to do all of the cheesetastic tourist things that foreigners get to do in NYC. Getting my peepers on Lady Libs was one, but if you’re gonna be a nerd, why not go full send and hit Ellis, Lady, and then climb into her crown?! So that’s how Den and I found ourselves boating down the Hudson on a very chilly November day. If you’re going to check out our Queen and you happen to leave from Liberty State Park AKA the Jerze side, here’s some wisdom from someone who missed the first ferry and had to wait another 40 mins…the people who work there are stupid. You have to go through a full-blown airport security style checkpoint in order to board the boat. Go find that. On your own. There’s no signs or anything. You just have to know that’s what you’re supposed to do.

Here’s what I’ll say about Statue City Cruises, they’re pretty smart. They’ve cornered the market as the only OFFICIAL cruise to each historical site which allows them to take your money and be pretty terrible at it. But what’re you gonna do? Swim there instead?! I hadn’t anticipated just how annoying it would be to time everything around the running of the ferries and we pretty much gave up on Ellis Island almost immediately. It was underwhelming to say the least. I just wanted to see our family’s name from when they came through and the movie Hitch made me believe you could just walk up to a giant book and flip through to the G’s and be like hey there’s great grandpa! Instead they have a computer lab where they charge you to Google your name. Cut the shit, Ellis Island. The real meat and potatoes was of course ya GURL Lady Liberty. She snatched as hell and I know because I was all up IN HER. We climbed 377 steps into her crown and that was NOT for the faint of heart. Or the overweight community. Real tight squeeze in that spiral staircase and certainly no guard rails, so if say you’re filming yourself walk up the stairs and you drop your phone, that shit GONE. I read the room quickly and realized I was not coordinated enough to suck in, climb stairs, and film, so you get what you get with this video. My thighs were BURNIN the next day.

@gardenstategoofin

Iโ€™ve always wanted to get my peepers on Lady Liberty, and folks, she is a stunner! ๐Ÿคฉ As a NYโ€™er who now lives in NJ, I like that thereโ€™s some competition about who really can lay claim to this national monument, and I can confirm that even though geographically sheโ€™s located within New Jersey waters, she is a true New York Queenโ€ฆsomething we have in common. ๐Ÿ—ฝ๐Ÿ‘ธ๐Ÿฝ I climbed the 377 steps up into her crown, which needed no adjusting, and it was a real doozy. ๐Ÿ˜ตโ€๐Ÿ’ซ Do not recommend the crown access to anyone who is claustrophobic or afraid of heights. Thankfully, my dad and I made it up and down without incident and I rewarded myself with a hot dog. ๐ŸŒญ๐Ÿ‡บ๐Ÿ‡ธ

โ™ฌ God Bless The U.S.A. – Lee Greenwood

#23 See the Rockettes at Radio City

Gams took my older sisters to see the Rockettes either when I was a baby or before I was born. CLASSIC CASE OF THE YOUNGEST CHILD GETTING SCREWED. I demanded that Den make up for this massive mistake that wasn’t even his to begin with or my childhood would be RUINED. He understood the assignment because if we got seats any closer we would’ve had to perfect the high kick and I’ll let you in on a little secret: just a couple weeks later when I was home for Christmas, I greeted my dad as any mature 34 year old woman would do and shouted, “HOW WAS YOUR DUMP” as I shot my leg into the air in an epic high kick. Unfortunately, I am not a Rockette, and I was wearing socks on a hardwood floor. I went down so fast and so hard, my dad was actually speechless. Hard to do (for those of you who don’t know my dad, he never shuts his trap.) Needless to say, it was best that we stayed seated at Radio City. The show was great!!! My favorite part was being THAT close and trying to find the weak link, especially during the infamous toy soldiers routine. Spoiler alert: there was none. All of these ladies knew not to spike their limbs in the air on a slippery floor without the proper footwear. Must be a requirement.

@gardenstategoofin

It was my first time seeing the Radio City Rockettes Christmas Spectacular and whoa baby itโ€™s an amazing show! ๐Ÿคฉ Feels like Iโ€™ve been waiting 100 years to experience this moment. ๐Ÿฅ I wish I knew that our seats would literally be onstage so I couldโ€™ve practiced in case they needed to call me up to join the line. ๐Ÿ˜ Just kidding, I could never do what these amazing dancers do and I was blown away by their talent, especially the precision during toy soldiers! ๐Ÿ‘๐Ÿผ The entire show was entertaining and full of Christmas spirit which was exactly how I wanted to KICK off December. Highly recommend seeing it at least once in your life. ๐ŸŽŸ๏ธ

โ™ฌ Jingle Bells – The Radio City Rockettes

#33 Go to Drag Show/Brunch

What’s more fun than turning your own bucket list into Christmas gifts for others?! If you haven’t caught on yet, I’ve tormented everyone around me with doing at least one item on this list for an entire calendar year. My mom said she wanted to see a drag show, so MERRY CHRISTMAS MOM, LET’S WATCH MEN SHAKE THEIR PROSTHETIC RACKS TO FESTIVE TUNES! We had a real hoot of a girls day in the Syracuse hotspot: Carousel Mall. (You’re an imposter if you call it Destiny USA.) Having never attended a cross-dressing event, I thought the ticket price was v reasonable. Well, it is reasonable because you’re expected to line their non existent cleavage with dolla dolla bills for the entirety of the performance. Learn somethin new every day! It’s essentially like walking down a popular street in Europe full of panhandlers except that the panhandlers are wearing very intricate costumes and lip syncing to dirty songs. It was lots of fun and also very eye-opening. Definitely a solid idea by me to go to a drag show in the spirit of Christmas with my mom and my first grade teacher.

@gardenstategoofin

My mom and I have always wanted to go to a drag show so it was the perfect Christmas gift for both of us to attend Drag Me to the Stageโ€™s Holiday Brunch! ๐Ÿ’ƒ๐Ÿป It was everything we hoped it would be and more. ๐Ÿ™Œ๐Ÿผ Queens @Mrs Kasha Davis @Darienne Lake & @Thorgy Thor were hilarious, entertaining, and looked FABULOUS! โค๏ธ We had so much festive fun and it was the best way to kick off the holiday celebrations. ๐Ÿคฉ๐ŸŽ„๐Ÿฅ‚

โ™ฌ original sound – christmas sounds ๐ŸŽ„

#29 Hang with a Highland Cow

Shout out to Instagram for this one because I didn’t even know highland cows existed, let alone that you could co-mingle with them as a weekend activity until I was served not one but TWO local farms that offer this excursion. Since I’m somewhat of a wild animal whisperer out here riding horses, walking alpacas, holding roo’s and feeding giraffes, it only made sense to keep checking creatures off the list that I’ve kicked it with. My friend had accompanied me for the Alpaca walk and it felt right to join forces again for the cows. Except this time she was pregnant and touching wild livestock is frowned upon when you’re not even allowed to eat cold cuts. So I made sure to really get in there and roll around on the ground snuggling with Marshmallow here to make forcing my pregnant friend to sit in an unheated barn with smelly farm animals loudly mooing and also having to pee in a porta-potty with v unsavory conditions REALLY WORTHWHILE. Seriously, all of the awards to my girl Vicki for putting up with any of this. Just because I wanted to pet a cow. BUT LOOK AT THAT LITTLE SMOOCH SNOOZIN IN MY LAP LIKE SHE DOESN’T WEIGH 400 LBS. I always like to learn the most facts about the animals I’m spooning with so I can leave basically an expert on their kind, but this event was 90% doing a craft and 10% hangin with animals so I didn’t get a true education but I did leave with a seaglass craft that I could’ve done at home for 1/4 of the price and these priceless pics so that’s all that really matters, I guess. And I scarred my friend for life. She saw someone get horned while trying to take a pic. So I guess we can assume highland cows can get fresh.

@gardenstategoofin

I have โ€œhang with a highland cowโ€ on my 35 before 35 bucket list AND I love to craft. What a delight to combine both on a Sunday during the week where everything is made up and the points donโ€™t matter. ๐Ÿค— I made a seaglass art piece and then got to cuddle with the cows at @Charleston Springs Farm ๐Ÿฎ๐Ÿซ๐Ÿด ! Did I pet Marshmallow like I pet my dog? Sure did! Only a couple hundred pound difference but full of snuggly love! ๐Ÿฅฐ It was a truly unique experience to close out the year. ๐Ÿฎ๐ŸคŽ

โ™ฌ Cowboy Sunday – Amanda Rosa

#22 Make Seashell Art

I put this on the list to light a fire under my ass because I’ve been collecting shells for years now and storing them like squirrels store a nut, with the intention to “do something cool” with them someday. It was getting out of hand. So I traced the outline of New Jersey and started glue-ing. This was my New Year’s Eve project that really took just a few days of placing shells and getting very sticky fingers and voila, you have a map of my new home state, filled with my treasures. I attempted to put a colored shell where I “think” Point Pleasant is to indicate where I landed in the Garden State but folks, I am not a geography whiz, so don’t fact check me on that. Also pretty jazzed that I found my own sand dollar for the tip.

#28 Write Book Draft Numero Dos

What I wouldn’t give to be like and here’s the link to my memoir, buy it, buy it, buy it, buy it TODAY! (The Andy Milonakis Show joke that no one will get but brought me much joy to type.) Unfortunately, when I unearthed the whole-ass book I wrote during the fever dream that was the entire world shutting down due to a strain of the flu for a year, almost all of it was embarrassingly bad. Like cringing while reading bad. So my initial goal of publishing said book anytime soon was a little lofty after realizing I’d also have to re-write the damn thing.

Here’s a fun fact about me: I’m super motivated. I love hobbies. I can’t sit still. Yet, when it comes to writing, and knowing it’s going to be hard/will not flow out of me and probably will make me want to smash my laptop to pieces…I’ll do anything else on this earth before sitting down to write for even 10 mins. I’ve heard of all the tricks. I’ve heard of morning pages and accountability partners. Of writing the shitty draft first. Of changing your environment or doing exercises to get the creative juices flowing and stop writer’s block. All of it. I know it. And yet, I’d rather clean my floors with a toothbrush than sit and write something I should write. Which is why I’d never make a dime as a writer. I told myself that it was reasonable to write a new draft of the book. I basically have an outline and some salvageable chapters to work with. Winter was going to be my time to hammer it out. Except winter came and I would rather couch rot and watch Netflix, or read, or do any of the 9,000 crafts I’ll show you in this list alone.

I had a weekend set aside to dog-sit at a friend’s house and I told myself this was it. It’s not my house. I cannot possibly distract myself from this anymore. It’ll be like a writer’s retreat. And I can confidently say that I did spend several hours reading through my craptastic old book and editing chapters. Did I spend probably half of the first hour taking artsy pictures of my manuscript next to my friend’s fireplace and finding the perfect “cozy spot” to write? Yea, duh. And did I reward myself with a little treat every time I got through a chapter? Also yea, duh. But I started.

And then a few weeks later I went to a seminar held by a published children’s book author who self-published and I found out that just to do the work myself and list it on Amazon, it’ll cost me $5,000. That is the bare minimum. Guess who has written a book draft and a half and doesn’t have a spare 1K let alone 5K? THIS GAL. So that’s where the book draft went to die. No sense in continuing to torture myself so that it can sit for another 5 years and be bad when Future Julia reads it again and realizes she has to re-write it. So for all intents and purposes (because I did actually TRY) we’re checking this item off. I can’t afford to publish a book that only my family will buy and I’ll just keep spewing stories on here when I feel the urge to get it out into the ether.

#11 Go to an NHL Game

I’ve been to NBA, MLB, & MLS games so it only made sense to cosplay as a puck slut for a night! Also, I’ve been unsuccessfully trying to get someone to go to a Devils game with me since I moved here and TIME WAS UP. I assembled a wolf pack from the dog park to spend a -20 degree night in the beautiful and very safe city of Newark. Little did any of us know, the player we were gossiping about at the game who had just started dating the latest pop star hoochie mama would go on to score the game-winning goal for Team USA in the Olympics a month later and then embark on a press tour missing his front tooth. Guess you could say I was there when it all began. Even though I never had the slightest idea what was going on down on the ice, watching a game live is always a zesty energy and I very much enjoyed the badass Jersey-centric intro, people watching, and waiting for a fight. I did not enjoy the merch prices. Bend me RIGHT over. Go Devils.

@gardenstategoofin

Last night was my first time at an NHL game for the @New Jersey Devils ! ๐Ÿ”ฅ Temps were frigid outside but it was fiery inside the rock for a game that went into overtime! ๐Ÿฅ… Devils got the dubb, I had a juicy dawg / disco fries, and even got to see a couple fights. ๐ŸฅŠ Win, win, win. ๐Ÿ†

โ™ฌ Hells Bells – AC/DC

#12 Treat Myself to a Spa Day

I went budget-style and therefore co-mingled with a lot of strange hair. Dive into that horror story here.

#32 Crochet a Chunky Blanket

I am no stranger to the dark depths of winter and that’s why this list has a lot of solo dolo crafts/activities. Typically I hibernate like a bear in the winter full of despair with no will to live until I can get down to Florida for some sunshine and baseball in March. No one predicted the fuck-ass winter we got served this year. With ice and snow and that FUCKING wind, I was couch-bound for weeks on end. Unless of course it was time to take my dog out so she could stare at me like how the hell am I supposed to drop a deuce on a skating rink? Needless to say, teaching myself via video how to hand-knit a blanket was very soothing in a time when going outdoors made me want to blow my brains out. Since my thearpist was the one to suggest this item for the list, I gifted it to her, and since then have had no problem draping it over my body whenever I’m in her office and want to get comfy for a yap sesh. The thing has Charlee hairs woven into it so I feel right at home.

@gardenstategoofin

Thanks to this LOVELY winter weโ€™ve been having, Iโ€™ve been indoors chugging away at the solo activities on my 35 things to do before I turn 35 bucket list. During this most recent blizz, a WiFi outage had me looping away with a chunky yarn making my first cozy blanket. โ˜บ๏ธ I used Yarn Bee Eternal Bliss from Hobby Lobby and was v. dependent on a live recording โ€œChunky Hand Knit Blanketโ€ tutorial from Michaels to learn the technique. ๐Ÿงถ๐Ÿ™๐Ÿผ Canโ€™t wait to improve my skills on the next blankie (hopefully a smaller one ๐Ÿ˜…)

โ™ฌ Everybody Wants To Rule The World X Electric Love – darcy stokes

#34 Make Pasta From Scratch

It’s true that whilst studying abroad in Italy, my parents came to visit and we touristed our faces off for a week, including doing a cooking class where we made pasta, meat sauce, and tiramisu from scratch. As I was merely 20 and surrounded by couples on their honeymoon as well as third-wheeling with my parents, I barely participated in this class. I drank wine and ogled the babe soda of a sous chef. Now that I’m a grown-up with very few cooking and baking skillz, I thought it was time to run it back and see if I really have Italian roots. Since my mom tried to teach me Nana’s sauce recipe a few years back and I learned that half of the recipe lives in her head and I’d never be able to make Yoli proud, I decided to stick to the recipes we wrote down in Italy.

I recruited my ex boyfriend for this activity because this was the only thing amongst 35 items that he was even remotely interested in doing. And then the two of us got buzzed off espresso martinis (which I also made…is there anything she CAN’T DO?!) and promptly ruined this dinner. There is something she can’t do, folks, and that is use common sense when there’s a recipe written out in front of her. My mom wrote the recipe (perhaps after the wine because there was more than one questionable item listed) and I was hellbent on following it to a T, even when my co-chef was adamant that we should drain the fat from the meat. And once it was too late and we called my mom for backup, we were met with a resounding ALWAYS DRAIN THE MEAT. Hand up, I fudged this one up. The pasta itself was fine. But it was bathing in a very greasy meat soup. Also, my Nana’s sauce is a thick red sauce that we ADD meats too. I had confused the two and as it turns out, I don’t actually like meat sauce. So that’s how we ended up cooking for several hours and then throwing out an entire pot of sauce. I would make pasta again someday, but someone else better handle the sauce. I know my Italian ancestors are spitting on me from the heavens. Sorry I don’t know how to make gabagool.

BONUS: In addition to blanket making, seashell glue-ing, writing, and painting this winter, I got bored enough one Christmas weekend that I wanted to try making cookies from scratch for the first time. After many FaceTimes with mother where I cried about how hard it is to measure things, I successfully made almond cookies and peppermint mocha cookies to share with my neighbors. Then I liked making my own sweet treats and sharing them so much I did it again a couple months later when the internet was out for 2 days because I still had ingredients left. WHAT A COOKING AND BAKING RENAISSANCE FOR MOI!

#25 Dance in a Rainstorm

Not everything needs to be painstakingly planned! Cinners and I were walking Charlee and the skies opened up offering the perfect opp to do the Jersey turnpike on the side of a road while God literally made it rain on dem hoes. It’s impossible to take yourself seriously when you’re sopping wet from rain, holding your dog’s poop, grooving to absolutely no music because Spotify wasn’t working due to the fat raindrops collecting on our phone screens. That’s livin in the moment, baby.

#13 Go Line Dancing

Another thing that I’ve casually presented in conversation to everyone I’ve ever known for about 7-10 years. I don’t have ANY business doing any movement-based activity as my lack of rhythm and/or coordination is astounding. And yet, I keep wanting to try. And that’s what’s fun about my personality. I know I’ll be bad at it and for some reason I still hold on to a tiny piece of hope that it actually won’t be THAT bad and I’ll have a miraculous transformation like celebrities do on Dancing with the Stars. (Important to note: those celebs are paired with pros and I went to a bar for a weekly line dancing night.) I wrangled my mom for this one and I think she mostly agreed so she could buy a new cowgirl fit.

We pulled on our boots and yeehaw’ed over to the River Rock for Stomp n’ Stride’s Thursday night of bootscootin. We made everyone we locked eyes with aware that we were n00bs and we’d need much attention/were already embarrassed. Everyone was amazing and kind and encouraging, telling us it looks intimidating but we just need to hop in and give it a try. The best comparison I can make is when everyone at Rydell High knows the Hand Jive and I just got dropped onto the dance floor from another high school on another planet. We watched about 1 hour of people spinnin and stompin and clappin in unison at warp speed. There was no “hoppin on in.” If we had, we would’ve created a pile-up. Also, if I wanted to even ATTEMPT to follow someone in the front row, there’s so much turning in circles that eventually I’m the front. So that’s a fun new fear that got unlocked! There were exactly two “lessons” in the entire night (false advertising for sure that this was beginner-friendly) and those lessons were pointless because they were just as fast and difficult. MY ANKLES DON’T MOVE THAT QUICKLY WHILE MY TOP HALF IS TWISTIN, MA’AM. I gave up halfway through the first lesson and then stuck it out on the last one only because it was to Galway Girl and that song slaps. But make no mistake, I looked like the spazziest of spaz. Never once did I do a move correctly or face the right direction. And that’s all for line dancing, folks!

@gardenstategoofin

Despite being a total uncoordinated spazz with no rhythm, Iโ€™ve always wanted to try line dancing! ๐Ÿ‘ขLast week my mom and I pulled on our boots and hit the dance floor so I could check it off the ole bucket list. โœ… @Stomp and Stride hosts country night every Thursday night at River Rock and there was a great turnout! Everyone who was bootscootinโ€™ was so welcoming and encouraging to us newbies. We followed along with a couple of lessons and reconfirmed that neither of us has any business near a dance floor. ๐Ÿคฃ BUT it was so fun to watch everyone spin and stomp. Plus, I committed to doing a whole song even though I never once got a move right and for that I can say Iโ€™ve line danced! ๐Ÿค  If you know how to move your limbs in unison, go check it out!! ๐Ÿ‘ฏโ€โ™€๏ธ

โ™ฌ Man! I Feel Like A Woman! – Shania Twain

#27 Make an Art Wall for all the Places I’ve Lived

Since 17 I’ve lived in Syracuse, Saratoga, Poughkeepsie, (Saratoga and Syracuse again), Boston, (Saratoga and Syracuse again), and New Jersey. When I decided I could never move out of state again and needed to cut the shit with starting over somewhere new about a year ago, I thought wouldn’t it be nice to make a tribute gallery wall to all of the places I’ve lived? And then I spent this entire winter deciding I needed to move out of New Jersey and looking at moving down south. So I think it’s safe to say I’ll probably move again as I continue to get priced out of everywhere I’ve resided, but now I have a lovely art wall of all my homes to move to my next home. Maybe one day I’ll actually OWN a home?! Say home again. I take a photo every second of every day and because of that impulse hobby, my boring white walls are covered in my own pictures of all the places I’ve lived. But for this gallery wall, I wanted to display other people’s art. So that’s how I ended up turning into an art curator this year. I like how it turned out and will obviously keep adding to it, especially if I move for the 8 billionth time in my adult life.

#17 Break Shit at a Rage Room

you should be scurred.

