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. 🗣️ 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. 🤭 This video is the highlight reel of my favorite parts of the trip: beautiful beaches, flowers, and smiles. 🫶🏼 I didn’t have the experience I expected, but I’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 don’t try the thing, you’ll never know! 😉 #GardenStateGoofin #inGreece #Halkidiki #sithonia #Greece #AegeanSea #WritingRetreat #greekvacation #solotravel #soloadventure #northerngreece #lifelessons

♬ 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! 🎨 It was a full house for crafting at Bakes Brewing Co and we had so much fun sipping and creating. 🖌️🍻 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. 🩵 #gardenstategoofin #newjersey #jjsipnpaint #bakesbrewingco #belmarnj #explorethejerseyshore #visitnj

♬ 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. 🚢 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 I’m a novice at ferry & bike travel) and cruised through the Delaware Bay on a gorgeous sunny Monday. ☀️ All of the staff on each end of the ferry were so cheery and helpful! 🙌🏼 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. ✅ It was a great way to celebrate 4 years of living in New Jersey. 🎉 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. ⚓️ #gardenstategoofin #capemaynj #lewesde #capemaylewesferry

♬ 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! 🥹 Caught the last movie at the beach for the season in Belmar last night. 📽️Although it was one of my least favorite movies, and I opted to watch the Mets sweep the Phillies for a small portion of it…I will say it was a top notch night for an outdoor movie. 🍿 ✨ Toes in the sand, snacks in my boca, and enjoying good weather is what summer is all about. 🌙 I’m starting to miss it already even though it’s not gone yet!!

♬ original sound – 💕addison💕

#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. Touché. 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

Apron’s a little tight. 😬

♬ 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.

@thesaltyju

First trail ride felt like a movie 😍🍂🐴

♬ оригинальный звук – Y.Arkhipova

#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

I’ve always wanted to get my peepers on Lady Liberty, and folks, she is a stunner! 🤩 As a NY’er who now lives in NJ, I like that there’s some competition about who really can lay claim to this national monument, and I can confirm that even though geographically she’s located within New Jersey waters, she is a true New York Queen…something we have in common. 🗽👸🏽 I climbed the 377 steps up into her crown, which needed no adjusting, and it was a real doozy. 😵‍💫 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. 🌭🇺🇸

♬ 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 it’s an amazing show! 🤩 Feels like I’ve been waiting 100 years to experience this moment. 🥁 I wish I knew that our seats would literally be onstage so I could’ve practiced in case they needed to call me up to join the line. 😝 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! 👏🏼 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. 🎟️

♬ 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 Stage’s Holiday Brunch! 💃🏻 It was everything we hoped it would be and more. 🙌🏼 Queens @Mrs Kasha Davis @Darienne Lake & @Thorgy Thor were hilarious, entertaining, and looked FABULOUS! ❤️ We had so much festive fun and it was the best way to kick off the holiday celebrations. 🤩🎄🥂

♬ original sound – christmas sounds 🎄

#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 “hang with a highland cow” 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 don’t matter. 🤗 I made a seaglass art piece and then got to cuddle with the cows at @Charleston Springs Farm 🐮🫏🐴 ! Did I pet Marshmallow like I pet my dog? Sure did! Only a couple hundred pound difference but full of snuggly love! 🥰 It was a truly unique experience to close out the year. 🐮🤎

♬ 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 ! 🔥 Temps were frigid outside but it was fiery inside the rock for a game that went into overtime! 🥅 Devils got the dubb, I had a juicy dawg / disco fries, and even got to see a couple fights. 🥊 Win, win, win. 🏆

♬ 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 we’ve been having, I’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. ☺️ I used Yarn Bee Eternal Bliss from Hobby Lobby and was v. dependent on a live recording “Chunky Hand Knit Blanket” tutorial from Michaels to learn the technique. 🧶🙏🏼 Can’t wait to improve my skills on the next blankie (hopefully a smaller one 😅)

