Salty Stories

Hydration Is For Suckers

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

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

Let The Creatures Take Me.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

The DMV Did Me Dirty

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Pop Culture, Salty Stories

Celine Dion Made Me Do It

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

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

Celine

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

The Salty Ju Trail of Blood

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

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

The Salty Ju and the No Good, Very Bad Haircut

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

Flying is for the Birds

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

My First Big Girl Job

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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