We’re petering off now with lots of underwhelming items because much like any list, you get the big swings out of the way and save the easy peasy stuff for last because you know you’ll be able to get that done. Art for my wall, writing with strangers, writing alone, and paying OUT THE ASS to break Goodwill dishes for a VERY brief twenty minutes. If I had any sort of area where I didn’t have to be worried about a stray shard of broken glass, I would absolutely have done this for myself and not paid a business to break shit. It was almost $70 with tip (because of course we have to tip the employee who is already paid to clean this glass up) for 20 minutes of breaking. Except it wasn’t unlimited breaking in 20 minutes, it was a counted number of glass plus ONE electronic and what constitutes as an electronic is a keyboard. Everything was from Goodwill and still had the price stickers on it so I can confirm they didn’t spend more than 20 dollars on this glass, if they even bought it…Goodwill might donate if they need to get rid of product. My weapons of destruction were a bat, a crowbar, a nightstick type thing, a sledgehammer and a hammer. So not to burst the bubble of consumerism America, anyone could create a rage room if they really wanted to. Fo free. In fact, I’ve dropped so many of my pint glasses that I’ve been collecting in the past 5 months that my kitchen is essentially a rage room. That being said, there is no release quite like throwing glass at a wall or wailing on a keyboard until every key pops out. So the actual FEELING of breaking shit? Elite. The cost of it? BULLSHIT. Also I filmed myself thinking it would look so badass and then laughed out loud when I watched the footage back. Total Geekburger.

@gardenstategoofin

Decided to go in for a Mood Swing at @SmashinCityRageRoomLLC over the weekend and honestly it felt right to throw glass at the wall and take a metal bat to a keyboard. โŒจ๏ธ I worked up a sweat making sure I smashed every key and it was very cathartic to break stuff, Limp Bizkit style. ๐Ÿ’ฅ 10/10 recommend ragin it up every once in a while, especially if you have a fiery Italian temper like me. ๐Ÿ˜‰

โ™ฌ sonido original – PuroRock

#26 Attend a Writing Event

I’ve been trying to find an in-person writing event since I started getting more into humor writing. EVERYTHING is zoom and soOoOoOoo awkward. I’ve done a handful of weird webinar classes that I’ve paid too much for, and then I thought the writing retreat would be the perfect experience to motivate me to get the juices flowing for my book AND learn from a published author. HA. And ever since last June, I’ve been ferociously trying to find an occasion to write with or learn from other writing humans. As it turns out, not really in a great location for writers to kick it. There’s stuff in the city or up North near the city, but down here at the beach, no one wants to get together and write, I guess.

I found exactly one writing group called Project Write Now and they meet once a month in Asbury Park for “Write Out Loud.” So I gave it a try in April. And it was about as uncomfy as everything else I just cold-call show up to without knowing what to expect. We sat in a circle, we did ice breakers that gave me PTSD to being in school and brought back my weird shaky voice when everyone is staring at me, and then we did lots of writing games and exercises that I also wasn’t expecting. Loads of participation for ya girl. BIG yikes. There was even a tossing of a beanie toy for rhyming, which meant I had to be coordinated AND use my brain. Terrifying! I survived the sesh, which was difficult considering the theme of the month was poetry and I’ve never once written a poem. But I shall never return. Here’s my souvenir, a poem we collectively wrote by passing our notebooks around the circle for everyone to write a line. I wrote the first and last lines.

#19 Keep a Journal for a Year

I can remember a handful of times I’ve maintained a diary/journal. Sixth/Seventh Grade, Junior year of college whilst studying abroad in Italy, and Covid. The first diary I revisit often when I want to feel completely embarrassed for my pre-teen existence. Or I want to remember what it’s like to write with pastel milky gel pens. The second diary is fun to read and reminisce when I peaked in life, gallivanting around a foreign country on my parent’s dime. And the third is quite literally a piece of history and if I wanted to, I could submit it to a Covid collection. But instead, I turned half of it into a book that never got published. So I’d say it was the most productive round of journaling I’ve done. The past couple of years have been particularly roof stoof on the life front (not that the last decade has really been peaches and cream) so I felt like it was a good time to really stick with a journal for a whole year and record/process my feelings. It was an undertaking. I have A LOT of feelings. And A LOT of stuff has happened in two years. My hand cramped many a time and there were weeks when I was so overwhelmed because I had too much to write so I put off my Sunday night journal routine, which then just piled up more shit to write about. But I soldiered through. Happy to say that I journaled roughly once a week for a year. Bet you’d like to see what I wrote about but NOT SO FAST. It’s PRIVATE. If you want the goss, you’ll have to KILL ME FIRST! No but actually, when I croak, those journals (much like the REAL list of people who are dead to me) will be released for public consumption at my funeral. And I’ll watch the chaos from above. The grand finale.

Ok, we’ve reached the end of our satisfying checks. Here to report with a tear in my eye that the next three items have a GASH through them rather than a thicc checkmark next to them because unfortunately, I failed. I did not accomplish three items on the list by the time the clock struck twelve on May 15th, 2026. I will add a sad explanation as to why I couldn’t make it happen for each item, because I love to yap. If you don’t care to hear my tiny violin, skip to the three bonus items that I HAD to add in so we maintained the number 35.

#4 Be in the Audience at a Late Night Show

In August, I submitted myself for the SNL ticket lottery with this email:

My name is Julia and I’d like to enter the ticket lottery for Saturday Night Live for the 2025-2026 season. As a hobby satire writer myself, it would be a dream come true to be able to see the most iconic satirical sketch show live and in person! I would be a great addition to your studio audience because I have a great laugh and I love to have a good time. I also laugh when things are awkward or uncomfortable, so it’s a real win for the cast if there happens to be a lull or some of their material isn’t quite hitting with the crowd. You can always count on me to be a supportive member of the audience. 

A little more info about me, I’m obsessed with making bucket lists and planning fun adventures. In May of 2026, I’ll be turning 35 and I thought, what better way to celebrate that milestone than by making a “35 things to do before I turn 35” bucket list?! Being at 30 Rock for SNL is on the bucket list…so no pressure or anything, but you could give me the satisfaction of checking that off if you were to pick me for this lottery! I greatly appreciate the consideration and hope to hear from you this season.

I…was not chosen.

My dad entered the same lottery with something about Lorne owing him $5 and he’d like to collect.

He…was also not chosen.

Then I found out that every late night show is some sort of lottery and the Jimmy Fallon (the next one I’d be interested in going to after SNL, is near impossible to get tix for.)

So, all that to say, this could not be accomplished because it’s all based on luck and HAHA I’ve never been lucky for one minute of my life. I even put up a thirsty hail mary post in March tagging all social accounts hoping someone might take pity on me. Still a no.

#8 Go to a Strip Club

As it turns out, people are much more willing to sashay into a strip club in their teens and twenties. Not so much mid-thirties and above. It was something I’ve wanted to do since I was in my teens and twenties, but never had guy friends/a big group of friends who were like wouldn’t it be funny to go to a strip club?! I know I will be grossed out by it, I also know I will be fascinated by the people-watching potential. Alas, after hammering everyone I knew for a year, actually RESEARCHING strip clubs in the city (nerd alert…I do not belong in a strip club if I’m doing in depth research on establishments that allow nudity), finding out that male strip clubs are illegal, which is honestly discriminatory against straight women who just want to ogle some dong, and also hearing that a strip club in NYC could bankrupt me, I finally decided to let it die. One day I will get a cliche strip club night straight out of a movie. That day just did not fall in the last 365. Keep me in your T’s and P’s that I’ll see some tasteful public nudity at some point in this life.

#18 Knicks Game at the Garden

If I’m ever a billionaire or end up boning a billionaire, I’ll get to see the Knicks play at the Garden. Otherwise, I’ll settle for the time I did see them play, at Wells Fargo against the Sixers, where they won. Would’ve loved to have an iconic noisy NYC home crowd for a team that is *as of writing time of this blog* (I’m not a jinx if by publication this is not true) in the playoffs. I ALSO tried to get MSG or the Knicks organization to make-a-wish me some free tix. Clearly, they did not think a 35 year old woman who would rather die than leave an item unchecked was someone in need. PS TickPick sent me the prices for the Eastern Conference Finals with the Knicks and the Cavs and tickets started at $500 for game one. Lolz hope that rat-faced Timmy Chalamet knows how privileged he is to be front row for every game.

Bonus #4: Watch the Moon Rise from a Lighthouse

I’m adding this one in, because I did it, I’ve never done it before, and I’ll probably never do it again, and clearly I fell short of my projected 35 items. If by this point you don’t realize how much of a type A psychopath I am, let me put it in writing that not accomplishing all 35 items may or may not ruin my entire year. Yes, I’m that dramatic. When I realized in April that three wouldn’t be crossed off, I ferociously started brainstorming 3 substitutes and then was trying to drag unsuspecting and unwilling friends into completing new tasks in 2 weeks time with me and FINALLY had to admit defeat before someone offed me in my sleep just so I never tried to bucket list again. BUT falling short of my goals is not going to stop me from looking back on a very eventful year and counting activities like this one.

I found an adorable little orange supermoon themed date night at a lighthouse, and took myself on out there for a romantic picnic as the sun set and a climb to the top of the lighthouse to watch that big ole orange blob ascend into the sky. Super cool, but also may or may not have permanent brain damage from the amount of times I smashed my head directly into the low entryway ceiling into the top of the lighthouse. For reference, I climbed each lighthouse before going up for the big show, so that’s three (possibly more?) times that I stupidly didn’t duck when I should’ve and left my brain matter splattered all over the steps. If you think I’m stupid, please know that I am, but I ALSO was wearing a hat, which cut all of my above the head and peripheral vision. It’s the hat’s fault I couldn’t see the metal heading straight for my dome piece. Not mine.

@gardenstategoofin

Now I can say Iโ€™ve seen the moon rise from the top of a lighthouse thanks to the night climb event at @Twin Lights Lighthouse ๐ŸŒ• Thankfully the skies cleared and brought great weather for an evening of music, picnic dinner, and great visibility of the sunset and moonrise. โ˜บ๏ธ The staff was so welcoming and happy to share information about the history of the two towers and lots of people gathered to see the big show in the sky, which did not disappoint. ๐ŸŒƒ Unfortunately my iPhone 15 Pro didnโ€™t quite cut it for documenting just how amazing the orange moon looked. So, youโ€™re just gonna have to trust me. ๐Ÿ˜‰ Definitely go climb each tower this fall to check out the views, and if I may add some unsolicited advice from someone who may have concussed herself last nightโ€ฆdonโ€™t wear a hat, the brim makes it so you canโ€™t see the low ceilings as you ascend. ๐Ÿ˜ณ๐Ÿคฃ

โ™ฌ Dancing in the Moonlight – Toploader

Bonus #8: Visit Buc-ee’s

I’ve been hearing about this beaver’s glorified convenience store/gas station/merch emporium FOREVA and I legitimately forgot that they were Texas-based until a day before my trip when I saw a headline about Buc-ee’s expanding and I’ve never been more excited. I immediately looked up the closest Buc’s to the rental house and told my dad to BUCkle up. And can you honestly complete a BUCket list without a beaver who wears a tiny red hat named Buc-ee?! Nah, son. There are no words to describe this establishment other than excess. I could’ve spent 4 hours wandering around this massive store and still have things to look at. Sadly, I was accompanied by a man, and men have no patience for shopping. Rookie mistake to show him the jerky wall first because then he got what he wanted and was ready to bounce. Should’ve saved his dry chewy meat reward for after the merch madness. And it was MADNESS. If you dream something up, they sell it with that lil beav’s face on it. And I am a well-known merch monster. Credit to me, I was able to narrow it down to just a hat and a tank top for myself, and then bought for others. Honestly I considered the leopard one piece with Buc’s face all over it for longer than appropriate. I went to Buc-ee’s a total of 3 times on my four-day vacation and should I just move to Texas so I can be near Buc’s and go every day? LMK.

Bonus #18: Experience America’s ONLY Cattle Drive

Lolz to me just pulling items out of a cow’s ass at this point to hold myself accountable for a list that I MADE UP. On my birthday, I decided to go back to a time of saloons and shootin pistols at the Fort Worth Stockyards. Part of this experience is a cattle drive. Literally had no clue what this meant but seemed like a kewl thing to get my peepers on. Twice a day they do this and it’s QUITE an attraction. People line the streets and there was such a buildup that I half expected the cattle to come right up for pets the way everyone was clamoring for a good spot. It was just a demonstration of how cattle got from one state to another pre-transportation. They walked. A LOT. So for exactly five minutes at 4pm on my birthday, I watched a cluster of cows walk from one end of the block to another. Riveting stuff, guys. Did it. Never need to do it again. I WILL say that I did learn cattle horns have live nerves and blood vessels in them. #TheMoreYouKnow I also watched the hooch next to me alternate between a digital camera and her phone and take no less than 16,000 selfies, which made me want to go back to a time where walking with cows across state lines was a BFD.

I also rode a bull. Thank God Den was there to wrangle that beast or I would’ve been TOAST.

If you’re keeping score, my bonus points are THROUGH THE ROOF. Winner winner, chicken dinner. Thank you to everyone who I badgered endlessly all year to accomplish items with me. I appreciate youse. Bucket listin is the most fun when done with others! But this one dominated my life and every conversation for a year so thankfully it is being put to rest. Back to your regularly scheduled program of non-age specific BL’s. That is, until I turn FORTY!!!

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Salty Stories

No Budget Spa Days

In an alternate universe, Iโ€™m a semi-famousโ€”not so famous that I canโ€™t live a normal life, but famous enough to be rich/get invited to things and have people recognize me in public and tell me Iโ€™m funnyโ€”humor writer and a lavish spa day where Iโ€™m pampered from head to toe is just a Tuesday. Unfortunately, in the only universe that exists, I make JUST enough money to afford to rent the roof over my head, pay the grossly overpriced heat and internet bills and maybe splash out on a new pair of whatever knock-off trendy shoes Walmart is hawking for 1/4 of the price each month. Honestly, itโ€™s tough to live within your means, but someoneโ€™s gotta do it. When I created a bucket list of thirty-five things to accomplish before I turn 35, I had to factor in the fact that Iโ€™m a broke-ass bitch and only put *a few* pricey items on the list, while also hitting up Dear ole Dad to join (and pay) for those triple dollar sign activities. As the classic spoiled baby, I ran a hard bargain for making a spa day into a family group activity, but when that fell through and I saw just how much it costs to step into a swanky spa (no seriously, thereโ€™s an attendance fee before you even book a service), I decided to narrow the search to spa-adjacent, and just from that one phrase you can assume how this story time ends. But please keep reading and see if I can make you laugh along the way. If not, you may request a refund.

In my life Iโ€™ve gotten a facial, a massage or two, and Iโ€™ve taken the highly sought out mineral bath of Saratoga Springs. This last one was a work perk and considering I worked at this 100% haunted spa for exactly one summer and got pink eye twice from touching dirty towels, I deserved much more than a free rust-colored tubby. The point of that ramble is to tell you that Iโ€™ve never done โ€œa spa DAY.โ€ Iโ€™ve never sat next to a rainfall reading a book, used the on-site pool or hot tub, taken a steam or a sauna, sipped a glass of champs and then had my body rubbed with oils and salts to make it smooth like butta. Hence why it made the bucket list.ย 

In my tireless research of spas in New Jersey that don’t require a road trip or a bank loan, I stumbled upon a gem only 40 minutes away that offered a lil package of Salt Cave, Sauna, and Salt Float. I am The Salty Ju and yet Iโ€™ve never salted myself in the name of relaxation, so it seemed like a sign that this was the time to try. The price was right, the reviews were all about how great the customer service is and how clean the facilities are*, so I dialed them up to book my appointment.ย 

*remember this snippet for later

The phone was answered with a greeting that I already didnโ€™t understand and I questioned if I called the right place. This was followed immediately by a concerning amount of hacking. I start to say I have a question and Chokey McChokerson has to physically excuse herself from this dialogue, put the phone down, and hack some more. When she returns, she informs me that her coffee went down the wrong pipe and then the phones have been ringing off the hook and thereโ€™s so many people at the front desk. Maโ€™am, just how long ago did you take that coffee sip for all of this to happen while you’re in a near-death experience? We get back on track. I ask if I book a body wrap treatment can I still use these same cave/sauna/bath amenities. She says no everything is charged separately as their own service. (Internal eyeroll, of course it is.) Iโ€™m mid-booking the salt package and sheโ€™s giving me dates when abruptly she asks if she can put me on hold. A minute or two later she returns to tell me that the computer screen went black. While Iโ€™m wondering if I’m on Crank Yankers, she proceeds to help a customer with their towel and then tosses a few more phlegmy coughs in for good measure. When she finally manages to make my appointment, I set it for the day after a 3-day work conference so I can take a true mental health day of recovery after schlepping a handcart around a casino that still miraculously smells like cigs even though they were banned 30 years ago. Should that entire phone interaction have been a red flag for this establishment? Obviously. But after this winter full of icy winds, snow, and despair, I was just looking forward to a day of warmth, no matter what the cost.

Appointment day arrives and BOY OH BOY was I looking forward to this after 72 hours of peopling. I couldnโ€™t wait to sit in silence, heat, and probably leave with glowing skin from all the pink salt exposure. I followed the very rushed instructions in between choking that I received over the phone: bathing suit in backpack, comfy clothes, hair on top of my head, no caffeine, stay hydrated. It was a cold, rainy day and to my immediate disappointment, I was shuffled into a freezing, pitch-black cave for my first sesh of the day. I was instructed to leave my shoes and socks outside of the door because apparently itโ€™s better to be barefoot in the salt. The woman who led me in and told me to pick my seat out of a number of recliners then did an entire spiel about the benefits of salt therapy that I understood none of as she sounded like an old VCR on Fast Forward, toeing the line between two different languages. I remember exactly ONE sentence and it was this: 45 minutes in a salt cave is worth 100,000 hours in the ocean. That seems incredibly dramatic. Are we getting our salt stats from ChatGPT?

Iโ€™m left to sit in the dark with my thoughts, most of which are internally laughing at the ridiculous notion of someone spending 100,000 hours in the ocean like theyโ€™re a humpback friggin whale. I canโ€™t read. I canโ€™t take a nap because she told me reclining decreases the effects of the salt. Another made up factoid?! I canโ€™t even cover my toes that have lost feeling immediately (shout out Renauds) with the blanket because when I tried to as soon as I sat down she barked at me that the feet must stay out. So I scroll through my phone and take a bunch of pics and videos like a screenager. I also fall asleep in an upright position like a grandpa in a recliner. Basically, I feel the full spectrum of ages in this brick planetarium full of salt. At the 45 minute mark, I have to pee because for once in my life I am not dehydrated. I assumed she would be coming to scoop me but my time is up and sheโ€™s nowhere to be seen.ย 

Would be cool if there was heat in this cave.

I emerge from the Cave of Wonders and Iโ€™m immediately met with a disappointed look and, โ€œI didnโ€™t come get you because your next room isnโ€™t ready yet.โ€ โ€œOh, ok. CAN I PEE?โ€ I am allowed to, thank God. When I return from a Jimmy Dugan length wiz (this is why hydrating is inconvenient), I am unsure if Iโ€™m expected to once again freeze my toes off in the salt so I awkwardly perch on the bench outside of the cave. She tells me itโ€™ll just be a couple more minutes and then she turns into an actual tornado of frazzle. It is exactly this moment when I clock that hacking lady who made my appointment, and this lady who has now started muttering to herself and erratically knocking on treatment doors are one in the same creature. A massage therapist pokes her head out and looks less than pleased but Iโ€™m the only one outside her door and I am quick to point the finger at who disturbed her slumber. #Wasnโ€™tMe. Massage therapist and receptionist have a VERY tense exchange about how that room is needed even though it is very much in use and I gather through both raging eye contact and clipped tones that this massage therapist has had enough of this receptionistsโ€™ shit. Sheโ€™s about one minor inconvenience away from quitting this establishment. Massage lady basically says buzz off and goes back into her room.ย 

At the same time, a woman comes out of a bath with sopping wet hair and asks if thereโ€™s a hair dryer onsite that she can use. Sheโ€™s directed to the bathroom. A few minutes later, the cough-master hustles through the *very tiny* hallway at warp speed acting like a mad woman and complaining about how the room isnโ€™t ready. Finally, she leads me to a locker where I can put my backpack and tells me thereโ€™s a robe and slippers in the bathroom, which is currently occupado by hair-drying woman. I lurk directly outside the bathroom door for an uncomfortable period of time. If the woman were to open the bathroom door and see just how close my face was to it (because thatโ€™s where the locker was and also I was trying not to get bulldozed by psycho receptionist) she wouldโ€™ve screamed. But she did not open the door and that seemed to be the breaking point for this unhinged individual who should not be working in customer service.

She has a full-on outburst where she goes, โ€œJESUS, SHEโ€™S STILL DRYING HER HAIR?!โ€ Then she manhandles two other massage therapists who are understandably so, hiding from her in a treatment room, out into the hall, and yells at them, โ€œCAN SHE JUST CHANGE HER CLOTHES IN HERE?!โ€ Um, Iโ€™m sorry, but do spa voices only exist in the movies?! She turns to me and points to the room and I understand that if I donโ€™t hustle in there in less than five seconds, I may lose a limb. On my way in, I lock eyes with the massage therapists and itโ€™s clear that both of them have had fantasies about the receptionist getting hit by a truck. The tension is palpable and I can honestly say Iโ€™ve never felt less relaxed in my life. 