♬ 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, I’ve always wanted to try line dancing! 👢Last week my mom and I pulled on our boots and hit the dance floor so I could check it off the ole bucket list. ✅ @Stomp and Stride hosts country night every Thursday night at River Rock and there was a great turnout! Everyone who was bootscootin’ 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. 🤣 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 I’ve line danced! 🤠 If you know how to move your limbs in unison, go check it out!! 👯‍♀️

♬ 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. ⌨️ I worked up a sweat making sure I smashed every key and it was very cathartic to break stuff, Limp Bizkit style. 💥 10/10 recommend ragin it up every once in a while, especially if you have a fiery Italian temper like me. 😉

♬ 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 I’ve seen the moon rise from the top of a lighthouse thanks to the night climb event at @Twin Lights Lighthouse 🌕 Thankfully the skies cleared and brought great weather for an evening of music, picnic dinner, and great visibility of the sunset and moonrise. ☺️ 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. 🌃 Unfortunately my iPhone 15 Pro didn’t quite cut it for documenting just how amazing the orange moon looked. So, you’re just gonna have to trust me. 😉 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 night…don’t wear a hat, the brim makes it so you can’t see the low ceilings as you ascend. 😳🤣

♬ 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, I’m a semi-famous—not so famous that I can’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 I’m funny—humor writer and a lavish spa day where I’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, it’s tough to live within your means, but someone’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 I’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, there’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 I’ve gotten a facial, a massage or two, and I’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 I’ve never done “a spa DAY.” I’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. 

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 I’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. 

*remember this snippet for later

The phone was answered with a greeting that I already didn’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 there’s so many people at the front desk. Ma’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.) I’m mid-booking the salt package and she’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 I’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 couldn’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 it’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?

I’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 they’re a humpback friggin whale. I can’t read. I can’t take a nap because she told me reclining decreases the effects of the salt. Another made up factoid?! I can’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 she’s nowhere to be seen. 

Would be cool if there was heat in this cave.

I emerge from the Cave of Wonders and I’m immediately met with a disappointed look and, “I didn’t come get you because your next room isn’t ready yet.” “Oh, ok. CAN I PEE?” 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 I’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 it’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 I’m the only one outside her door and I am quick to point the finger at who disturbed her slumber. #Wasn’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 receptionists’ shit. She’s about one minor inconvenience away from quitting this establishment. Massage lady basically says buzz off and goes back into her room. 

At the same time, a woman comes out of a bath with sopping wet hair and asks if there’s a hair dryer onsite that she can use. She’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 isn’t ready. Finally, she leads me to a locker where I can put my backpack and tells me there’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 that’s where the locker was and also I was trying not to get bulldozed by psycho receptionist) she would’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, “JESUS, SHE’S STILL DRYING HER HAIR?!” 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, “CAN SHE JUST CHANGE HER CLOTHES IN HERE?!” Um, I’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 don’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 it’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 I’ve never felt less relaxed in my life. 

I schlep out carrying an overstuffed backpack with my clothes, wearing a robe that’s for sure too short and slippers that are one-size-fits-all, which means Shaq could wear them. I feel like I’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 everyone’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 ma’am, I want to disappear. 

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. It’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 don’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 I’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. 

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 don’t have my water bottle with me and I’ve exhausted things to look at on my phone. A nap is out of the question because I’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 didn’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 I’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 they’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 she’d bring me water in the sauna, then left me there to die.

If you haven’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. There’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, I’m honestly too distressed (and afraid) to even question the cleanliness of this bath.* Mostly I’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?! 