I schlep out carrying an overstuffed backpack with my clothes, wearing a robe thatโ€™s for sure too short and slippers that are one-size-fits-all, which means Shaq could wear them. I feel like Iโ€™m in a college dorm shared bathroom with a bunch of strangers of all ages who have suddenly appeared in my changing time and are now crowding the cramped halls. As I continue to try and stay out of everyoneโ€™s way lest I get steamrolled with my b*hole hanging out, I somehow find myself face to face with one of the massage therapists doing the awkward dodge & weave and she literally grabs me into an embrace and asks if I want to dance. No maโ€™am, I want to disappear.ย 

The massage therapists are picking up on the terrible energy just as much as I am and they start calling the wrong names into the wrong rooms for their appointments. Itโ€™s a chaotic mess of shouting and running and me shuffling around in clown shoe slippers trying to stay out of everyone’s way until finally I am the chosen one to enter the sauna. Because yes, after all of this time the “room” that wasn’t “ready” yet was just a standard sauna that I would’ve been happy to share with others to escape receptionist tantrum from hell. I get in there for my solo sesh and immediately donโ€™t know how to sit. The bench is too narrow to lay comfortably, but I try anyway with my arms across my chest, coffin style. Eventually my back reminds me that Iโ€™m not a young chicken and therefore cannot lay on wood slabs without tweaking something so I sit up ramrod straight because if I sink into the corner, my back will be touching the equivalent of fire pokers.ย 

Photo taken before I almost passed away from heat exhaustion

As it turns out, 45 minutes is too long to sit inside a 111 degree room. Should I have suspected this before even coming here? Probably. But my threshold for heat is quite high considering I could sit in a hot tub for all of eternity and I accidentally make my baths scalding hot very consistently and still sit in them and sweat because I’m stubborn as hell, so I figured I could handle it. Unfortunately, I donโ€™t have my water bottle with me and Iโ€™ve exhausted things to look at on my phone. A nap is out of the question because Iโ€™ve never spent time in the slammer and therefore never learned the art of a cement snooze. So I just sit there getting increasingly dizzy and thirsty. At the 50 minute mark, I excuse myself because once again this turd didnโ€™t come get me…probably because she’s being investigated for hanging a customer by the hair dryer cord for taking too long in the bathroom.

Naturally, I have to wait for the elderly woman hunched over outside the sauna door to painfully slowly lace her sneakers and for a brief moment I have a final destination-esque vision that I get trapped in a hot room and my skin sizzles off of my body. Anyone who lived through the tanning bed era knows exactly what Iโ€™m talking about. Thankfully, I get the door open so that I can then tell someone else to move in order to get in my locker. Apparently this place has gone viral on TikTok and theyโ€™ve been getting an influx of crowds. I wonder what TikTok would think of that monster meltdown because methinks she’d be CANCELLED. If not for that then certainly for the fact that Spazz told me sheโ€™d bring me water in the sauna, then left me there to die.

If you havenโ€™t already guessed by how this day has gone, my third room is “not ready yet.” I do some more lurking, now shivering because I just emerged from the coal room in the underbelly of the Titanic. Thereโ€™s a fully clothed guy also lurking and we make weird eye contact that makes me uncomfy in my micro-robe. I had seen a room with a tub earlier on my hunt for water and it seemed someone had just come out of it. I am now led to that same room. It is at this moment that I realize these baths are not drawn individually, but recycled for more than one person. To say that is unsavory would be the understatement of the century but in the presence of the psycho receptionist whose looks could kill, Iโ€™m honestly too distressed (and afraid) to even question the cleanliness of this bath.* Mostly Iโ€™m distracted by the fact that I have to pee once again and the floor of this room is wet. Why is the carpet floor wet, Todd?!ย 

*circling back to their previously noted glowing reviews on customer service and cleanliness…who got a kickback to write those?!

I get another lightning speed salt float speech in Spanglish that I once again understand none of, followed by some major shade. Bitch tells me, โ€œyou were in such a hurry to leave each session, but THIS is the one you should stay for the whole timeโ€ฆIโ€™ll knock when itโ€™s time to get out.โ€ Well babe, my appt was for 45 mins in each room and I stayed well past that. I canโ€™t just rot in each extreme temperature until youโ€™re ready to come get me because you booked every single one of your followers for the same time slot in a “spa” the size of my living room. Next time Iโ€™ll just guh head and pass out in your sauna from overheating and dehydration.

Back in the room with the wet floor, I see a giant tub, a standing shower, and thatโ€™s it. How you gonna put people in warm water and not provide a toilet? Is this some form of hazing? Did I unknowingly enter a sleepover full of teenage girls? If you are *still* reading this and you are indeed, a grown-up, you may be wondering why I didnโ€™t just A. Speak up or B. Find a potty. And if there was an option C for I donโ€™t know, thatโ€™s what Iโ€™d be bubbling in on the scantron, baby. I donโ€™t know why it is that I cannot speak up for myself but I do know that if I could, we wouldnโ€™t be able to laugh about these zany hijinks after the fact. So, youโ€™re welcome for me just telling myself โ€œyou can hold in urine for 45 minsโ€ and hopping in the shower to rinse because I thought thatโ€™s what Ms. Frazzle told me to do. I donโ€™t know what Iโ€™m rinsing as I showed up clean, per instructions, but in addition to my averse to confrontation, I am innately a rule follower even when the rules make no sense.

Post-rinse, I climb into this giant bath and float on my back for about 30 seconds before I say immediately no. My head feels like it weighs more than my favorite Orca, Willy, and when I lay back the water is flooding my ears. Also, my arms donโ€™t know where to go. Itโ€™s dawning on me that anytime Iโ€™m in a body of water, I am on a flotation device or jumping waves. I genuinely donโ€™t know how anyone floats. I wonโ€™t dare try to comprehend the physics of it but hereโ€™s what Iโ€™ve concluded: my body is naturally at the top of the water, but it feels like Iโ€™m working every muscle to not drown and this is stressful and uncomfy AF. Can I get a life jacket in here?!ย Again, I cannot speak from experience as this is the closest I’ve gotten to a spa day, but it kinda just feels like a chain of near-death experiences with a high ticket price.

In the tub, I do a 180 and put my hands on the bottom, popping my butt in the air. (Youโ€™re welcome for that visz.) This is comfier because I donโ€™t have to strain my neck like an infant trying to support their bowling ball of a dome piece, but then Iโ€™m touching the thicc layer of salt on the bottom, which feels slimy and weird. Also, my cheeks are cold as they are full-moon exposed to the air. For the remainder of this โ€œrelaxing floatโ€, I twirl around like a NSFW version of Flipper. If there was a glass encasement around this room, Iโ€™d be putting on the *after dark* SeaWorld show of a lifetime.

Because of course I filmed this. Don’t worry…I censored. I’ll save the goods for the paying customers.

Between holding in pee, water-logging my ears, spinning like a torpedo in lukewarm water, feeling the blister on my heel burning, and getting a waft of bad body odor every time I splashed that further confirms this tubby is NOT freshโ€ฆIโ€™ve never been more over an activity that I paid to do in my life. I wonder if they tell everyone to wear their hair in a top bun so that less loose hairs float in the DEFINITELY shared tub but it seems as though body hair was not accounted for as a short black hair floats by me and I FINALLY call it quits. Yes you read that correctly, I put up with ALL OF THAT but this was the final pube straw.  

I hop onto the pre-soaked floor, and Iโ€™m taking a full shower cleaning other peopleโ€™s flavors and crusty salts off of my skin when I get my โ€œtimeโ€™s upโ€ knock. Iโ€™m ready to GTFO of here. Or tinkle on the floor. Whichever comes first. I change back into my clothes in the bathroom where I also see piles of other peopleโ€™s hair on the floor and itโ€™s time for me to skedaddle and never look back. I tell the HBIC who everyone FOR SURE wishes a raging case of diarrhea upon that I had a lovely experience so I can pay the balance and beat it. You can’t even look at someone these days without them spinning the iPad and saying there’s just going to be a couple questions to answer, so color me shocked that at no point during this transaction was there a prompt for a tip. Either this woman is the owner and she’s pocketing my total (God help us all) or she really thought I was going to cough up a wad of cold hard cash for this horrifying experience. An experience, might I add, that left me with water in my ear for such a long period of time that I panicked and booked a doctorโ€™s appointment a week later to make sure I didnโ€™t contract a venereal disease. Bad news for my haters, I survived. Even worse news for the nightmare on customer service street who hopes I forget about the full menty B she had in front of me…I forget nothing. She and her ratchet spa were swiftly added to the list of people who are dead to me and you can count this as my Google review. (Mostly because actual Google cuts you off at 4,000 characters and I clearly I don’t do well with length limits.) So there ya have it…another item checked off the bucket list and another lesson learned: no budget spa days.

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Salty Stories

WELP, I Tried. โ€“ Part Two

Disclaimer: I tried to not make this a 5,000 word dissertation, but I am a work in progress. If this blog is too long for you, please feel free to visit my Instagram and see the 5 curated & themed posts about this trip for a much shorter visual snack. Thatโ€™s the family-friendly, ‘donโ€™t piss anyone from the trip off’ version. If you want the more unfiltered (but still not totally unfiltered) version, keep reading.

Now onto the big solo adventure of June. This beach writing retreat was planned by an actress who splits her time between LA and NY and still has family in this area of Greece where she’s from. I found her on Instagram. Before you say YIKES that’s sketchy, please know that I already know that. I did everything I could to fact check this situation before just trusting the universe and 2025 being my mfโ€™ing year and zelleโ€™ing large sums of money to a woman I only know via the โ€˜gram. She had done several retreats before, and this one in particular was featuring an NYT bestselling memoir author to teach the writing workshops. After much back and forth about booking this trip or a different one with a Barstool Sports blogger, I ultimately decided to go with the author I didn’t know so that I could visit a country I’ve always wanted to visit. I mean, I was literally asking my dad at 13 when he was going to take us on family vacay to Mykonos. To which he replied, โ€œwhat is it that you think I do for work?โ€ We went to the Jersey Shore instead. 

Peep that beautiful grey water.

Anyway, I figured workshopping and making connections with other writers would be more than I’m doing now (avoiding further rejection and instead just word vomming all over this blog.) I also set a lofty goal to re-write my book from 2020 and self-publish. After doing some research on what an editor would cost, it seemed to be around the same amount as this trip and I thought the experience would be more rewarding for me. So, I venmo’ed the deposit, then bought the authorโ€™s memoir and read it for the first time. What I thought was a comedy memoir like my book draft, was the exact opposite. Her story covered years of drug addiction and trauma, which is a far cry from my tales about my tummy probz. The book was incredibly dark and I wondered exactly what type of writing we’d be doing in these workshops, but that was for future Ju to deal with. I was excited to A. call myself a writer and B. tell anyone who sniffed near me that I was going on a writers retreat to Greece because how creative chic is that?!

Here’s what I already knew about me going into this trip: 

  • I connect more with individuals in quiet settings and small groups where I can actually get to know them.ย 
  • I want to be spontaneous but I actually love routines, schedule, and control. 
  • I enjoy looking up things to do in the places I’m traveling to and creating a detailed itinerary. 
  • I’m a social butterfly on borrowed time, meaning I need ample recovery and recharging after social interactions or situations where I’m exerting a lot of mental energy. 
  • My stomach is a literal friggin disaster and only gets worse when I travel. 
  • I get overstimulated by noises very quickly.

Here’s what I learned from this experience: 

  • Group trips are not for me.

Alright, hereโ€™s the deal, Iโ€™m going to add nuance as to why I came to that conclusion, but unfortunately due to legalities, I cannot get into the sordid day to day details of this absolutely bonkers trip. That sounded super official, right? Iโ€™m a writer who has legalities. Nah, for real, this is a public forum and Iโ€™ve built it upon punching up at celebrities who deserve to be mocked. If I were to really spill the beans on what went down on this trip, Iโ€™d be punching down in a big way, which Iโ€™m not stupid enough to do on the record. If you want the VH1 Behind the Music version, buy me a cocktail and Iโ€™ll regale you with stories thatโ€™ll have your jaw on the ground. Simply put, there were several moments on this trip where I wondered if I was on a hidden camera show or part of a human experiment where the humans were actually animals let out of their cages for a week. And given the fact that this was organized by creatives, I wouldnโ€™t be the least bit surprised if a book, movie, or both are made based on this true story. If White Lotus season 4 just so happens to take place at a Greek resortโ€ฆI better get a hefty payout.

That being said, Iโ€™ll give you the glaring red flags leading up to the trip, plus how the very first day went, and then weโ€™ll all wrap around the campfire for some reflections and bay at the moon. I donโ€™t take big decisions lightly and as a real penny pincher, anything that costs a large sum of money gets even more thought. When I finally decided to put the deposit down for this trip in November, I had a surge of adrenaline and something to look forward to. Having not traveled internationally on my own since college, I was eager to get my flight booked as soon as possible to secure a good rate and also make this feel real. I even got a credit card with travel points hoping that the sign-on bonus would be enough to cover the flight. To take it a step further, I was cocky enough to think I could treat myself to first class and really make this a dream come true. I figured a flight to Europe costs about $1000, so how much more could first class be? Oh baby, what a cold hard slap of reality it was to see that dirt-level economy flights to Europe are in the $2500-3000 range and thus just business class was hovering around $6K. Poor people seats it is! Having not heard anything from our trip planner, I reached out to get a sense of if flights should arrive around a specific time for airport transportation purposes. She replied that I could book whatever I wanted. So I did.

All was quiet on the trip organizing front until I get a text at the end of February asking where the rest of my money is. Um, was I supposed to know it was due? Apparently, yes. She tells me to just Venmo her again. Folks, this trip was thousands of dollars. Would you feel comfy tossing that over Venmo to a stranger? I ask if she can do Zelle instead because it seems a scooch more legit and she obliges. I literally have to move funds around to get everything set to send only to find out even Zelle is like, you good, ma? You canโ€™t send that much money to someone in one day. Which is actually kind of comforting that thereโ€™s limits. Couldโ€™ve really used an alert when I Zelleโ€™ed a crackhead $25 for fake Eras Tour tickets, but whatevs.ย 

Once the money was sent and I was locked in for sure, I started to get even more anxiety when it was truly crickets about this trip. So far all I knew was the dates, how much I paid for it, and that there would be writing and beaches. I couldnโ€™t even pronounce the name of the city we were going to so when people asked, I just showed them the name. Then they would inevitably ask if it was one of the islands and I would say, sure. It wasnโ€™t until I got back and someone goes, โ€œoh, so you were in Northern Greece,โ€ that I actually knew where the hell I was. In fact, while I was there I said is Macedonia a region or a country? Truly thought it was a country. Geographyโ€™s not my strong suit. Neither is math. Neither is booking a trip through Instagram. At one point last winter, my fellow organized traveler of a friend asked me rapidfire questions about my trip that I didnโ€™t have answers to and I had to politely tell her to stop inquiring or I would fall in to a panic spiral and be forced to face the cold hard truth: I paid for something that could be fake. This was also around the time my dad started referring to the trip as Fyre Fest.

In March, I finally emailed and asked for ANY details like lodging, itinerary, transportation, and who else might be joining. The reply had a โ€œroughโ€ itinerary with each date listed and โ€˜breakfast, workshop, lunch, dinnerโ€™ written underneath, copy/paste style. I DID get the name of our resort and was able to see that it had good reviews and looked nice. So, at least we werenโ€™t staying in FEMA tents masquerading as luxury villas. TBD on if this โ€œresortโ€ would serve styrofoam containers of government cheese on bread for our meals. I also was told Iโ€™d be connected with the other travelers soon. Throughout March and some of April, both girls were still advertising open spots for the trip on their IG, which was sus as hell. It also looked like our trip leader was in a different country every week. The story I began to tell myself and others to romanticize the situation was that sheโ€™s a European easy breezy beautiful cover girl and not an American uptight wad like I was. I reframed my thoughts to tell everyone this is actually a lesson in letting go for me and trusting that itโ€™ll all work out. Let the records show that Iโ€™ll tell myself any fairytale I need to in order to justify my decisions.

One month before we were due to be in Greece (my birthday), we receive an itinerary that is almost identical to the one I got in March, listing that we would be fed 3x a day, which SEEMS LIKE A GIVEN on a trip where three meals a day are included in the price. All of the girls were on this email, and if I really wanted to put on my detective hat, I couldโ€™ve pulled gov names from each email and looked them all up, but at this point I didnโ€™t want to find any further damning information about this trip that I couldnโ€™t back out of. We were 3 weeks out and I still had no clue what we were doing other than eating meals and going to a beach. The author followed up with an additional email saying “you’re probably wondering what to pack!” YA THINK? And said light clothes and comfy shoes. She also told us some tech items to include in our suitcases, including her favorite products, which she couldn’t remember the names of and couldn’t find on Amazon to link to. Both useless emails full of typos did nothing to give me more confidence about what was to come.

If you haven’t booked your flights yet for international travel 2 weeks away…

I tried so hard to be casj cool and only control the things I could (booking a ride to the airport, taking weeks to meticulously pack outfits into compression cubes not knowing what the F I was wearing said outfits to, buying backup battery packs and converters, creating first aid kits, etc.) One day before I travel, despite having sent my flight info several times and asking to be linked with anyone on the same flight, I still have no clue how Iโ€™m getting from the airport to the resort (a 2 hour drive I was already dreading due to my severe motion sickness). I messaged the Billy McFarland of retreats and said, โ€œDo you have any details about the airport pickup?โ€ There are several appropriate responses here that would adequately answer my question such as, meet at this spot, look for this person, look for a sign with the resort name/retreat name/your nameโ€ฆand yet the response I got was, โ€œWe will be there to pick you up not to worry, we will find you.โ€

Iโ€™m already a high-strung babe and doing a global trek solo dolo, understandably, was a nerve-wracking thing for me. Add in the drama of my flight not showing up on the app and then my name being “wrong” because I didnโ€™t include my middle name, so how could they possibly know itโ€™s me?! I had to call two separate airlines because even though they operate each otherโ€™s flights, they canโ€™t possibly communicate with each other. Needless to say, I showed up to the airport ready to run through a brick wall and also shit my pants. My suitcase was 10 lbs overweight. When I asked what I was supposed to do about that the airline attendant said, and I may be paraphrasing here, โ€œyou can scoot your bulky suitcase over to the floor of shame, open that bitch up for everyone to judge how much you hideously overpacked, and move 10 lbs of outfits you wonโ€™t wear to your carry-on OR you can pay the overage.โ€ Since Iโ€™d rather die than be judged, I said, โ€œwhatโ€™s the overage?โ€ She replied, 250. As in TWO HUNDRED AND FIFTY DOLLARS. I turned heel, wheeled my phat suitcase out of line and started extracting, I cursed my need for multiple clothing/shoe options and the fact that I only brought a shoulder bag carry-on thinking I would fill it with souvs for the way back and it would be basically empty on the way there.ย 

Well, I filled that bag right up (after two rounds of the luggage scale perp walk because I got the cranky airline employee who wanted to be a stickler for two pounds over) and had to schlep it through Newark airport. By the time I got to my gate to see if it existed, I had pit stains down to my ankles and full swass. I got a well-deserved $35 Ketel Soda to cool down and cry about the fact that I now was riddled with this American Eagle duffel bag overflowing with clothes and shoes for the rest of my 15 hour travel day. *Note: I wore everything I packed except for the rogue pair of jeans I threw in with several top variations for potentially cooler nights, which there were none of.ย So suck it, airport Judge Judy.

Despite carrying a boulder on my shoulder, everything went swimmingly with my travels and if I pat myself on the back any harder for how well I navigated that, my hand would fall off. To the group of malรกkas who mercilessly mocked and berated me for asking where to find my train last summer during an NJ Transit snafu, LOOK AT ME NOW! Made it across the Atlantic Ocean and through Germany all by myself without once asking a fellow traveler a question for fear of being publicly stoned to death. And God Bless the Munich airport for having shopping carts. I got to drop my 800 lbs of carry-on onto wheels and cruise on over to the window for some natural light and self-care.

Even as a solo traveling champ, it was still a full day of sweating, not sleeping, eating the highest of sodium microwave meals (and one particularly dicey cream cheese relish sandwich), smelling airplane farts, and being touched by strangers because even the smallest human does not fit in what they constitute as an airplane seat these days.ย 

When I landed in Greece, I had fuzzy teeth and BO. And wouldnโ€™t you knowโ€ฆthey did NOT find me. I walked slowly out of baggage claim looking for signs, or a group of girls, or really anything that indicated I wasnโ€™t about to be stranded in a foreign airport or snatched into a Euro human trafficking ring and NOTHIN. I donโ€™t mean to always be right but IT DOES SEEM TO HAPPEN A LOT. I had 2 emails in my inbox, one from the group leader and one from a girl who will end up becoming a friend asking me where I am. I then get a call asking me where I am. As if I have magically ethered after getting off of a plane in a very small airport that I was told it was impossible for them to miss me because thereโ€™s only one way in and one way out. BLOW MY BRAINS OUT. Iโ€™m told I gave the wrong flight info, which I surely didnโ€™t, and then to stand still and someone will find me, something I was already actively doing. Finally, I am found. Itโ€™s a real Amazing Grace moment. And I meet 5 other girls, most of whom were on the same exact flight that I was. Wouldnโ€™t it have been GREAT to meet some of my fellow group mates in the Munich airport when I had 3.5 hours to kill, thus also creating a buddy system for when I landed?! Just a thought. Seems rational thoughts were not a part of this trip as we all roll our oversized suitcases and 2 carry-onโ€™s each to a sprinter van that will be taking us to the resort. The trunk of this sprinter van opens up and there is room to comfortably fit one large suitcase. SUPER!

At this point Iโ€™m loopy and I just have to laugh at the absurdity of not accounting for luggage with 6 women on a week-long trip, but also expecting jetlagged greasy babes to problem solve this pickle that we did not get ourselves into. As we stepped back and watched the chaos ensue, I learned via some side commentary that everyone was as concerned as I was about sending money to a stranger and receiving no details about this retreat in advance. So at least it was comforting to know that we were all duped as a unit. The final solution after 20-30 minutes of suitcase Jenga while we almost get hit by cars in the parking lot is two stacked in the trunk, two stacked in the front, and the remaining 20 bags to be shoved on laps and at feet throughout the van. We pile in and start rolling and immediately realize that the only source of airflow is in the front and being blocked by suitcases. We try to open windows and by pure luck, the one closest to me will not budge. Iโ€™m in the back row of the van and I tell these girlies that Iโ€™ve met five minutes ago, โ€œthis may be an opportune time to share that I get car sick, so I just wanted to give a headโ€™s up that Iโ€™ll be closing my eyes and disassociating for the remainder of this three hour tour.โ€ Someone asked if I might throw up. Only time will tell, girlypops!

This is truly one of the ugliest photos I’ve ever taken of myself but goes to show how dedicated I am to being authentic.

We stopped 4 times on this drive straight out of my nightmares. Stop # 1 was because the double decker suitcases in the front were getting in the way of our driver shifting gears, and there was a dicey moment when both almost went free falling out of the front window, which was rolled all the way down in hopes that a morsel of fresh air would make its way back to the bowels of this van. God Bless my seat mate, the same pal who emailed me, for suggesting we put the suitcases in the back and Ju up front since sheโ€™s probably going to ralph everywhere. I then got to take the Queenโ€™s throne where I hung my head out the window like a dog and let that sea breeze smack me in the face while my legs were in a full contortion pretzel on the dash. I love my legs, they are my greatest feature, but boy do I wish I could chop them off while traveling because they quite literally never have a place to go.

Stop # 2 was to fill up the ole tank. Because of course when you rent a van that is just for transporting people to and from the airport, you wait until itโ€™s full of people with suitcases digging into their side wanting to die to gas โ€˜er up. Stop # 3 was for goats crossing the road. This was the only stop I wouldโ€™ve allowed (it was mandatory) and I got a front row seat for animal cuteness. Iโ€™m sure my homeslices suffocating in the back did not enjoy this as much.ย 

Stop # 4 was 15 minutes away from the resort when two women insisted they wouldnโ€™t make it another second without peeing. As someone with a strong bladder and lots of pee anxiety, I can hold my urine for a minimum of 5 hours, maximum of like 10-12 depending on the situation and how much Iโ€™ve had to drink. We all peed before we left the airport and knew it was a 2 hour drive and I donโ€™t believe anyone was slugging water on this trip because in Europe water is not readily available and we basically spent a week dehydrated. So why we had two almost oopsie pee pants moments from women who have not birthed children and thus have not ruined their pelvic floor yet IS BEYOND ME. We pulled over on the side of this back country road where thereโ€™s a cliff down to the Aegean Sea and the rocky dirt becomes their toilet. One tucks herself behind a tree and takes care of business, the other stands directly next to the car and just lets it all wizz out, fully erect, no squat, no removal of skirt and/or underwear, if there was any. As my window was down, I saw and heard the thicc cascading waterfall of pee, and if I really wanted to, I probably couldโ€™ve reached out and touched it. And there isโ€ฆno recovering from that. It was the most wild thing Iโ€™ve ever witnessed. The goats crossing the road wouldn’t have even pulled this maneuver. And that was only hour 3 of being in Greece.

This hot start was most obviously an omen for the trip. It was the equivalent of driving up a winding road to a creepy haunted house and there being a dead-eyed old man holding a sign on the side of said road that reads TURN AROUND in blood. Should I have seen what I needed to see at the airport and split in a cab for a week of solo trolling around Thessanoliki? Probably. But then I wouldnโ€™t be able to write this blog and WHAT FUN WOULD THAT BE?! 

Stray cats everywhere I looked, also an omen.

Alright, time for reflections. As it turns out, putting 17 women in a room together may be ABC’s dream to create drama for a reality dating show, but IRL, it’s overwhelming and overstimulating. I can confidently say, and this may be a hot take for some people, but big groups of women do not bring out the best in each other. Iโ€™m not one of those girls thatโ€™s like oh I get along better with men, actually. I get along with plenty of girls. I love that girlhood is complimenting each otherโ€™s outfits and becoming best friends in bar bathrooms. But I also think too many girls trying to out-personality each other in a confined space is what purgatory looks like and there were several moments when I wanted to chop my ears clean off my head. Knowing that I bond better in smaller circles, cutting that group in half wouldโ€™ve been very beneficial to girls who donโ€™t thrive in attention-seeking environments. We also reealllly could’ve used some Big Dick Energy in this pack of she-wolves to balance things out. 

Greece is known for their dicks, yet none were on this trip.

Although there was no detailed itinerary for our week-long stay, there was no down time either. The only moments I was alone was when I was showering or sleeping, and oftentimes I was showering at warp speed to make it to dinner on time after staying at the beach later to enjoy it as much as possible. In order to get my family souvenirs, I had to literally skip dinner one night to go shopping instead. Iโ€™m honestly shocked I never went full irritated bitch mode and snapped at anyone due to a depleted social battery and only getting about 4-5 hours of sleep each night, although I’m sure my face showed my every gripe on more than one occasion. If you know me, you know I must sleep a tight 8-10 hours every night and also get my daily late afternoon cat nap or I turn into the Beast when Belle refuses to join him for dinner. This is probably why Iโ€™ll never have children. Unfortunately, my body rejected the time zone in Greece and never adjusted. It was like it knew I didnโ€™t belong there.ย 

Also, as it pertains to my bowels and overall potty anxiety, I learned that flushing toilet paper in old European cities is a hard no. Tell someone who has IBS that the ancient pipes LITERALLY can’t dissolve thin tissue paper and watch them panic right before your very eyes. The good news is I was perpetually dehydrated and existing solely on carbs and one water bottle per day that I greedily filled up at the beverage station each morning at the breakfast buffet (to many dirty looks of course.) It was the perfect recipe for constipation. Sure, I looked like I was in my first trimester, but at least I didnโ€™t have a tummy emergency that shut down the whole resort.

I never got to order my own food (another point of contention) and was forever hungry so this late night dawg was not only necessary for survival but v satisfying.

Three hours later…I think you get the gist of why group trips go against every fiber of my being. But much like Coldplay taught me in 2005, “if you never try, you’ll never know.” I tried it, I turned it into a story to make myself laugh / hopefully entertain you all, and I know that the next time I travel it will be with people who pee in a toilet preferably behind a closed door. This retreat wasnโ€™t a lesson in letting go of control, it was a lesson in raising my hopes to Jupiter for something and not crying when those unrealistic expectations are not met. Can confirm that I did not cry about any of my disappointing solo events in the month of June. And thatโ€™s on growth, baby! (TBH, I did cry on the last night pre-hot dog but it was because I was read for filth by the Greek Billy McFarland and those were justified tears and not wah wah my life sucks tears. BIG DIFF.) I won’t beat the “two things can be true” theme to death but obviously this blog was heavy on the things that went wrong on this trip and if you want to know what went right, go to my IG/FB and see me rave about becoming one with the sea, boating/beaching like a champ, and bonding with two girlies who were equally as horrified as I was at any given moment. #TraumaBond. I would say the takeaway here is to never book a trip on Instagram, but honestly I booked my airport ride on Instagram with a guy named Vinny and that was a 100/10 experience, so Iโ€™m gonna keep rolling the dice on socials. You win some, you lose some.ย 

True test if we can be friends: if you laugh at this video that I spent way too much time making whilst in the Munich airport on my layover.

After ALL of that, traveling back in a total haze of overtired crankiness, I spent my 9 hour return flight furiously journaling everything I saw and heard on this excursion, with my gangly legs stretched out into the middle seat because the Lord took pity upon me and left that seat open, giving me a place for my greatest asset to belong. And as the aisle seat and I were waiting in line for the potty (matching potty times is super polite plane etiquette), he asked if I was a writer after noticing me nearly ripping the page with my pen velocity. I told him how I was just returning from a writerโ€™s retreat (Iโ€™m telling you, it makes me sound SO LEGIT), and we ended up chatting for about 20 minutes. He published an academic book and shared stories about that process, including a juicy C&D he received from Julie Andrews for using her photo on the cover. He was easy to chat with and casually brought up his husband almost immediately, which I LOVED. The gays have an uncanny knack for immediately letting you know theyโ€™re an ally and not a predator. And since Iโ€™ve been preyed upon several times in the past month by gross old pervs, I very much appreciated knowing right out the gate that this man would not be cornering me for my phone number, making me want to swan dive out the emergency exit. In fact, he gave me HIS business card and told me he would connect me to his neighbor in publishing. I told him that clearly I was meant to meet him because he just gave me more writing advice and contacts than I got all week. He told me I was funny, so obviously I would die for him. And THAT’S what you get for trying!

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WELP, I Tried. – Part One

Welcome to the summer of solo adventures that shall never be repeated.

A lie that I told myself to get through one of the loneliest and darkest winters I have ever experienced, was that 2025 was going to be my year. I fully convinced myself (and anyone around me who would listen) that this is the year everything clicks into place, even making my first ever vision board and writing down manifestations to really toss the good vibes into the uni. A big piece of that “this is your year” momentum centered on a decision I made last fall, to spend a sizeable amount of money (my entire savings) to join a writing beach retreat in Greece. It was something that had come across my desk more than once, and I kept revisiting it, clearly stuck on the idea that I needed to push myself to not only do a solo trip, but to go to a place I’ve always wanted to go AND tie it into reaching new writing goals. So, with much encouragement (and a sliver of financial support from parents who will literally never rid themselves of their youngest child), I booked the trip and had something BIG to look forward to.

Also during this time of utter despair short freezing days, two of my favorite artists announced summer concerts in Asbury Park a week apart from each other. What’re the chances?! Natch, I had no one to go to either concert with. Forever on the fence about doing a concert alone, I decided to pull the trigger and make June of 2025, the month of doing things alone and scared. It was either going to be forever, or go down in flames as an up and coming musician once sang about men. And now that weโ€™re safely in July, I can now publicly declareโ€ฆFLAMES. It went down in flames.


Letโ€™s start with the concerts. What has stopped me from ever going to a show alone before, you might ask? The dreaded in-between time. Concerts are typically annoying parking situations, perhaps a long walk to the venue, waiting in line, not actually knowing when the band goes onstage so you get a drink, buy merch, maybe eat a snack, and yap. Then of course, thereโ€™s the dead air between sets as they switch the stages. When you think about it, thereโ€™s several wasted hours during a show that you barely notice when youโ€™re with friends just yuckin it up. When you’re alone? It feels like 84 years have passed since you arrived. Well wouldn’t you know, this very specific fear that I had was 1 billion percent true. 


My first solo show was Russell Dickerson, and thereโ€™s a reason his headlining tour of 2022 was called the RD Party. Boy knows how to put on a banger of a show complete with ripping his shirt off at the end, Chippendales style. He also happens to have some boppin beach songs and I couldn’t pass up the chance to be ON the actual beach jamming it up to the songs of the summer. Plus, both of his openers were singers I liked, which also never happens. Cut to me overthinking my outfit (in case a cowboy swept me off my boots), spending 20 mins looking for parking in Asbury, finally giving up and paying $25 for a parking garage when I could’ve found a street spot for $6, then getting into the venue and immediately buying an overpriced hat I didnโ€™t need because, duh. A merch tent LOVES to see me comin. And then silence. For over an hour.

1. I hope the city council or whoever is in charge over in Asbury Park gets diarrhea at a super inconvenient time for the way theyโ€™ve monopolized parking in that dump.

2. I get that venues want you to show up early and give them money (cause who at this point doesnโ€™t want to rip all of my money away from me) but HOW have we not made it public exactly what times each band graces the stage so concert-goers can plan accordingly?!


But I digress, I made my way closer to the stage, something I’ve never been early enough for in the past, and then I realized, I couldn’t leave that spot. I had no one to hold it for me and I certainly wasn’t going to get a drink and piss people off trying to get it back. I got dirty looks just for walking casually toward the front 16 hours before the show began. (Which is wild by the way. Sorry for existing?) So, for the next small century, I lived in that spot. I never got a drink, I never went to the bathroom, I just stood. It was BRUTAL. An hour and a half later the first opener went onstage. He was fun and I was reminded I know even less words to songs than I think I do. Another 30-45 mins of stage switching, then the second opener. Same deal. Then another what seemed like eternity of nothingness before the main event. I read all of social media that night. Everything. I was seeing tweets as they were coming through in real time because I was so starved for entertainment. I texted everyone I know and they were all busy not being a smelly loser cheese stands alone at a concert in white cowboy boots. I smiled at people next to me in the eternity of waiting hoping I might make a new friend. No one bit. I even tried the bonding over mutual hate tactic whenever a drunk guy pushed through by catching eyes with someone near me and doing a dramatic ‘get a load of this a*hole’ eye roll. Didn’t reel any pals in with that one either and that’s how I know I was not amongst my people. Russell commanded the stage as he always does but it lacked the glimmer for me. I had no one to scream sing BRING IT OVER HERE LITTLE MAMA, I’VE GOT A WHISKEY WAITING ON YA in their face and do the MGNO shuffle. It was a great show, and also incredibly disappointing. It was fun for 1-2 hours and excruciatingly boring and awkward for 3 other hours. Peep the content I created below because I wasn’t about to let that view go to waste after becoming a statue in the same spot for an entire evening.

https://www.instagram.com/p/DKm4jExAiVZ

Apparently WordPress is no longer friends with Instagram, so you have to click a link, which I know is asking a lot.

@gardenstategoofin

Literally just a Jersey girl who wants to have fun at RussellMania ๐Ÿ’ƒ๐Ÿป #gardenstategoofin #stoneponysummerstage #russelldickerson #soldoutshow #sonicehesangittwice #happentome @Russell Dickerson

โ™ฌ original sound – Garden State Goofin


I left this show already dreading my next solo concert, but also didn’t really want to deal with the admin of trying to sell a ticket while I’m in another country. So this time, I posted in a Facebook group of girliecats looking for friends in Asbury Park and asked if anyone else was going and wanted to meet up. Four women commented separately that they were and I DM’ed all of them my phone number and told them to text me if they were open to meeting at the show. I received 0 text messages. One girl messaged me on Facebook and then when I reached out before the show, crickets. Which is worse, going solo and acting like it was a choice, or trying to meet up with absolute strangers and getting ghosted? You can get back to me on that.


Knowing that I absolutely didn’t care about this opening act and couldn’t do another two hours of standing in a crowd pretending to read tweets Iโ€™ve already read, I aimed to get there right as the band was taking the stage. This concert was for my good ole tried and true fave nostalgic musician, Andrew McMahon. The pop punk singing piano player Iโ€™ve been obsessed with since I was 16, and have dutifully seen live with each band he’s formed every time he swings through town. Well wouldnโ€™t you know, I overcorrected my arrival time and didnโ€™t account for the additional 40 minutes it took me to find a mediocre parking spot 5 blocks away (seriously, die a slow death, Asbury Park), so I was in line to enter as the band was getting onstage. You know whatโ€™s the perfect show to be in the dead last row for? The one where the lead singer sits at a piano the whole time. For realz, I couldโ€™ve been in a canoe bobbing in the waves of the ocean behind me and wouldโ€™ve had the same view of the stage that I was catching inside this venue.


I got a drink to buy myself time on how to find a spot and then bopped from one side of the stage to the other, in the way back, craning my neck to see if I could ever actually get eyes on my boy Andrew. I finally settled into a spot by the fourth song and if the guys in front of me didn’t talk to each other, I could just make out Andrew McMahon’s tiny head in the negative space between these bros’ meaty necks. Sick view. The sound was even better. When they were singing, it was fine, although I could hear the crowd more strongly than them, but when Andrew talked, which he likes to do at shows, I got nothin. This was the 20th anniversary of their first album and he was telling stories about why he wrote certain songs, and all I heard was everyone around me’s conversations. Hey babes, if you’re going to just socialize, why spend $60 a head to do so? Why not just go to the bar and put that money toward boozin? I tried to push past groups that were literally facing away from the stage because WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE?! Also, I realize I could’ve just gone full dick mode and done the “I’m looking for my friends” bit to push toward the front, but just the thought of pissing someone off and having a Jersey-style confrontation gives me the nervous poops. Not to mention the fact that I’m Jack the friggin Beanstalk and even just standing in the back I heard the slicked bun behind me grumbling to her tall hot boyf that I was too tall and she couldn’t see. Life must be rly hard for her.


To add insult to injury, after 3 full days of a 100 degree heat wave, Earth was like my hot flash is over, let’s go back to fall, dropped down to 60 degrees and that G-D wind was back, BB! Challenge accepted though and credit to me: nailed it with the perfect amount of layers. Tee+hoodie+jean jacket. I wore a baseball cap with braids because I’d rather hurl myself off a cliff than have my hair repeatedly blow in my face. I never took the hood down. Should the chat monsters surrounding me ever close their gaping yappers, they would’ve wondered if I was the unabomber or JLo just trying to keep it on the DLow and not get recognized in AP. If you’re hating your current situation and everyone around you, highly recommend wearing both a hat and a hood. It was like having blinders up and also really came in handy WHEN IT STARTED RAINING HALFWAY THROUGH THE SHOW. Needless to say, I am done with solo concerts. BUT, I tried. I made the pre-judgement about why they wouldn’t be enjoyable that I was incredibly right about. And now I know for sure, seeing live music is only fun for me when I can share the adrenaline and joy with someone else, much like most of life.


TO BE CONTINUED because this blog was even too long for me so I cut it into two parts. And let me tell you, part two is a doozy.

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The Most Alarming Things Medical Professionals Have Said to Me (So Far)

I’ve recently been trying harder to get published again, which caused me to dive back into the old archive of drafts from my writing sprint a couple years ago. I know it may seem hard to imagine for any of you who have read my blog or my satire before, but they are almost one in the same. 99% of my humor pieces are based on real life scenarios and I write it in my own voice. Sometimes I look back at a draft I wrote and realize I don’t want to make something more fictional or satirical, I want to just tell it like it is…ya know, funny cuz it’s TRUE! So here’s a list of all the crazy shit medical professionals have actually said out loud to me, which may or may not be the crux of my distrust in doctors and my severe anxious attachment to self-diagnosing on WebMD.

*For the last three years I’ve churned out a birthday blog as a mechanism to fight the sads on aging. I felt like I got it all out last year (I should’ve for how long that blog was), so pls accept this unrelated blog that I was planning on posting anyway as my “birthday blog.” Realistically, when you get older, your body starts deteriorating and if you keep reading you’ll see that mine has been doing so since birth so I guess it’s still on theme. I’m actually terrified for what my later years will bring with medical care, but at least I made it to 33 without crumbling into dust. And that’s certainly worth celebrating!

In Chronological Order

Oops, let me just check where the sun donโ€™t shine! Hot start, I know. The most important thing I learned growing up didnโ€™t come from a textbook, it came from my childhood dermatologist repeatedly checking my butthole for moles. As it turns out, moles donโ€™t come from the sun, and they CAN thrive in dark cracks. For whatever reason the first derm I had was obsessed with diving into my butt (not just mine, I double checked with my sister and she got the same scarring peek so it’s comforting to know I wasn’t being violated alone) and I’ve seen roughly 45 derms since this one and none of them have ever once parted my buttcheeks looking for cancerous moles. But one *did* have the balls to tell me that I had age spots near my vagina that often appear around age 30. ๐Ÿ˜‘ I was 27 at the time. Even if I didn’t already have a complex about aging, THAT WOULD’VE DONE IT!

*Pulls saturated glove out from armpit* Well, you definitely have a sweating problem. Gee doc, my pit stains down to my ankles on a Tuesday in the middle of February mightโ€™ve indicated that or maybe itโ€™s the fact that all the other 7th graders chant โ€œSWASSโ€ repeatedly when I walk into the cafeteria with a moist butt print on my terrycloth mini. JK they didn’t do that. But I have photographic proof that on the 8th grade field trip to Cleveland, OH, my tee shirt was soaked and discolored as I tried to flirt with a boy and sit on his lap while my Secret Light & Fresh wasn’t hacking it and I absolutely had BO and HONESTLY THAT’S PROBABLY WHY I DIDN’T HAVE A BOYFRIEND UNTIL 25. (I spent about 2 hours trying to find this picture and of course I can’t. But one day, when you least expect it, I’ll resurface it for gigglez.)

Also, I leaked in 7th grade during a visit from Aunt Flo and I WAS wearing a terrycloth mini and I didn’t think anything of it being wet because that was just an average day for me in my teens and therefore I went all day walking around with a giant seat-print blood stain on my skirt. The moral of the story is that all of this could’ve been solved if my mom agreed to let the dermatologist stick me with botox to block my sweat glands on this fateful day and instead she said I was too young and ruined my life. I’m even more bitter now because as a grown ass adult I still can’t afford botox and I have to buy new white shirts every quarter to replace the ones with browned armpits because I still pour sweat out of all of my orifices on the daily double. Even when I’m cold. #HyperhidrosisSurvivor

I need an even smaller speculum because youโ€™ve got an itty bitty vagina. As if going to the gynecologist for the first time at 15 isn’t traumatizing enough, let’s add in a doc telling me to keep my American Eagle distressed jean skirt intact and just slide my undies off, which felt like something a horny teen would say as we snuggled under a blanket in his basement watching a scary movie. She then proceeded to conduct a full pap smear on a girl who had never even kissed a boy. Spoiler alert: even the small speculum feels like you’re being cranked open with a car jack and your hymen is being ripped out by a gloved hand. As adorable as it may sound, having an “itty bitty vagina” made my annual invasion a straight up lady bits massacre from ages 15-present day.

The trick is to pant like a dog and you wonโ€™t even feel me swab your throat. One would think a reference to a strep throat cult was from my early childhood but curveball, this was told to me when I was 23. Yes, that’s right. You heard it here first. I was a college graduate before I stopped hitting doctors and screaming when they tried to swab my throat. All it took was for a very skilled ninja in the Urgent Care to not judge me and to give me this pro tip so I didn’t feel like I was choking to death. I mean, realistically I could make dolphin sounds and clap my fins and I will STILL FEEL that giant wooden paddle piercing my hangy ball with reckless abandon causing me to gag uncontrollably. But this was the one and only time I didn’t badger the doctor administering the strep test. I also didn’t have strep, I had mono and because they couldn’t diagnose it for several visits, I turned into a lifeless corpse that eventually needed a Sammy Sosa dose of roids to bring me back to life.

Sounds like your boyfriend has multiple personality disorder. This sentence was uttered by a licensed mental health counselor about 20 mins into my first therapy appointment after giving a brief description of my boyfriend. That’s right, folks, this is someone who has years of schooling and certifications to help people through their darkest times and she’s tossing out a diagnosis for someone she’s never even met after two sentences from someone she *just* met. YIKES THAT IS SCARY. What’s scarier is that she ended the appointment by saying that she saw my reaction when she said that and wanted to walk it back, because therapy is just guessing and seeing what resonates. What’s scariest is that I continued to see her for several months and even brought my boyfriend in for an appointment because she asked to meet him and then she flirted with him for 40 minutes and told me to never let him get away. YOU CAN HAVE HIM, DONNA!

*Feels ice cold toes * Not much I can do for this, your best bet is to move down to Florida where itโ€™s much warmer! So then it IS true what the brochures say, Florida is known as the Circulation state! Add my Raynaud’s Syndrome (freezing cold fingers and toes), to the laundry list of ailments that get worse as I age. Apparently I have my Nana to thank for passing the ole dead toes on down to me in the genetics pool. Ironically enough, her toes are dead as is the rest of her and has been since long before I was layering two pairs of socks to sleep at night in the winter. I can also thank my family for settling in the frozen tundra of Syracuse, which certainly hasn’t helped matters. But sure, as I put a space heater on my feet, invest in wool socks and wear Uggs everywhere, it certainly hadn’t crossed my mind that FLORIDA WOULD BE BETTER THAN THIS ICY HELLHOLE.

*Lifts shirt* You were the one with the abnormal mole, THATโ€™s right. Youโ€™ll just feel a pinch. Why do drugs when you can get simple thrills just from getting your back sliced and stitched up with the exam room door wide open and wonder if they figured out which patient you are yet. Puff puff pass or back alley biopsy, amirite?! This was hands down the sketchiest/most unprofessional experience I’ve ever had in a medical office. These clowns pulled up topless pictures of other patients on their double monitor computers in front of me (of course it was the oldest man on this earth, they couldn’t even treat me to a hot bod), complained about their jobs, bitched about other patients, scraped my back for a biopsy and let it bleed all over my white shirt, had me sign a waiver minutes before surgery on my own lap and took the pages with the actual info on it and told me just to Johnny Hancock the sig page, then conducted the surgery with the door wide open and my shirt off, chatting amongst themselves as they tried to figure out which patient I actually was mid-slice. And then I had to go back and have the stitches ripped from my body (also with the door open.) That was three total appointments from a place that was about as legit as a medic tent at Fyre Fest. So natch when they sent me a “HOW DID WE DO” survey, I lit them up. Don’t ask if you don’t want the answer, boneheads! As you might recall-in my 31st Birthday Blog, I googled how to report them as well. I hope someone far richer than me has sued the ever-loving shit out of them by now. That’s my birthday wish this year.

Has your nipple always looked like that? Ya, doc. I’ve been coming here annually for 3 years now and you ask me this exact question every time and instead of roasting the left nip I was born with and suggesting it could be a sign of breast cancer, maybe you could just make a fucking note in my chart. Another dermatologist. Go figure.

If you haven’t figured it out yet, I have been mostly traumatized (and tan-shamed) by dermatologists. BUT my most surprising violation (with very little verbal warning) came from my viz to the GI, which I detailed extensively here. In addition, of course, to the all-time classic, “you’ve been pooping wrong,” which belongs on this list right alongside the jarring buhhole examination. A two-for-one special of reasons to be in therapy from that Doc.

Your feet aren’t that bad, imagine what I see in Newark. Honestly, this was meant to be a comforting statement from my favorite doc I have, my podiatrist. He’s an old-school Italian, baseball lovin guy who takes care of me as if I’m his own daughter (including putting my shoes on at the end of each appointment and tying the laces for me, double knot style.) Most people would be irritated by this but I actually love being treated like a toddler when I visit him quarterly. Keeps me young, which I know I am anyway because judging by his waiting room, I am 50 years younger than any of his patients. But anyway, when your sister is telling you that you can’t come home for the 4th of July unless you wear socks at all times because she doesn’t want to puke at the sight of your toenail that LITERALLY WILL NEVER HEAL (it’s almost a full year later and we’re still rocking a very unappealing toe), hearing that the mangled dusty-ass tootsies of Newark are even being mentioned in the same sentence as yours is not very uplifting. Especially because HOW AM I SUPPOSED TO PULL IN FEET PIC MONEY IF MY FEET ARE HORRIFYING. My right big toe, AKA Moldy Toe looks like what I imagine a 95 year old woman’s crusty chunky toenail looks like and for several months of sandal season, Doc told me I couldn’t put nail polish over it to cover it up. And I told him that if I was ever going to find a husband we’d have to find a solution that wasn’t flaunting this bad boy around bare in a pair of flops. So yea, the bar is low as I wait for this thing to die away from me but at least it’s not STREETS OF NEWARK low.

PS The sad faced hospital gown cover photo wasn’t from any of these circumstances but was from a dermatologist who forgot about me waiting in the exam room in a paper gown one day. Doesn’t make the cut because they didn’t say anything questionable…they didn’t even remember I existed. My mom told them they were all dead to us and we stormed out of there and never turned back. I know, I know, ANOTHER DERMATOLOGIST. And while we’re on the topic of the most traumatizing type of doctor, I just want it in writing that I’m a FIRM believer in them scraping a mole every year strictly to say they did something. There has not been one single time that I’ve been examined by a derm and they haven’t said hm, this one looks a little iffy, let me just send a piece of it to the lab. Sure, doc. You go ahead and take a souv from my skin so you can charge me (and my insurance…if I happen to have any at the time) an extra lab testing/needles/numbing injection fee. WITHOUT FAIL. It’s like paying the toll at the dermatologist. Which reminds me, I’m due for payment in a couple months…I wonder where I’ll be hacked this time.

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Salty Stories

I’m A Side Hustlin’ Hack

As luck would have it, exactly two weeks before I moved to a more expensive apartment, I got shitcanned by my freelance social media job that I had for 3 years, a supplemental income that I very much needed. But bad things don’t happen in isolated incidents, they happen in three’s, everyone knows that! At the same time I got swindled out of that, I was also told by my therapist of 6 years that my insurance dropped her and I owed her $700 for appointments that they didn’t cover and we’d have to break up. And THEN I made a compelling stats-heavy presentation at my full-time job asking for a raise and was given a pat on the head and told keep up the good work. YAY! Suffice to say, fulfilling my goal of moving to the beach came with an inner voice in my head that sounded a LOT like that little shit Stilwell sneering “you’re gonna lose” and “you stink” over and over again. And since I’m doing life by myself, it’s up to me to pull a Jimmy Dugan and whip a glove at that voice.

The cool thing about my generation is that when we’re forced to work a minimum of two jobs to survive because inflation and the housing market/rent prices have soared to astronomical levels and an average salary for a job requiring a college degree (that most people are still paying off) is $40,000, is that there’s a plethora of apps capitalizing on the need for fast cash. And instead of calling it like it is, pure desperation to pay our bills on time and not go into further debt, we call it a side hustle to sound sexy and mysterious. And some of these apps ARE sexy and mysterious! OnlyFans and Feetfinder just to name a couple…but the rest: Rover, GrubHub, Uber, DoorDash, Lyft, Care, Wag, Instacart, Shipt…not so much. After serious consideration of the aforementioned apps (cause nudes and toes are where the money’s at) I realized that I’ve seen far too many true crime docs to trust that one of these pervs wouldn’t somehow track me down and wear me as a skin suit. And so I opted for the safer route of snuggling pups via the Rover app.

I paid the overpriced $30 for a background check, uploaded a bunch of delfies, and tried not to sound like the kind of gal that used to sneak-pet dogs in Italy when their owners weren’t looking. I succeeded because suddenly I had a hot weekend with 5 drop-in visits booked. It was during this weekend that I had to take a hard look at myself in the mirror as I was yelling at my own dog to HURRY UP AND GO POTTY so I could walk other people’s dogs. Only to come home cloaked in the scent of a cheater. The air was thick with betrayal as Charlee came to the realization that not only was she forced to squeak out a dump under extreme duress but I was rushing her so I could step out with not one but two strange dogs in the same day. Chuck, if you’re reading this, please forgive me, Mommy’s sorry! You’ll always be my favorite dog to smother.

Not worth the wasted travel time or neglecting my own pooch, I dropped my Rover distance down to less than 5 miles continuing to hope that someone down the street with a full-time job that pays them enough to live off of would scoop me up as their regular lunchtime dog walker. I had already collected three 5-star reviews from my knack for writing a super cheesy report card and snapping an array of portrait-mode doggie pics that belong in an art gallery. Eat your heart out, Annie Leibovitz.

Unfortunately, I wasn’t getting any hits so it was time to move onto a new venture. After a very nerve-wracking night where my mom convinced me a dog owner I was doing a meet and greet with was going to be an axe murderer rapist, I was extra vigilant about doing apps where my probability of getting snatched was on the lower end. After sharing my concern with a friend of the program, he quickly pointed out that anyone who snatches me would give me right back after 10 mins of me yappin. So I’ve got that goin for me, which is nice. I decided on DoorDash. I figured I could bring people their food and drop it on their doorstep (minimal human contact=slight chance of being adult-napped) Easy, peasy, lemon squeezy. DD hazed me by giving me a half hour shift 8 towns over to kick things off, which I took like a frat bro champ, desperate to pledge Delta Delta. In a half hour I delivered two Wendy’s orders to people who lived next door to each other and made $15. Needless to say, after this short stint, I had a real false sense of confidence that I could crush it as a dasher and make millions.

Which brings me to the real reason for this blog: my terrible, horrible, no good, very bad day of panhandling on the apps. Still active on Rover, I happened to get pinged for a drop-in visit with 3 dogs, all above 80 lbs. I certainly don’t think I’m Cesar Milan but I figured it wouldn’t be difficult to let these dogs out into their own backyard. The night before my scheduled meet and greet, the dog owner reached out to me and asked if instead of dropping in at their house, I could actually just take their 2 year old husky to my house for the day. Exsqueeze me? I’m not on the app to bring strange dogs into my home, I’m on the app to see how the top 1% (homeowners and people who can afford a dog walker) live. AND obviously to overwhelm their dog with affection for a nominal fee. After a phone conversation where she explained this dog was fresh from the shelter and still “in a destructive phase,” I told her that I also have a dog and happen to like the things in my home, including my overpriced Christmas tree that I (my mom) had just worked really hard to put up. Charlee was destructive for one month when I rescued her and after she ruined this piece of rare art curated by Christmas Tree Shop before I even had the chance to hang it up, I nearly sent her packing right back to Mississippi. So no, I’m not willing to bring another chomper riddled with separation anxiety into my new apartment.

We agreed that I would bring my dog to her house to meet the others and we’d go from there AKA I’d tell her I would be more comfortable watching her dog in its own home where it belongs. So I brought Chuckles to meet some new pup pals knowing that she’d never see them again but just trying to repent for the weekend I cheated on her so hard. This did not put me back in her good graces, in fact, I think at one point she gave me a look that very clearly read, “what the fuck, mom?!” It looked kinda like this:

As it turned out, these dogs were A LOT. They were big and loud and immediately ganged up on my little Chooch. She hated every second of this playdate and snapped her teeth like a croc to get them to back off, to which they said NOPE! In this high-stress and very barky few minutes, I learned that the husky has escaped their backyard several times now by attempting an Olympic trial-level high jump over the fence and also tunneling under the fence. This dog was giving Andy Dufresne a run for his money. Legend says that before she dove below sea level to resurface on the other side of the picket fence she turned to her doggie sibs and said, “Hope is a good thing, maybe the best of things, and no good thing ever dies.

As I was processing these deets amidst the chaos of howling, snarling, and my dog trying to crawl up inside my womb, I was simultaneously being asked to commit my whole Sunday to watching these giant furry a*holes rather than the previously requested hour, for a paltry sum of money. As many loyal readers of The Salty Ju know, I hate confrontation and awkward stranger interactions. I’d rather deteriorate into a skeleton than politely remove myself from an uncomfy sitch and saying no has never been an option for me. So when faced with this ultimately terrible dog watching set-up, I was ready to be like, “sure, babes, whatever you need!” instead of, “I’d rather die.”

So I nodded along like an idiot and when my dog was literally about to be eaten alive, I suggested putting her in the car before it got ugly. I went to bring her to safety and who trotted right out behind me but the escape artist herself in her easiest disappearing act to date. I was in shock. I hadn’t even been responsible for this dog yet and I already set her free into the wild. Knowing she had about 10 seconds before her mom realized what happened, she said SAYONARA, SUCKERS and took off down the road. What ensued next was straight out of a movie. The dog owner and her toddler son were not yelling the dogs name but speaking it at a normal volume and walking toward it at a casual ‘I just recently learned how to use my feet’ pace. There was no air of panic coming from them, meanwhile I was THE MOST frantic. I hysterically asked the owner if the dog would chase me if I ran in the opposite direction, seeking any sort of resolution, even one that might show what an uncoordinated blob of mashed potatoes I am. It was so far away at this point it wouldn’t have even seen my chicken legs take off to chase.

Not knowing what else to do to be helpful in this scenario and also riddled with guilt from being the gate-opening monster, I joined the search and rescue team that had more of a ‘hopefully this dog just runs back toward us’ energy about it. Several friendly neighbors stopped as they drove by and made things even more awks as they asked me about tendencies of a dog I’d met 5 minutes ago and told me to hop in with them to get it. Uh no sir, I was taught to never get in vans with strangers. Feeling rather useless, I took over toddler duty as I realized losing a dog and also having your 2 year old clipped by a car as he weaved all over the road shouting, “DOGGIE FREE!” might actually ruin this woman’s life. I held his little hand and vowed to not also set him free into traffic. After what felt like hours but was probably 10 mins, one of the neighbors got the dog into her car and happened to have a leash in there as well to prevent ole Seabiscuit from gunning for the Triple Crown again. As we walked back to the house the owner asked me if I babysit as well since I was so good with her son (read: I didn’t lose him) and I had to break it to her that I only babysit for families who I’ve vetted bring their A-game with a fully-loaded snack pantry. I’m kidding, I told her I actually hate kids. No but seriously, there’s a reason I didn’t join the Care app and it’s exclusively because it would be inapprops to say in my profile that I would only be willing to watch sleeping children so I can get paid to binge Netflix and my non-negotiable rate is $35/hr.

After that whirlwind, I thought FOR SURE she was going to state the obvious: that I was not cut out for this dog-sitting gig. But unfortunately for us all, she was ready to give me a tour of the house when we got back and I had to put my big girl panties on and do a lil practicing of the word no. I shared that I did not have the experience required for a 90 lb dog who would rather roam free like a Quileute shapeshifter than be constricted to a home. And then I beat it out of there as fast as I possibly could but not before I could think to myself, why would anyone with two kids under two add a third large breed dog to their wolfpack, a SIBERIAN HUSKY nonetheless, which was literally BRED to run?! This MF’er is pulling jailbreaks just so she can stretch her damn legs and stay in shape should she ever be called upon to sub in for the Iditarod.

Anywho, although it may be easy to dwell on the fact that I went along with this FAR longer than I should have, it’s important to celebrate my ginormous win here. Sure, I traumatized my dog with a 3 on 1 gang bang and showed that I’m inept at latching a gate BUT rather than saying sounds good, super excited to get underpaid to wrangle your poorly-behaved mutts who may or may not also wreck your house or run away and then texting her a cop-out once I was safely in my home…I said NO THANK YOU MA’AM right at her face. Round of applause for me.

Ok, now hold your applause because later this very same day, I tackled my first (and last) dinner shift for DoorDash. Scheduled for 5-7, I took my cocky delivery driver ‘tude out to the mean streets of Brick and was IMMEDIATELY humbled. I think it’s important to lay out my disadvantages for you right off the bat: I’m not from this area or this state in general, so not only do I have no clue where I’m going and have to rely on the GPS, but also I’m still on a learning curve with all of New Jersey’s stupid traffic patterns. The jughandle being the biggest culprit of my frustration. Sometimes you can take a left turn, sometimes you can’t. There’s no rhyme or reason to if it’s allowed or not, I just know that I’ll forever assume incorrectly and have to do an emergency three-lane sweep. Also, NJ loves to make an additional lane for .45 seconds and then taketh away. I’ll move over thinking I have to be in that lane for said jughandle and then BAM, lane is gone. I mean seriously, look at this ole ballsac lookin’ route just to hang a GD Louie. Not to mention the handful of times I’ve gone to the wrong location and realized I passed the right spot on the same side of the road, starting the whole crazy eights over again. It’s a miracle I haven’t yakked while driving here. Get your shit together, Jersey.

Secondly, I don’t eat at restaurants. When you live paycheck to paycheck, the easiest thing to save money on is takeout and if I’m gonna splurge on a night out I’d like to drink my hard-earned cash in the form of an espresso martini. So that means I don’t even have a general idea where restaurants in my area are because I don’t frequent them. Thirdly, and this is one I genuinely underestimated, I’m night blind. In my teen years I went to the eye doctor and got a pair of placebo glasses. They had no prescription but “glare resistant” lenses that were supposed to help with headlights at night. Mmk. Obviously I stopped wearing them almost immediately because they were basically what we now know as blue light glasses and they didn’t do shit. I also just figured no one can see at night?! I mean, is anyone really crushing it vision-wise in the pitch black cloak of night that starts at 4:30pm for half of the year?! You can get back to me on that.

Now that you understand my disabilities, let me now point out that basically nothing is in my control on DoorDash. They send me orders, I accept them all so I keep a 100% acceptance rate and I can’t see where they’re going to be delivered to until I pick the food up. Could be 5 mins away, could be 45 mins away. I have no real control over the timing of anything as restaurants could be busy, traffic could be bad, etc. I have no clue where I am so I just have to listen to the GPS even when it stinks and tries to send me on the Parkway.โ€‚I refuse to give the state of NJ any more money on my own day to day travel so over my dead body am I paying a toll so you can get your burrito 2 minutes faster. All that to say, I’m at the mercy of all of these external factors just because I’m hard up for cashola.

Ok, enough exposition, here’s where the night went off the rails. I was dinged for an order at a diner, promptly got lost on the way because it was on the left hand side of a divided highway and GOD FORBID we be able to get across the street in this state. When I got there the order hadn’t even been started yet. Being the good lil dasher that I am, I messaged the recipient to tell them it wasn’t my fault. In the time I spent waiting, DoorDash was like hey how about you pick up another order on top of this one that’s clearly not on time, making it even more late! OK, SURE! Eventually I scooped both foods then followed Google Maps 30 mins away to a gated community where I had to give the address to even be allowed in.

Naturally my cool confidence was still oozing out of me as I nervously blabbed to the security guard that I’m new to the Dash game and didn’t know what I was doing…did he need my ID or a crisp C-note to open the gate for me? He took pity on me and opened the gate probably sensing that I was about shout FIRE IN THE HOLE and toss the food out the window to get the hell out of there. As I’m winding through this elite village, I finally stop when the GPS announces in her holier than thou voice “you have arrived.” Oh, have I, bitch? I was in a cul-de-sac and most certainly had not arrived. I circled once in my car then said fuck it and started pounding the pavement to get my blind peepers closer to the numbers. None of which were the address listed. I can only imagine how much the NextDoor app was popping off with olds raising alerts for the chick in a full sweatsuit circling with wild eyes. (JK there probs wasn’t any commentary because I’m a white female.) I was stressed and knew I had someone else’s chicky parm sub still sitting in my car getting cold. And if there’s one thing I vowed to never be again, it’s stressed out by a job that doesn’t even give me health insurance. It ain’t worth it, BB. So I dropped the food, snapped a pic and hoped this person’s actual house was close enough that they could just walk two doors down and snag their food. As I’m whipping out of there to get to my next delivery, I receive the following text:

CRUSHING IT. What’s comforting to know is that at least we live in a world where everyone is super rational and very kind and forgiving to those in the service industry. SIKE! I woke up in a cold sweat later that night remembering that she could make my career as a dasher very short-lived with just one shitty review because I couldn’t find her dumb gate-kept house. And not for nothing but who orders disco fries for delivery? I did her a favor by delivering it to the wrong house and saving her from a styrofoam container of cold wet socks. After that peak dashing faux-pa, I closed out the night by paying a toll to deliver Chic-Fil-A and missing the road because I couldn’t see the street sign, again trolling very far on foot to circle back (because of course it was a one-way road.) Struggling to find house numbers, I finally stumbled upon the right one only to be plunged into blindness once again as a security flood light flashed my eyeballs right out of their damn sockets. As my corneas burned through my skull, I managed to snap a picture of their sogz waff fries and drink that I almost spilled on my little apartment 5K that I didn’t even get a medal for and ended my dash. At the close of this banner day, I was awarded $30 for a whole lot of sweatin’ and squintin’ and the harsh realization that I can’t hack it on the apps. UNLESS…anyone out there wants to pay to see what I’m workin with down below. ๐Ÿ˜

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Salty Stories

Year Two as The Jersey Ju

Today marks two years since I relocated to the glorious Garden State in what will forever be remembered as the most traumatic moving experience of my life. As you might recall, I made ambitious bucket lists (yes, that’s right, plural) when I first moved here to really adventure it up and explore my new home state. After recapping what I accomplished in my first year, I decided to keep up the tradish. Mostly because I’ve done more in this state than half the people who’ve lived here their whole lives and also because I want to Jersey salute the haters who thought I’d never last here. I’m still standing, baby! And guess what? I don’t think I’m going to die every time I drive on the parkway anymore. In fact, I get pissy with out of staters who think it’s acceptable to go under 80 in the left lane. MAMA, I’VE MADE IT! Here’s what I accomplished this past year as I settled in and started to put down roots in the ole dirrty jerze. (I was told by a native New Jerseyan that no one from here uses that phrase and it’s embarrassing but then this individual got that exact phrase permanently inked on their body so I’m guessing they’re not a reliable source for what is and is not cool to say therefore I’m gonna keep saying it, so HA.)

Bar A (Lake Como) If you’ll recall I had my big J.Shore night out planned upon publish date of last year’s blog. I picked a Thursday night in late August, recruited my college gal pal, and went ahead and took a sick day in advance off for Friday anticipating a Gnarls Barkley hangover. After much polling of my dog park crew and co-workers, I decided that I was far too old to try to Beat the Clock at Bar A, but a little Thirsty Thursday seemed more approps. Well as it turns out, it was approps…for a nursing home. After surveying the crowd upon entry and seeing 4 olds dancing to a live band who didn’t play one cover that I recognized, I assured myself and my friend that we were just early. We sure weren’t! By 10pm the place was still crickets and it was officially embarrassing to be there. I asked the tween employees on the way out why their bar sucks so hard and they replied, “you come on a Tuesday for Beat the Clock, or you come on a Saturday, and that’s it.” Ope, ok! We then asked for a recommendation of a bar that might cater to the elder millennial crowd who didn’t want to hit up a theme night and fist pump our faces off at D’Jais and were redirected to Joe’s, which was indeed our target demo. Unfortunately I did not get to shout CABS ARE HEA and I certainly didn’t need a day to recover like I so boldly anticipated. But even more mortifying than that, I was so excited to break free for my first night on the town in a whole year that I bought a new top from where the youths shop and went all out thinking I might snatch myself a huz at Bar A. YOIKES. If I had recalled the sound advice from the great philosopher Ronald Ortiz-Magro when he so astutely said, “Never fall in love at the Jersey Shore. Never, ever, ever.” I probably wouldn’t have gone so hard in the paint.

Citizens Bank Park (Philadelphia) I kicked things off in my first year by finally checking Citi Field off the ballpark list and then that’s when I really popped off with my need to tour all the ballparks in America. I realized Philly was the next closest one I hadn’t been to yet and then from there it spiraled to spring training in Florida and a trip to Chicago for Wrigley. The ballpark journey continues with my dad and has been a great source of fun these past couple of years, but I’ll tell you what wasn’t fun… waiting a solid 25 mins in line to finally order a game day dawg at the home of the Phillies and paying $17.25 for this charred monstrosity:

CBP was nice (they had a whole ass rock climbing wall for kids) but I’ll never get the taste of that trash ass wiener out of my mouth for as long as I live.

Whale Watching (Belmar) If you’re a friend of the program you know how excited I was for this excursion and what a giant letdown it was. If you didn’t already hear me tell this story 6,000 times, read it here. I’d rather die than go whale watching again and in fact I saw a crew of whales casj flopping in the surf one random October morning and that experience was a zillion times better and it was F-R-E-E.

Jersey Shore House Tour (Seaside Heights) I’m trying not to be super repetitive because I’ve been known to blab about my many adventures on here a lot, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention my viz to the iconic shore store and house. It’s important to reveal that I did visit the shore store in its heyday (2010) when I fully believed I’d walk in and The Sitch would be hand-pressing my tee. What happened instead was a hungover kid sold me a “Come At Me Bro” pinny, asked me if I wanted to customize it with my name and conveniently forgot to mention they charge per letter. Guess how much “Giantomasi” cost? So much that I still have that pinny in my dresser and refuse to throw it out because of how much I overpaid for it. I figure it’ll come in handy when douche-wear becomes trendy again. Unfortunately, back in that time, tours weren’t given of the house because they were living there. History was still in the making. I had wanted to reserve the tour for someone who would appreciate it as much as I do, and then I remembered I barely have any friends. So I waited until the off season and I booked it down to Seaside on a Friday to buy a onesie for a little meatball who was yet to be born and I got so overwhelmed in the store that an employee took pity on me and then talked me into a solo tour. No spoilers but his version of the tour included pointing out where Snooki peed her pants whilst drunk and asking me if I wanted to pose in Pauly and Vinny’s beds. I declined. I did accept every other photo opp and my biggest takeaway was that I couldn’t believe they lived in this rundown house with tiny bedrooms and bathrooms for as long as they did, but they sure are cashing in now. Also not to brag but Danny said “sup homie” to me while I lurked for far too long circling the store so I’m pretty much in.

See a Comedian at The Stress Factory (New Brunswick) I knew The Stress Factory was legit enough to get big names so I was quick to add this to my list, and even quicker to jump on the first comedian that I wanted to see (John Crist…not so much a big name.) I dragged a friend and her boyfriend who weren’t that into comedy, which always makes for a good time and definitely isn’t stressful at all. The good news is, I liked the comedian and it was a fun area and a club I’d definitely go back to if I had more friends who liked stand up comedy. Bonus: I got to fondle this weird Einstein statue in NB after perhaps being over-served.

Sandy Hook Lighthouse (Sandy Hook) Moving towards the sea has transformed me into a real lighthouse freak. Love a good phallic tower with a light at the top and will probably continue to visit as many as I can. Last fall I celebrated that old rapey white guy Christopher Columbus with a day trip to selfie it up with the oldest operating lighthouse in America. Felt right to peep something from the 1700’s on a day that glorified a man getting lost and then violently taking over the land he stumbled upon anyway. Classic Columbus. Anyway, there was nothing really to report about this lighthouse other than it was old AF. Forever trying to include my BFF Charlee girl in my adventures, I thought it would be swell to drive her an hour to Sandy Hook and that was a huge mistake on my part. I couldn’t figure out where the beach was, then tried to take her for a walk through the woods, locked eyes with a big ass deer and bootscooted right back outta there. When we finally found the beach, Charlee didn’t want to sit still and wrapped herself around my chair trying to strangle me with her leash. We left shortly thereafter but not before she took a steaming dump and I found out that Sandy Hook is a trash-can free beach and I had to drive home with her bagged shit stinking up the car. Can’t say I would recommend. (PS if a beach overlooks the NYC skyline, I’m immediately grossed out. I don’t care if that’s bougie but you can’t tell me water that close to a giant polluted city isn’t disgusting.)

Sea Bright Fall was aflush with paid holidays for ya girl and I made a point to bop somewhere new each time I had a day off. Election day brought me back to Sandy Hook for a bike ride (one that was much windier and colder than I had ever anticipated) and so I rewarded myself with a fancy lunch for 1 at the Rum Runner and traipsing through Sea Bright. The food was an absolute delight and the view of the water was perfect but I still haven’t gotten past the “everyone is watching you eat by yourself like a loser” insecurity and reading a book didn’t seem to help. Also this one lunch set me back a cool $50 so I decided it probably wasn’t worth it to go bankrupt for a bowl of soup and a glass of wine ever again. Sea Bright is cute as heck tho.

Yappy Hour at The Wonder Bar (Asbury Park) The minute I got a dog, I started hearing about the infamous yappy hour where humans get boozy while their dogs run around. Nervous to let Chuckletini loose in a bar patio, I decided to wait until late October to take her for the first time so it wouldn’t be crowded. I went solo imagining this would be the perfect environment for a single dog parents meet-cute. As I scooched my chair closer to a cute guy under the guise that I wanted to sit in the sun, he scooted away and our love story was over before it even began.

Charlee was timid at first and then seemed to have a good time so the next warm day I suggested a friend from the dog park join us. Well it seems Charlee got a little too comfy for her second rodeo, shouted bye mom and left me in a cloud of dust as soon as we walked in. What a teenager. If you know, teenagers were to run full speed in circles and hop up on picnic tables where people have drinks after splashing in the pool. To say she was cutting loose would be an understatement. Unfortunately, the dog bouncers were not appreciative of her giving drunk in the club at 4am vibez. She got a couple of warnings and then they told me to leash her up, to which I said do not punish me for my child’s actions. We left. And the very next day Wonder Bar posted this:

It’s a good thing Charlee’s not on IG cause she would not stand for being subtweeted like this. Here’s an idea, if you’re going to have a place designated for dogs to play in, maybe put a sign out front that only old and fat dogs are allowed. Because RUNNING IS WHAT DOGS DO WHEN THEY’RE OFF LEASH PLAYING. I could bring Charlee to a beach for 5 hours of running and then bring her to this bar and she’d see all the new dogs and a pool to dunk in and she’d be recharged and ready to go for round two. Cause she’s A DOG. If I wanted to be Tom Petty I could’ve commented that my dog got humped every 5 minutes while she was there but no one was stepping in to stop that. #VictimBlaming. Needless to say, we have not been back. The dog beach is less judgey.

Barnegat Lighthouse + Chicken or the Egg + Ship Bottom Brewery (LBI) What do you do when it’s 75 degrees in November? You go to an island that is typically a mob scene of bennies in the summer and live it up for the day with 0 crowds in complete denial that it’s about to be winter. My original calling for LBI was to climb Barnegat Lighthouse, but as soon as I moved here it closed for renovations and didn’t open up until Spring. Itching to fill the last beautiful day before my seasonal depresh turned all the way up, I decided it was worth the visit anyway and I’d circle back for the climb (which I did, recapped further down the list.) I recruited my ex-boyf to join me on this trip and that was the last time I saw him. He sleeps with the fish in Surf City now. Juuuust kidding, we had a bomb.com day of eating, drinking, and beeboppin around all different parts of LBI and tale as old as time, he decided a few days later that he never wanted to see my mug or talk to me ever again. Guess some guys just can’t handle a chick who can wear a plaid skirt that just barely zips and still manage to put away chicken wings and poutine at an alarming speed.

Chegg was as legit as everyone says it is and the ONLY wangz I’ve enjoyed in Jersey. I’ve sampled many a chicken wang since I moved here and they’ve all been saucy, soggy garbage, except for Chegg. Exxtra crispy just like mama likes ’em. I also fawned over a row of pastel townhouses in Beach Haven and manifested living there one day, got buzz lightyear at Ship Bottom Brewery and like always, made a merch purchase whilst under the influence. But I’d have to say the highlight of my day was driving past this little boutique covered in mosaics (Firefly Gallery in Surf City) and whipping the car over so I could photograph every inch of it. I went in and bought a cute seashell trinket and learned that the shop owner commissioned artist Isaiah Zagar from Philly to conduct a workshop in mosaics and what resulted was this beaut of a building that so many people had a hand in creating. I could’ve looked at it all day it was so cool and there was so much to see. Hopefully I’ll be able to do a day trip to Philly sometime this year and check out all of the mosaic art there, obviously with a cheesesteak in each meaty paw.

Life Changing Steak in Red Bank Look, it could’ve been the fact that this was my first meal post-colonoscopy and everything hits different when your intestines have just been wrung out like a sopping wet towel but I suspect Buona Sera lives up to the hype. It even earned a revisit for my birthday dinner with my godparents who are steakhouse connoisseurs. More importantly, after hearing all about how Red Bank is like the Saratoga Springs of NJ (or the closest to it) I’m happy to report I’ve made more than a few trips there now. It’s a cute downtown area with shopping, restaurants and bars but as my TogaTown peeps know, nothing will ever compare. (Also very cutely decorated for Christmas, shoutout to my dad for not only driving 10 hours for my butthole procedure but putting up with me making him pose in front of Christmas lights too.)

Christmas in NY & AC I make it my life’s mission to squeeze all of the Christmas joy out of the VERY short window that we’re allotted between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Last year I spent over $100 on a Christmas tree (the tree farms of Colt’s Neck bent me RIGHT over) but it was worth every penny to stare at that twinkly number in my living room and sniff its pine needles all month long. So if there’s a tree to be seen, or decorations to be appreciated you know I’ll be there. This Christmas I FINALLY got to Rockefeller and spazzed my face off with holiday sensory overload but before that I was in AC for a work trip and posed in front of every tree I could feast my eyes on. I also tried to dabble in a pop-up Christmas themed bar but apparently no one was working there the one night I was in town. Go figure. Didn’t stop me from sitting in Santa’s sleigh for the gram.

Playa Bowls I can’t go anywhere near the ocean without stumbling upon a Playa Bowls so I knew I’d have to try one at least once. And folks, once was enough. For a whopping $14 I got the Nutella Acai Bowl (recommended as the most popular for a n00b like me to try.) It truly felt like a chore to eat. In fact, as much as it pains me to throw away money, I didn’t even finish it because my mouth was so tired from crunching granola with the consistency of lug nuts while getting brain freeze. Also, I was still hungry after all that.

Power Bottom Comedy Show (Asbury Park) I’m constantly trolling social looking for a new fun activity to do and I stumbled upon Asbury Park’s own comedy scene via IG. On the last Thursday of every month, there’s a comedy show featuring local talent, a more well-known “headliner,” and cash prizes. I happen to love cash and laughing, so I dragged my mom who was in town to a show. We had no clue what to expect but showing up stupid early because they threatened seats would run out and being placed DIRECTLY in front of the stage was a hot start. What then commenced was so much amateur comedy that my mom turned to me at one point with eyes wide and whispered, “Is this it? Is this the whole show?” I assured her that there was a main act and he had been on the Tonight Show, then I snuck to the bathroom and double checked. Not only do I not recommend you bring your mom to a show where the emcee’s line of jokes circled graphic abortion, sex, and sex for drugs all while she makes eye contact with you but it’s also a terrible idea to sit the two people who hate attention the most in touching distance of the stage. When the guy who gets paid to tell jokes finally made it up there what felt like 6 hours later, he decided to do some light crowd work and he started with us. After asking us basic getting to know you questions and getting stuttered one word answers with wides eyes of terror, I think he realized it was best if he didn’t make two grown women piss their pants and pick on someone else instead. Thx for the memories, Power Bottom, it was a bonding mother/daughter experience but we will not be back. Also thank you mom, for never asking what a power bottom is.

Broad Street Diner (Keyport) Jersey’s chock full of diners and this one was highlighted in an NJ.com article of top spots so I took their word for it and drove out of the way for my first diner experience since moving here. I was underwhelmed at best. Food was nothing crazy, atmosphere was somewhat chaotic and I got the sense from the waitress that if I lingered for one more second past finishing my meal, she’d dropkick me right out of there. It was also the type of diner that is the width of a sidecar and I felt like a bull in a china shop. I’m not a particularly wide woman, I’m draggin a wagon but it’s mostly tucked behind me, and I had to turn sideways to walk toward my table so I didn’t inadvertently knock someone’s coffee into their omelette with my asshole. Not pleasant. I did want to take a selfie with the Elvis statue out front (because of course) but it was only my third time hanging out with the person I was with and it felt too soon for my annoying over-documentation side to come out and play. Open to suggestions on what diner I should hit next…only ones that can accommodate my Big Bertha width, pls.

Liquor Store Bar I will explain this New Jersey phenomenon as simply as I can to all of my fellow NY’ers. There’s many liquor stores in shopping plazas that are also bars. You walk into the liquor store and it looks like your average small corner liquor store with jacked up wine prices and then you keep walking and BAM, dive bar. Having one in the plaza across from my apartment and seeing the type of clientele that frequent said boozy combo, I never intended to make it my regular hang. But then, after joining a friend at a brewery and her cousin swearing that there was a dece liquor store bar around the corner, I was down to clown. As it turns out, she wasn’t wrong. It was a very normal bar and even had live music. And everyone there appeared to have all of their teeth intact, so I’d say it was a great success.

Cherry Blossoms at Branch Brook Park (Newark) This was recommended to me by several people who saw how much I salivate for bloomz. Many comparisons were made between this park and the blossoms in D.C. I figured it would be a mob scene, but as mother nature goes, you get a real limited window for peak bloom szn. Not having plans for Easter this year, I figured it would be the perfect place of worship for Chucks and I. So did everyone else in New Jersey. First of all, I really didn’t know what I was getting myself into travel-wise. I checked the website 100 times and followed the official instagram account and they very much made it seem like there was ample public parking lots. LIARS. Not only is this park dropped in the middle of downtown sketchtastic Newark, but it has absolutely no parking. It took me over an hour to get there (with Charlee panting in the backseat wondering what the hell I signed her up for) and then I sat in standstill traffic for another 30-45 inching around the park looking for any morsel of parking. Finally on the second rotation I was able to slide into a spot, get Charlee out and see that there were HORDES of people here.

This was truly my nightmare. It was comparable to the crowds at Rockefeller for the tree except there was no Christmas magic. People hogged entire trees for photoshoots, plucking flowers and playing with the branches, there were tripods and selfies sticks and girlies dressed in their Easter best and anytime I tried to roll up on a tree and take a photo, I had unwanted strangers in the background or someone hovering to push me out of the way. I walked for about 10 mins then found a clearing for Charlee and I to sit on a blanket so she could have water and not be dragged through crowds with no room to take a beat. So naturally our little moment of peace had to be ruined by a guy dressed as a clown with white mullet hair, who stood directly on top of us and blew up balloons. After the third balloon that popped causing Charlee to launch into my lap, I gave this creepmaster a look that told him I would tie his limbs up like the balloon animals he sucked at making if he didn’t get the hell away from me. And thankfully he picked up what I was putting down and got to steppin.

I snapped as many bloom glam shots of my child as I could and then when I thought I might actually murder someone, I decided to call it and drive back through the hellscape that is Newark (the amount of times someone either stopped in the middle of the road and got out of their car or backed out of a driveway onto me were enough to make me never drive there again.) Word to the wise, unless you have the sharpest of elbows and a real ‘fuck around and find out’ ‘tude, don’t go to Branch Brook Park in the spring. Also, def don’t bring your dog. (Sorry, Charlee.)

Freehold AKA “Little NYC” I’d meant to make it on over to downtown Freehold in my first year, mostly because it’s so close and also because one of the top espresso martinis on my list was there. But as you’ll recall in last year’s blog, most restaurant or bar items remained unchecked because one must have compadres to do that with and I’m somewhat lacking in that department. But this year, I made my way out to Moore’s Tavern on a Friday night for my fave 90’s cover band aptly called Nine Deeze Nite and I truly questioned what kind of crowd lived in Freehold. In one night I saw the whole spectrum. From hood girls rocking Jordans to a woman wearing a plaid overall skirt and yellow crocs to bucket hats to a gentleman the height of a jockey wearing a wife beater, tight jeans, boots and the LARGEST belt buckle I’ve ever seen. It wast truly comical. I could’ve stood there all night and open-mouth stared at the creatures that surrounded me but they took that as an invite to speak to me and obviously that wasn’t going to fly.

A couple months later, I went to get my annual blonding, also in Freehold, and my stylist was telling me the different restaurants or bars I could check out that are more worthy than Moore’s and her young twenties associate added that downtown Freehold was like a little New York. And I was off to the races. This one off-handed comment has created an ongoing bit for me and I don’t think this girl even knows how much joy she brought to my life. To be fair, she quickly admitted that she hadn’t been to NY and my stylist told me how wildly inaccurate this comparison was. But I knew I needed to get my peepers on Downtown Freehold, STAT.

As I drove in to meet my friend for some birthday cocktails, she texted me asking if I could see the skyline yet. Then she grabbed a seat at the bar and told me she was sitting with a view of the Freedom Tower. On my walk down an alley to meet her, I found this mural and nearly peed my pants from laughing so hard. Please enjoy what I think was meant to be an ode to famous singers (perhaps that’s a Kurt Cobain on the mic?) but all I can see is that weirdly large baby with an adult face being held by a mom that looks like she would topple over with the disproportionate size of this monster. The culture! The arts! The fine dining! Some people call it the concrete jungle where dreams are made of, but us locals just call it Freehold, baby.

Fox Hollow Winery (Holmdel) I haven’t made it to as many wineries as I initially hoped I would, but I treated my mom to a day at Fox Hollow on Mother’s Day and boy, what a delight that place is. They had several rosรฉ options, a spacious patio, and live music. The only downer was that there were only portapotties available so obviously I held it because I’d rather give myself a UTI than go in one of those hot plastic stinkboxes. My mom and I channeled Joan and Melissa Rivers and situated ourselves right near the walkway to the main building so we had a prime view of everyone’s fashion choices. We should’ve had our own podcast with the color commentary that was flying. To be fair, if you wear a sleeveless khaki dress with trench coat style buttons and a collar, paired with over the knee black winter boots on an 80 degree day, you deserve to be serenaded with the Inspector Gadget theme song. But anyway, solid winery, would definitely go back, might suggest they never hire that singer again as his voice was terrible and he told people to submit requests then promptly said he didn’t know every single request he was given.

Proof that we looked cute, cause obv you can’t judge others outfits unless yours are on point.

“Two States at Once” in (Lambertville, NJ & New Hope, PA) + Peddlers Village If you’re noticing a theme this year it is: “not worth the hype.” When I was looking for a nice day trip to do on my birthday, several people mentioned Lambertville & New Hope. It’s a town in New Jersey, and a town in Pennsylvania and there’s a bridge you can walk over connecting the two and pointing out where the state line is so you can do the classic “two places at once” photo opp that A Walk To Remember romanticized for bucket lists everywhere. My parents and I headed down in the morning (another hour plus drive) and guess what?! Nothing was open. Ghostown, USA. We walked over the bridge, took a zillion photos, heard a couple store owners say that this town doesn’t wake up until around noon, and left. To be fair, even if the stores were open, both of these towns were Suckville, USA. Even Little NY aka Freehold had more to offer than a couple of antique shops mixed in with old lady fashion stores and a very weird sex shop next to an even weirder shop called The Creeper Gallery. That’s it. I just summed up that day trip way better than anyone else did for me. If you want to stand in PA and NJ at the same time, do it up. Otherwise, don’t fall for it. Since we had already made the trip, we scooted over to Peddler’s Village for more old lady/jerky/popcorn shops and lunch. I am glad we went there because I bought an overpriced duster that a bunch of old women convinced me I looked like Cindy Crawford in and I’m eternally grateful because I’m obsessed with that article of clothing and have worn it no less than 100 times this summer. It also annoys my sister beyond belief which makes it even better. S/O Sunflowers at Peddlers Village for my main character energy duster that floats in the breeze and my sunflower necklace.

Continued Quest for Best Espresso Martini in NJ As always, the grind never stops (literally) to find New Jersey’s best espresso martini. My highest score this year was an 8.6 for the aforementioned Buona Sera in Red Bank. I continued to order a spressy at every establishment that will make one and as you can see by my list, there’s still notable spots to hit, and more being added regularly. For those who are new to my rating system, I’ll remind you that much like Whose Line Is it Anyway, it’s a game where everything is made up and the points don’t matter. If I get a nice bartender, score goes up, if there are an incorrect number of beans, score takes a dive, if I’m already drunk, well it could really go either way. One thing I can say for sure is that you should NEVER and I mean NEVER get the espresso martini flight at Asbury Ale House. I can quite literally still taste the crusty old strawberry creamsaver they dropped in the chocolate milk Bailey’s shooter they tried to pass off as a martini. BARF ALL OVER ME.

Continued Quest for Cool Coffee Shop to write in like a main character in a movie This year I was really seeking that kewl girl writer who is inspired by the crowd in an aesthetically pleasing coffee shop and writes a best-selling novel while sipping an overpriced cold brew vibe. I checked out Offshore Coffee Co in Long Branch where I spent 90% of my time there trying to snag an artsy shot of the cool neon sign behind me without getting caught and looking like a loser. Coffee Surf Co in Belmar, which I didn’t realize was just a Playa Bowls with a coffee tap in it. And Shore Pour in Sea Girt, which was my favorite based on friendly staff who tossed me compliments and a super comfy coastal blue armchair that faced out to the street for prime people watching. Unfortunately, I knocked my cold brew over on said armchair and had to skeedaddle before anyone noticed. Even though my trashy Dunks-lovin ass was clearly not meant for a bougie coffee shop, this will not stop me from trying to be a trendy hipster.

Yellowcard at the Stone Pony Summer Stage(Asbury Park) Thirteen year old Ju was OBSESSED with Yellowcard. I knew their album Ocean Avenue front to back and watched their concert DVD on repeat. When it went missing (probably because my parents hid it) I was BESIDE myself. I’ll never forget trying to plead a case for me to see them live and my dad asking if he could watch a little of the concert DVD to see what the show was like. Welp, there was a section where they parted the crowd down the middle and told each side to run at the other side as fast as they could. Den was understandably out on having his youngest child trampled to death just because she loved the sound of a violinist in a punk rock band. Natch, I jumped at the chance to catch their Ocean Avenue revival tour this summer, very comfortably from a rooftop overlooking the show. Good news: they still slap, I didn’t have to be moshed around to enjoy it, and hearing Ocean Avenue on Ocean Avenue was THE stuff.

Free Pizza at Johnny Mac’s (Asbury Park) Johnny Mac’s is a dive bar I went to in my first year when I did the trials and tribs of online new friend meetups and at the time they were doing a speed dating night, which was equally as mortifying as my reason for being there. JMac’s claim to fame is that you get a free personal pizza with purchase of a drink. I stumbled back into this bar in March of this year as the second to last stop on my very first marathon of drinking night out in Jersey and it was packed with youths and I got a water and left scream-singing Taylor Swift. Probably could’ve used that pizza but it completely slipped my booze-soaked brain. HOW-EV-ER, I ran it back with my second impromptu AP bar crawl when my sister was here this summer and I DID remember the free ‘za and ooh baby did that come in clutch. Why you ask? Because the state of New Jersey doesn’t want to feed you while you’re drunk. Bars close early AF and there isn’t a pizza joint in sight and honestly that should be illegal, especially for a state that prides themselves on their pies. So shout out to JMac’s for doing it right. Nothing soaks up a night of spressy marts and cukes vodka like a hot and cheesy treat that you don’t have to share. I was so invested in shoving it in my pie-hole that a girl 1 billion times drunker than me locked eyes with me and goes “are you ok?” What a humbling moment.

Brunch and gallivanting in Hoboken I had heard of Hoboken all throughout my college years as the mecca of post-grad living. Full of bars and adjacent to the city, but less expensive, it was a rite of passage for my fellow Marist grads to bunk up in Hoboken and try on adulting for size. Obviously, I’m a little late to the party to pretend I have a carefree city lifestyle, but I was more than happy to spend a day there trolling around and pretending. The cherry on top is that I got to do it with my college TV production girlies as we reminisced on the good ole days when we would film each other fighting with lightsabers for an actual grade. We started with brunch at City Bistro which had a flower walkway and wall that seemed to be put there just for me to fawn over, then busted into an open house where I criticized every aspect of this million dollar gem as if I have any business doing so, and then hit up the pier for an overpriced cocktail and a billion tourist trap photo opps that I happily fell right into. Great first impression of a city. It’s a much smaller and more appealing version of NYC with greenery and adorbs brownstones and almost every storefront had some sort of floral decor, which I could barely contain my boner for. In another lifetime I definitely would’ve kicked it there in my youth but I’ll settle for exploring it on day trips.

Climb Ole Barney (LBI) I separated this out because my type A ass wanted to list my events in chronological order, and also this was a completely different viz so no sense in grouping the two togets. I’ve never been a hiker but for whatever reason I’m down to climb a bunch of stairs for a scenic view. Seems pretty stupid but it’s the life that I’ve chosen. On my last week before the 2 year anni, I kicked it into high gear going to LBI on a Tuesday and Margate on a Thursday to climb some shit. And whoa buddy, these 217 steps were a harsh reminder of how out of shape I truly am. Also, not to be critical but for a place that was just closed for renovations for almost a year, one would think they’d find a way to make the narrow spiral stairs into a friendlier two-way traffic sitch. Ain’t nothin worse than huffin and puffin your way up, watching your feet the whole time so your jelly legs don’t send you stumblin backwards only to feel a presence on top of you and realize it’s a whole human trying to come down at the same time. Lots of “ope, sorry’s” and flattening against a curved railing whilst wheezing and having a strangers arm hair tickle my bare skin. But other than that? What a rewarding view! Wish I could’ve popped open a chair and read my book up there to really make that calf grind worth it.

After stomping my shaky legs down and out I thought I’d check out Viking Village known for shops and seafood and when the GPS dropped me at what looked like a private boating slip, I kept on driving. Ain’t nobody got time for that. I did, however, have time to treat my stems to a relaxing day at the beach followed by a bike ride into town checking out all of the cute little boutiques (where store owners talked in not-so-hushed tones about how Kevin Jonas was just there) and ended the day with a twist on a cone like our dear Lord intended. Despite the fact that I didn’t find a public bathroom all day long and almost wet my seat on the drive back, cruising around LBI reaffirmed my lifelong belief that I belong in a beach town. (And coincidentally was a perfect way to celebrate the first day of “salt air & the rust on your door” month.)

Lucy the Elephant (Margate City) I don’t think anything on my bucket list has been as polarizing as Lucy. She was added as soon as I moved here and realized I was merely an hour away from a national historical landmark. But I quickly realized whenever I brought her up with New Jerseyans the reaction was either what the hell is that or I’ve heard of it, sounds dumb. YOU UNCULTURED SWINE. So after many months of floating a Lucy viz out to innocent bystanders and not getting any bites, I figured I’d force my niece to do it when she came to visit. Well she’s visited three times and we’ve managed to push Lucy off the list of activities all three times. So finally I said ENOUGH IS ENOUGH I BETTER GET INSIDE THIS ELEPHANT’S BELLY IMMEDIATELY and I called out sick with a severe case of elephant fever and got that shit done myself. If I’ve learned one thing about wanting to explore and do all of these things it’s that I can’t rely on anyone else to be interested or actually make a plan to join me, so solo is usually how I operate. Although may I add that 100% of the time I’d enjoy each of these activities more with a partner in crime, and I’d certainly appreciate not having to rely on strangers to take my photos. Lookin at you family who declined my offer to take your photo which was OBVIOUSLY code for “take mine too” and also at you, old lady who I then circled back to after a respectable amount of time and the grand finale was a picture that cut out half of Lucy. Obviously asking people to be my personal paparazzi is embarrassing as hell. I might have to start traveling with a tripod.

Anyway, back to my bae Lucy. I once again did ample research and nowhere in my readings did it say that I’d be charged a separate toll to get in and out of Margate City that could only be paid by cash (not EZPass.) That $2.25 entry fee set the tone for this day trip of gettin the treatment. There were about 4 parking spots at Lucy’s feet, kinda slim pickins for a self-proclaimed “roadside attraction”, so I had to do laps searching for a spot and when I found one it had a two hour time limit. Then taking the tour of Lucy cost $9 (round up to donate of course!) then I bought a stupid $6 magnet (round up again) because I’m a sucker for a souv. Then I bought a $16 belgian waffle sundae because I was hungry and deserved a lil treat. TAKE ALL MY MONEY, MARGATE! But cheapskate rant aside, Lucy is cool as hell. The tour, not so much. They jammed way too many people (mostly kids, probably should’ve rented one for the day to look less like a creep as I was the only adult not accompanied by a child) up a narrow spiral set of stairs into Lucy’s belly, where they flipped on a 7 minute video circa 1998, substitute style. Kinda a racket to make people think they’re getting a special tour when really you’re just paying for the money shot–atop Lucy’s “howdah” overlooking the ocean. That’s the word for her basket, that’s 9 bucks worth of education there, BB’s. I also learned that Lucy is older than both the Eiffel Tower and the Statue of Liberty, and she was a speakeasy during prohibition #Rebel. She is truly the world’s greatest elephant and all y’all who laughed at me wanting to go MISSED OUT on her magic so I hope Lucy’s creepy eyes that watch the ocean haunt your dreams at night.

@thesaltyju

Sometimes you just gotta drive an hour and climb inside an elephant. NJBucketList LucytheElephant NationalLandmark JerseyShore beatouristinyourownstate

โ™ฌ original sound – The Salty Ju

Staten Island FerryHawks Game Can’t say I ever had catching a Staten Island FerryHawks game on the list but I AM in my baseball era and checking out what is commonly referred to as the Staten Island dump seemed like promising people watching at the very least. What I didn’t realize is that I’d get a free tee, a front row seat to a game that overlooked the city skyline next to a dugout full of baseball babes, AND be entertained by half of the group I was with taking part in a balloon-popping game on the field between innings. What a solid first time as a Ferryhawks fangirl! If there’s one thing you can count on from me (other than googling every player that I think is a babe soda and finding out their age and height) it’s taking way too serious artsy photos when not one person asked me to do so. Pls enjoy me moonlighting as Ansel Adams in between selfies with a wiener hanging out of my mouth. Next time I grace SI with my presence, you bet your bottom dollar I’m taking a ride on that ferry!


That’s all she wrote (she says as if she didn’t just write 100 pages worth of words.) I still have many hot spots waiting to be checked off my NJ Bucket List (and more than a few lukewarm spots that I can’t seem to recruit a buddy for), but the good news is, I’m not leaving anytime soon because switching states is a real bitch oh and also, I finally got my beach condo so I’m gonna hold onto that sucker for dear life. I’m ready to embark on year 3 of touristing my face off every chance I get so follow along for more adventures of The Jersey Ju! Last year I asked if I had earned the right to call myself a Jersey Girl yet (how Upstate of me to ask permission), but now I don’t really care if I’ve earned it or not, which ironically makes me fit in here most of all. I’m a Jersey Girl, bitch.

*Unless of course one of those scary North Jersey girliecats tries to throw hands with me, then I’m obviously just visiting from humble little cowpoke Upstate NY and I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean it. Love you, bye.

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Salty Stories

Open Letter to Everyone Working From Home But Really Just Running Errands (Julia’s Version)

If you feel like you just read a published piece with this same title, you’re not wrong. If you didn’t read it, WHY AREN’T YOU SUPPORTING MY ART?! Here’s the version that got published in Greener Pastures Magazine. I wrote the first draft of this piece in November of 2022 full of rage after yet another stressful mid-week shopping experience. As I circled the parking lot for a spot and got cornered in aisles by people who didn’t learn that 6 ft of space should be the norm, I thought to myself, WHY IS NO ONE AT WORK RIGHT NOW?! This being my first hybrid job, I quickly discovered how much more peaceful it is to shop in the middle of a Monday. Unfortunately, once everyone else also had this revelation, going out any day, at any time, turned into my worst nightmare. Anyway, fueled by my hate-fire for fellow WFH shoppers, I blasted out a draft, rant-style. Not really knowing a ton of comedy writers willing to edit, I tossed it over to my dad who made some suggestions. I submitted that version to the three publications I typically submit to and they all rejected it. I simmered on it for 6-8 months, took a humor writing class that made me drown in imposter syndrome thinking I have no business calling myself a writer, and finally resurfaced this number in a feedback group that came out of the aforementioned class that made me spiral. The general consensus was that I needed to pick an angle to make it funnier rather than just bitching about crowded stores. I get it, airing grievances isn’t really a refined form of writing.

But guess what? I LOVE complaining and I have a sneaky suspicion that my followers will get a kick out of the original piece and maybe find it more relatable. So here it is! This is what happens when you get super attached to a piece and everyone rejects it…you publish it yourself because you have a website and there are no rules when you pay WordPress an annual fee for a public platform, so HA. Also, this is a fun way to show y’all that these cute lil published pieces that I spam all over my socials sometimes go through 1 zillion versions and I toil over them for months. What a fun hobby I’ve chosen! In fact, I’ve been sitting on a piece for almost 2 full years now that I’m dragging my feet to get up to snuff. Maybe one day you’ll get to read that! (PS If you notice some jokes are repeated in both the published Scooter Braun version and the self-published Taylor’s Version, no you didn’t.)


Hey There,

I know that you have the best intentions. Youโ€™re probably just telling everyone that youโ€™re strengthening our ever-crumbling economy by scooping up all the Rae Dunn kitchen utensils the second they hit the floor in this suburban T.J. Maxx on a Wednesday. However, youโ€™re really cramping my style. Iโ€™m not about to point out the fact that your boss has noticed your Microsoft Teams icon has been idle for the past three hours, because mine has mysteriously been the same. We can play it off like some worldwide glitch if you want. But Iโ€™ll only agree to play along if you immediately stop running errands on workdays and go home.

Oh, I get it, the horrifying pandemic that shut down the world and plagued everyone with terror and illness for two years also ushered in one of the greatest revelations of the modern era: nobody actually *wants* to work. Everyone realized that there was no use in slogging in a daily commute to sit in a corporate jail cell for 8 hours doing busy work and having weekly check-ins on the progress of that busy work all while smelling the leftover scallops Janice microwaved for lunch. Those days were a real hellscape. But I gotta tell you, nothing compares to the fiery bowels of showing up to Wegmans at 10AM on a Tuesday and battling Sunday-before-Thanksgiving like crowds. If I pull my cart over to collect myself and get bumped into one more time because Iโ€™m blocking the romaine lettuce, I might just WANT to be stuck in the office doing nothing. And thatโ€™s a very slippery slope, my friend.

Iโ€™m not suggesting that you go back to a traditional workday. (At least Iโ€™m not suggesting that for me.) Letโ€™s not be ridiculous. I just think there must be a better solution here where I donโ€™t feel a strangerโ€™s breath on my neck while Iโ€™m buying myself a new mug for my home โ€œofficeโ€ that reads โ€œBoss Babeโ€. Perhaps a new plan that doesnโ€™t subject my ears to your personal phone call on speakerphone about your recent bikini wax while Iโ€™m testing out squeak-toys for my dog. Now hear me out, what if there were a few designated hours at my top five stores each day of the week where Iโ€™m allowed to shop by myself, uninterrupted! I mean, we did it for the olds during Covid, why canโ€™t we do it for the sensible Millennial woman who knows how to juggle a Zoom call and her deepest desire to spend money on things she doesnโ€™t need. A true Modern American Icon.

Sure, I can see how this could be coming off a scooch hypocritical and selfish, but my therapist (another Modern American Icon) IS always telling me I need to learn how to advocate for myself. So you know what? I deserve to shop during the week! It is my given right to collect a full salary with pension and benefits as I sip a Starbs refresher and lazily browse Bullseyeโ€™s playground for the latest seasonal deals. Because thatโ€™s what this country was built on, right? Life, liberty, and the pursuit of buying myself a lil treat with Kohlโ€™s Cash while I โ€œkeep an eye on my email.โ€ NONE of these blissful workday moments include someone like YOU starting on the opposite side of the clothes rack rabidly flicking hangers, inching closer and closer to me hoping Iโ€™m chicken enough to flee the aisle. Or reaching around me to grab the last pair of wine-themed pajamas in the Aldi bonus aisle. I mean, I canโ€™t even find a parking spot at the Dollar General these days. What has the world come to? DOES ANYONE HAVE A JOB ANYMORE?! The drive-thru line at my local Dunkinโ€™ would suggest โ€œNO.โ€

Anyway, I gotta run, my boss just called and overheard the Costco register beeps and I canโ€™t pass it off as my downstairs neighbors role playing as cashier and customer again. So, itโ€™s settled. Iโ€™ll take Monday through Friday for stress-free store sauntering, and you all can take Saturdays and Sundays with the rest of those people who actually work. Hope you have sharp elbows, youโ€™ll need them, I heard those weekend crowds are ROUGH!

Warm Regards,

A Boundary-Pushing Employee Who Enjoys (and Demands) A Quiet Shopping Atmosphere

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Salty Stories

Death & Taxes at Walmart

“The Only Two Certainties in Life are Death and Taxes…and you don’t want to have either event occur at a Walmart.โ€ 

Benjamin Franklin, probably

This is a cautionary tale for tax season. A real ‘do as I say, not as I do’ number. And seeing as the general public isn’t as neurotic as me trying to file their taxes before February is over, I’ll be able to save a few of you from thinking the very thought that struck me just a few days ago. And that thought was: should I file my taxes at Walmart? You most certainly should not. And this is why.

I’m a big believer that any Joe Blow can file taxes. Most people fire up TurboTax on their own and if they don’t, they’re just paying someone to enter the numbers from their W-2 into the very same software. Taxes are stupid as hell. They’re in that grand scope of things that I probably should’ve learned something about in school rather than spending several years studying geometry or memorizing the periodic table of elements. Guess how often I’ve used the Pythagorean theorem in real life? I’ll take NEVER for $1,000, Alex. (RIP) And as with anything that I have no knowledge of, I’m happy to pay someone else to do it for me…minus the happy part. The year during Covid when I was unemployed and living with my parents, I took a stab at doing my own taxes and upon answering their little pre-screening questionnaire I was informed by the Turbo Robot that I’d need to purchase the “Full Service” version in order to file. So like everything else in this cruel, cruel world…FREE was a big ole lie. And thus it was back to paying an older gentleman who knows how to enter numbers into a computer hundreds of dollars to type in those lil numbers and tell me that I owe more numbers. Yay! ADULTING!

So, as my first full year in New Jersey comes to a close (and my accountant being a New Yorker), I thought it was time for a fresh start. Last year I had to file federal, New York, and New Jersey. I owed all three, thanks for asking. You know what’s fun about moving out of state mid-year after collecting unemployment and also having an un-taxed side hustle? NOTHIN. NOTHIN I TELL YA. I also had to find a way to send all of my secure documents to my accountant in Central NY who told me email was cool. I know how Nigerian Princes steal your identity, my guy. After googling “secure portals” and texting him a password to access the docs, then paying him and all branches of the government all of my monies, I told myself 2022 was going to be my year. THE YEAR OF THE THICC TAX RETURN! How many times have you read this blog and cackled out loud when I declare that things are looking up for me? Be honest.

For reals though, I was super financially responsible last year. I paid off my student loans, bought out my car lease, managed to hang on to my state job, and hustled as a marketing maven on the side for straight cash, homie. And after the harsh realization that when you don’t have taxes being deducted from a self-employed paycheck, you still have to pay those…I PRE-PAID taxes. That’s right, baby! On four separate occasions last year I cut the IRS a Monsters Inc check. All signs were pointing to a meaty tax return and I was very excited to see those dollar signs cha-ching in front of my very eyes. Did that mean I was willing to pay a lot to file that return? Absolutely not. So when faced with the challenge of finding a tax guy here, I thought, wait a minute…don’t they have a jabroni stationed in the front of Walmart for all of tax season?! If it’s good enough for the people of Walmart, it’s good enough for me! And let me be clear, as I dive in to the stereotypical creatures of Wally World, this is very much coming from someone who loves shopping at Walmart. Those rollback prices *speak* to me and anytime I’m popping in for coffee creamer or dog food, I often find myself perusing the clothes department and leaving with a little treat for myself just for being alive and finding all of the deals. (DISCLAIMER: Even though I’m a woman of the people, I still feel it is my duty to warn you to never go to a Walmart on a Friday night. It’s House of Freaks up in there. I don’t know why Friday night specifically is the “don’t feed them after midnight” crowd but once you happen upon it one time, you’ll never want admission to that circus again.)

Now that we’ve established that I’m not above Walmart, let’s just go ahead and say what we’re all thinking here…there’s no way a tax professional doing business in a pop-up tent 10 paces away from the front door greeter is going to be charging an arm and a leg for filing the return of any commoner who happens to zip on by with their paperwork. And that’s how I found myself making a 4PM appointment on a Friday to file my taxes at the Walmart on 66. It was a little uppity of me to make an appointment but I was immediately humbled when I decided to sneak a return in beforehand. If you’ve ever had the unfortunate luck of visiting the customer service counter at a Walmart, you know that you will wait in a line of no less than 10 people, there will be 1 cashier, and the 3 people in front of you will most certainly always be wiring money to another country with minimal deets and a heavy language barrier. Bonus points if someone gets off line, asks the cashier if they can use their phone and stands at the front gabbing with their friend about how they’re waiting in line. (Shout out to East Syracuse for providing me with that very special experience.) I got there 15 minutes early and after waiting those entire 15 minutes to return an electric can opener that didn’t work, I rolled up to the tax tent right at 4 on the dot. Which meant nothing, as this fella had absolutely no clue I made an appointment and thought perhaps I took a number at the deli counter and it struck me that maybe I should also file my taxes while I’m here.

I’d like to paint a portrait for you, if I may. The man that was behind this blue curtain was quite possibly the most disheveled creature I’ve ever seen. If you had told me that they went out into the parking lot, saw someone living out there and asked him if he would perhaps like to type numbers into a computer, I would’ve absolutely believed you. He had dirt under his fingernails, bruises also under his nails, was wearing many many layers of clothing and had a real chaotic energy about him. Never judge a book by its cover but if we were to be in the book cover judgin game, this one was a scooch concerning. And instead of my internal sirens blaring, I pulled up a chair and handed him a folder of secure information about myself. Classic Salty Ju. I was planning on asking many questions before we kicked things off, one of them being, “how much is this going to cost?” and then I got flustered because stranger human interaction. The website said filing would start at $70 and seeing a number that low on top of the fact that this makeshift office was stationed directly across from a Subway, I anticipated this would cost $100 AT MOST. So I let her rip.

This chooch pawed through my paperwork, licking his fingers and tossing sheets back at me that he “wouldn’t need” at an alarming speed. He then manically starting throwing them in a scanner. We were about thirty seconds in and my papers were strewn all over his desk, dangerously close to his Mountain Dew and grease-stained five dollar foot long. He wrote down my social security number on one of them like he was adding milk to a scrap grocery list on the kitchen counter. Papers were flying as he fired questions at me–Are you filing jointly? Single? Any dependents? Seems like a touchy inquisition for a stranger to ask right on the heels of a holiday full of “my forever valentines” husband and baby Instagram posts shoved down my throat but ok sir, I’ll play along. Let’s just address all of my shortcomings up front: I’m single, I’m sure you peeped my DOB on my license, and I also rent, so no tax break for being a first time homeowner either. We then moved along to the tapping portion of this little sesh where the man with visibly shaking hands aggressively tapped the enter key over and over and over again. Another couple of shoppers lurked near the tent flap and he told them he’d be with them in 10-20 minutes, which is honestly a quicker turnover rate than the customer service line so look at him showing off!

Then we hit a snafu. “Enter” was not being finger-blasted and now he was looking up a number on his cellphone to call from his desk phone. Yeah that’s right, this folding table was decorated with not only an office-grade printer/scanner combo deal but ALSO a landline! If you’re impressed, feel free to take it down a notch by learning that his corporate office screens the Walmart satellite office phone calls. No answer so he called from his cellphone, which was immediately answered. As it turns out, bro needed to phone a friend. The software wasn’t behaving in the home office square footage portion of the entertainment. Through moral support and some more hammering of the ole enter key, we arrived at the grand finale. And wouldn’t you know…I OWE.

I asked him how this could be possible as 2022 was MY YEAR. The year of the juicy return! (And the return of the Juicy sweatsuit. Coincidental? I think not.) Where shall I vacation on my bonus money?! Evidently I should take a little day trip to the bank to make a hefty withdrawal from my savings to pay the gov. The same gov that’s in trillion billion million dollar debt and keeps porking us with inflation as a big bad recession looms overhead. Do I sound bitter? GOOD. I was beside myself at this little revelation that for yet ANOTHER year of just snaking by on two jobs, I’d be forced to fork even more over. My dude obviously did not care that I was about to turn on the waterworks in a Walmart and felt that this would be an ideal time to drop another bomb on me. He confidently declared that I owe that, PLUS the $500 for his services. Ex-squeeze me, hombre?

You mean to tell me that in 15 minutes of rat-a-tat-tatting, you earned FIVE HUNDRED DOLLARS?! The math ain’t mathin, homeslice. And folks, it deserves to be repeated (forever and ever times infinity) that he is at a WALMART. Bananas to his left, cashiers on his right, a blue curtain separating me from staring right into the burner phone storefront. I’m sure there’s an actual business name for this little spot but we all know this is where drug dealers and thieves stock up on their un-traceables. My jaw resided on the sticky floor. I’d been bamboozled. By a very unsavory looking character nonetheless. I told him under no circumstances could I afford to shell out $500 for this ordeal and he phoned his friend again to “see what they could do.” Friend of the program said he could lower it to $400. I’m sorry am I in a furniture store negotiating the price of a sofa sleeper or filing my taxes? If haggling is on the table, does that mean I can call up the President of this godforsaken country and do the same for my return? “Sup, Bides! While you were busy spending all my dough on flying spy balloons over China (yea that’s right, we did it too) and taking face-first diggers off your bike, I was working hard and I deserve about 2,000 buckeroos to take a tropical vacay at a time when my skin is translucent and my mental health is below sea level. Thanks so much, babes!”

Since neither the unpolished turd in front of me nor his slimy compadre on the phone would go any lower that four hundo OR give me a direct line to Pres Biden, I knew it was time for me to get the hell out of dodge. For once I could use my ignorance to weasel my way out of this kerfuffle. I recalled that price was never discussed up front and I imagine he saw my income and got creative with the quote, so without agreeing to anything, I didn’t think he could hold me to it and force me to file. I dug my heels in and firmly told him I wouldn’t be completing any transactions today. AKA I squeaked out no thank you while dripping in a flop sweat. He then told me he could put my return on hold and I could come back closer to April 18th because “it’s not like I was getting any money back anyway, so it didn’t matter when I filed.” Thanks for the reminder, Tax Satan. He also pointed out that by then, their price will go down even more. SCAM. SCAM I TELL YOU. He didn’t skip a beat in admitting that they’re gouging lovely people like myself to do about 15 minutes of work but if you wait it out a little longer, they’ll gladly give you a hefty dissy. He should’ve just outright said: Come back in April, bring me a liter of Cola and a fresh pretzel from the Philly Pretzel Factory next to the Patio & Garden department and we’ll call it even, hon.

I gathered my highly sensitive docs that he already had digital copies of (damn you, modern world), my dignity, and moonwalked out of there and right into the Subway where I got a FL Chicken Parm, Baked Lays and a white chocolate macadamia nut cookie. Just kidding, I shamefully scampered past the receipt checker out to my car where I immediately speed-dialed my parents and cried. They told me to get my stuff–especially my social security number back from this hack and call their accountant. Nothing puts the fear of God in olds quite like my generation handing out our social security number like candy. My hopeful visions of skipping out of Walmart with the promise of an Italian Job level payout on April 18th and a cocky “I took care of it all on my own” vibe were trampled to death by a guy who could be mistaken for a meth dealer but apparently was a CPA. So in conclusion, if you’re thinking about boot scootin over to your local Walmarts for some budget-friendly accounting…maybe do anything but that.

Editors Note: Having my own blog has become an unruly monster of an excuse to demand family and friends take my photo wherever we go, because you never know when it’ll apply to a ridiculous salty story I’ve decided to tell and come in handy. I was stuck on what should be the feature photo for this little ditty when I remembered that in 2019, my family and I went to Walmart at midnight on Thanksgiving in our pj’s to mix and mingle with the Black Friday deals. I knew I looked like a trash panda and therefore said SNAP A PIC CAUSE I LOOK EMBARRASSING. And lo and behold, it was the perfect photo for this blog. I also wanted to make the clear distinction that although I’ve gone to WallyWorld in pajamas on many occasions, I was wearing my dressy sweats when I went last week to file my taxes. Had I gone to see an actual accountant I would’ve worn hard pants. I honestly felt like even sweats had me overdressed for the occasion, but I’m self aware enough to not insult the process by wearing Men’s Christmas punchbug fleece jammies for such official business.

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Salty Stories

Bend Over and I’ll Show Ya

I haven’t written a probably *too* personal essay in a while and what screams “holiday season” quite like some buhhole talk? As I’ve divulged before in blogs here and there, I’ve had stomach problems my entire life. Self-diagnosed as IBS, I’m either going an alarming amount of time without pooping or I’m having an emergency mad dash before you crap your pants situation. There is no in between. Hence, why I’ve pooped my pants 3 times as an adult. After years and years of trying different pills and powders and probiotics. Eating more fruit, drinking more water…you’ll recall what a big pile of nothing that did for me. Keeping a food diary. Wearing a diaper. Just kidding. It hasn’t gone that far although I have seriously considered it on days when my cheeks never leave the seat. Oh how nice it would be to just be able to go while I lay on the couch or run errands. And then I’m hit with the cold harsh realization that festering in your own poop as an adult is not something to daydream about. So after 30 years I finally decided my PCP telling me to “try to work more fiber into my diet” wasn’t cutting it and scheduled my very first appointment with a gastroenterologist. I was excited and hopeful to find a solution that didn’t involve removing cheese from my daily intake. As a firm believer that life without cheese is not a life worth living, I was prepared to tell any doctor that suggested that right where they could stick that suggestion.

I scheduled my appointment with a female GI (sure, I’ll share my poop stories with the whole world, but talk to a male doctor about them face to face? YUCK.) and made a detailed list of the years of trials and tribs that I wanted to share with this specialist to be thorough and make sure she knew my butthole inside and out to give me a proper diagnosis. Within 2 minutes she had diagnosed me with IBS-C (for constipation), told me she didn’t need to hear all of the things that I’ve tried as this is very common, touched my tummy for about 45 seconds like I was the Pillsbury dough boy and slid over a prescription for Linzess. Big Pharma, baby! Why get to know your patients when you can just push the latest expensive drug that you’re getting a kickback on? I asked if it made sense to maybe do a colonoscopy to rule anything more serious out and was met with a hard no because I’m not shitting blood. Mmmk, doc. Drugs it is. I was warned that these pills could cause cramping and diarrhea “at first.” Not knowing what the scientific definition of “at first” is, I went an entire week spewing out of my blowhole. 7 days and 7 nights of explosive diarrhea. For anyone who’s opinion is “better out than in”, you obviously have never almost busted down your bathroom door Kool Aid Man style to make it to the toilet in time once, let alone every damn night. When I finally got ahold of the nurse (several days of phone tag later), I was told to take a lower dose of the drug. Guess what the lower dose did? The same damn thing. Order up! One more week of Hersey Squirts, coming right atcha! I kept a note in my phone of the happenin’s of my bowels. Here it is for your entertainment. If you laugh out loud at the word diarrhea like my sister and I do, you’ll enjoy. If you’re a grown up who doesn’t enjoy potty humor…what are you even doing reading this blog?

As someone who’s never desired to have a remote office from the commode, it was time to lay down the law. No more Ms. Nice Butthole. (How many times can I insert butthole into this story? The limit does not exist.) I ditched this doc who clearly didn’t give a shit about me and went for a recommended GI. Unfortunately, this one was a man and I was forced to face my fear of letting a male doctor all up in my biz. Obviously I was really desperate for solutions other than taking expensive laxatives on the daily. The good news is this doctor actually did care, the bad news is caring also means a full examination with a side of casj butthole fingering. After some light getting-to-know-you conversation, my new doc showered me with compliments about how I’m too young to be having these sorts of problems. He also added in that I’m beautiful and look just like Sophia Loren. I would’ve preferred a movie star from this decade but who am I to split hairs when I’m being complimented for my youth and natural beauty? And then he told me to pull my pants down just enough so he could have access to my “sphincter” and jammed his digits right up in there. WHAT A TACTIC! Lubricate the patient with a healthy dose of flattery before literally lubricating your gloved fingers and diving right in. So now I’ve got a new life motto: if you’re going to wedge your fingers in my asshole, at least tell me I’m pretty first. Stick THAT on a t-shirt. The downside is that after ole poop fingers finished the exam, he announced “you’ve been pooping wrong.” Ex-squeeze me? Is there a wrong way to poop? Jury’s still out on that. His reply was inconclusive but he did recommend using my Squatty Potty more, which has become a real chore in such a tiny bathroom. Hopefully by my 32nd year I’ll have learned how to poop. He also pressed on my stomach and goes, “hmm, full of gas.” DON’T I KNOW IT, DOC. I’ve had a slow gas leak since ’91. My work from home days are scored by a steady symphony of toots that my dog has learned to sleep through. But I digress…the Doc then shoved me a paper towel and told me I wouldn’t want to go to the grocery store after this and have everyone see it all over my pants. I don’t know what “it” was but mopping up my backside with a Brawny post-plunder while he watched was truly a humbling moment for us all. I was forced to overcome my fear of male doctors and butt stuff all in one appointment. Baby’s first rectal poke was almost as traumatizing as the time my gynecologist gave me a pap smear with my jean skirt still on. ALMOST.

New doc told me to start from scratch with over-the-counter remedies for 2 weeks and report back. So every day I was taking 2 stool softeners, fiber powder 2x a day and Miralax 2x a day. My insides probably looked like this:

True to my Type A personality, I created another list to keep track. This one didn’t have as many “diarrhea” notes but after a few dicey days in my office with a plumbing system created by the original settlers of New Jersey and an incident where I was driving to meet my friend for brunch and dared to sneeze and nearly had a real messy poopsie daisy, it was safe to say the concoction of powders weren’t helping matters either. I’m genuinely shocked I didn’t shart once during this two month period of GI experimental diagnoses. When I went back in for my follow-up, it was clear that the next logical step was to do a colon invasion and rule anything major out. AKA the thing I suggested on the very first day of seeing a specialist. But what do I know. On the spot, my doc suggested the day before Thanksgiving for my colonoscopy. I was weary but he assured me that this was the BEST time to do it as I’ll go into the holiday empty and ready to fill up on turkey. Since he’s the expert, I agreed, mostly just wanting to get it over with. My plan to pregame turkey day with a colon cleanse went sideways when I realized that I didn’t have one soul on this earth to drive me to said colonoscopy and also I would have to make the 4.5 hour trek home for the holidays in the same day. For someone who feels the effects of NyQuil a full 12 hours after taking it, I assumed the hard stuff they give you to go lights out would probably render me disabled. Unfortunately, I didn’t come to this realization until I was halfway through the prep day of fasting. With a belly full of chicken broth, STARVING, and sobbing on the couch because I’m 31 and don’t have a huz to take care of me and my b-hole, I had to reschedule the procedure for a time when my parents could come into town and take me. #RockBottom. I obviously coped by driving straight to McD’s and shoving a mcchicken, cheesburger and medium fry down my gullet as fast as my body would allow. If I could have injected it right into my veins, I would have.

Finally, the day had arrived for the real deal with my dad traveling in to be my escort to this very special occasion. I knew the hell that I was in for as fasting from 8AM to 1PM the last time nearly sent me to my grave. Everyone told me my insides vacating my body would be the worst part of the process. Joke’s on them because that shit’s a walk in the park for me, literally. I’m prepped for a probing on a regular Wednesday by the amount I’m rushing to the potty. The ACTUAL hard part is the liquid diet. As a big believer in three full meals a day and snacks every hour, fasting is very much not for me. I am a shell of a human when I skip my mid-morning snack and have been known to get the shakes or even pass out in the shower when my blood sugar is low. I used to bring snacks into gym class with me in high school. Needless to say, by lunch time I was in DESPAIR. My dad was on his way into town and when I told him not to call me again on his drive as I’ll be putting myself down for a nap because I can’t bear to be awake and not be eating, he reminded me that there’s people who feel like this every day and to put it into perspective. Dear ole dad always knows just what to say to comfort me. Because as I’m considering what Charlee’s dog chow would taste like, my stomach growling ferociously, thinking of starving homeless people really gave me the reality check that I needed. NAHT. I was able to snooze through the afternoon dreaming of hot dogs and cheese fries and woke up at dinner time to begin the real treat, my toxic sludge that would stir up quite the poopstorm. Always looking for a way to make laughs out of a grim sitch, I made a video of me mixing it like a cocktail.

Then I took my first sip of the 64 oz I was supposed to consume over the next hour and the joke was very much over. Opting out of the additional lemon flavor so as not to feel like I was downing Pine Sol for an entire evening, this cocktail tasted like metal and oOoh baby she was thicc. I was not expecting that consistency and almost projectiled it straight across the room. Things started moving almost immediately and I was shocked at how easy breezy this process seemed. That was until the taste of this bevvy clung to my mouth for the rest of the evening and made me the most nauseous I’ve ever been. When it came time to finish that MF’er, I would’ve rather drank actual poop than saddle up for another half gallon of this poison spritz. I gagged down the first few sips of round two and ran to the can at lightning speed. From 10pm until 1am, I was the queen ogre of my swamp, sitting atop the porcelain throne, taking gulps, feeling those gulps immediately blast through me like hot lava and dry heaving into the sink whenever I reached the last sip of the cup. It’s important to note that I’ve never been the gal who could just toss a shot down the hatch without tasting it. Everything takes a spin on my taste buds before cruising on down my throat and I hated it when I was doing shots of warm Svedka in high school and I hated it even more on this particular night. By some cruel twist of fate, the second half of the gallon was like a bottomless mimosa pitcher…if mimosas tasted like lighter fluid. Every time I thought I was pouring the last glass, by pure magic there were 3 more glasses still left. After tossing the last few drops down the drain because I physically couldn’t do it, I crawled into bed, wrapped my shivering body in flannel sheets, only to have to bolt back to the bathroom several more times throughout the night and again as soon as I woke up. And twice more after I showered. And again when I got to the doctor the next morning, clenching the whole car ride there. I THINK THE GALLON PLUS 4 LAXATIVES WAS OVERKILL, DOC.

The next morning I dressed to impress in my most festive sweatsuit. Just because I was about to be violated doesn’t mean I couldn’t stunt on em with a lewk. I requested my father take a before and after pic. It took three tries for him to get my sick ‘fit AND my head in the same shot. It’s important to note that my dad is not here for the nonsense. He’s here to call me a baby bitch and roast me for how long it took me to choke down that half gallon and remind me of my privilege when I tell him I might die of hunger.

Lucky for me, the Home Alone jumpsuit was much appreciated and complimented at the doc’s office. More importantly, it added quite a sassy accent to the paper shorts they told me to hop into pre-procedure. What a fashion statement those bad boys are and tearing a hole in the crack for easy access was the cherry on top.

After the exorcism of my bowels and gag reflex for 12 + hours the night prior, the probing itself was really just a solid nap where ripping farts immediately afterward was not frowned upon. As I recounted the tale later that day to my mom, I told her how embarrassing it was for me when they walked me in my ripped paps shorts through the open waiting area to get to the room where I could eat my little snackie. My dad quickly interjected to share that under no circumstances did they walk me out with my buhhole flapping in the breeze but rather wheeled me out with my eyes half shut. I guess that was some good shit they gave me. Not as good as the paper shorts, tall red buffalo check socks and white high-top sneaks combo that I was rocking. Woo baby, I looked HOT. Again, I demanded Den document this peak babe moment for me so I could immediately upload it to Hinge to lure a lifetime mate and natch dear ole dad left the footwear completely out of frame. Maybe one day he’ll learn that my life is merely lived for others to laugh at me and HOW CAN OTHERS LAUGH AT ME IF IT’S NOT DOCUMENTED PROPERLY?!

So I survived my first butthole invasion and I’m here to share the gory deets for any fellow ladies who also have IBS and have been avoiding getting this procedure done like the plague. If I can do it, so can you. To all you regular poopers, I envy you and your ability to just shit on command. But your time shall come…it might not be for another 20 years, but everyone must succumb to the anal plundering (of the medical variety, I’m not here to kink shame) at some point. As for me, my colon was clean as a whistle and therefore I face the cold hard truth that since there’s nothing “wrong”, I’ll just have to continue with the alternating belly full of rocks and surprise trots when I least expect it forever and ever until I DIE. So the butthole saga continues. And remember, Gentlemen, I am available. ๐Ÿ˜‰ I may not know how to poop, but at least I’ve got jokes!

PS Special shout out to my dad for driving 5 hours through the snow and the rain to put up with my dramatics. And also for picking up the tab on this juicy life-changing steak that I mowed through at record speed. I told you, girls gotta eat!

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