*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, “you were in such a hurry to leave each session, but THIS is the one you should stay for the whole time…I’ll knock when it’s time to get out.” Well babe, my appt was for 45 mins in each room and I stayed well past that. I can’t just rot in each extreme temperature until you’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 I’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 that’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 didn’t just A. Speak up or B. Find a potty. And if there was an option C for I don’t know, that’s what I’d be bubbling in on the scantron, baby. I don’t know why it is that I cannot speak up for myself but I do know that if I could, we wouldn’t be able to laugh about these zany hijinks after the fact. So, you’re welcome for me just telling myself “you can hold in urine for 45 mins” and hopping in the shower to rinse because I thought that’s what Ms. Frazzle told me to do. I don’t know what I’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 don’t know where to go. It’s dawning on me that anytime I’m in a body of water, I am on a flotation device or jumping waves. I genuinely don’t know how anyone floats. I won’t dare try to comprehend the physics of it but here’s what I’ve concluded: my body is naturally at the top of the water, but it feels like I’m working every muscle to not drown and this is stressful and uncomfy AF. Can I get a life jacket in here?! 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. (You’re welcome for that visz.) This is comfier because I don’t have to strain my neck like an infant trying to support their bowling ball of a dome piece, but then I’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 “relaxing float”, I twirl around like a NSFW version of Flipper. If there was a glass encasement around this room, I’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 fresh…I’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 I’m taking a full shower cleaning other people’s flavors and crusty salts off of my skin when I get my “time’s up” knock. I’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 people’s hair on the floor and it’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 doctor’s appointment a week later to make sure I didn’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. – 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. That’s the family-friendly, ‘don’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 mf’ing year and zelle’ing large sums of money to a woman I only know via the ‘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, “what is it that you think I do for work?” 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 author’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. 
  • 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, here’s the deal, I’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? I’m a writer who has legalities. Nah, for real, this is a public forum and I’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, I’d be punching down in a big way, which I’m not stupid enough to do on the record. If you want the VH1 Behind the Music version, buy me a cocktail and I’ll regale you with stories that’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 wouldn’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 resort…I better get a hefty payout.

That being said, I’ll give you the glaring red flags leading up to the trip, plus how the very first day went, and then we’ll all wrap around the campfire for some reflections and bay at the moon. I don’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 can’t send that much money to someone in one day. Which is actually kind of comforting that there’s limits. Could’ve really used an alert when I Zelle’ed a crackhead $25 for fake Eras Tour tickets, but whatevs. 

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 couldn’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 wasn’t until I got back and someone goes, “oh, so you were in Northern Greece,” 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. Geography’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 didn’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 “rough” itinerary with each date listed and ‘breakfast, workshop, lunch, dinner’ 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 weren’t staying in FEMA tents masquerading as luxury villas. TBD on if this “resort” would serve styrofoam containers of government cheese on bread for our meals. I also was told I’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 she’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 it’ll all work out. Let the records show that I’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 could’ve pulled gov names from each email and looked them all up, but at this point I didn’t want to find any further damning information about this trip that I couldn’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 I’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, “Do you have any details about the airport pickup?” 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 name…and yet the response I got was, “We will be there to pick you up not to worry, we will find you.”

I’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 didn’t include my middle name, so how could they possibly know it’s me?! I had to call two separate airlines because even though they operate each other’s flights, they can’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, “you 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 won’t wear to your carry-on OR you can pay the overage.” Since I’d rather die than be judged, I said, “what’s the overage?” 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. 

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. 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 malákas 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. 

When I landed in Greece, I had fuzzy teeth and BO. And wouldn’t you know…they 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 wasn’t about to be stranded in a foreign airport or snatched into a Euro human trafficking ring and NOTHIN. I don’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 there’s only one way in and one way out. BLOW MY BRAINS OUT. I’m told I gave the wrong flight info, which I surely didn’t, and then to stand still and someone will find me, something I was already actively doing. Finally, I am found. It’s a real Amazing Grace moment. And I meet 5 other girls, most of whom were on the same exact flight that I was. Wouldn’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-on’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 I’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. I’m in the back row of the van and I tell these girlies that I’ve met five minutes ago, “this may be an opportune time to share that I get car sick, so I just wanted to give a head’s up that I’ll be closing my eyes and disassociating for the remainder of this three hour tour.” 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 she’s probably going to ralph everywhere. I then got to take the Queen’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 it’s full of people with suitcases digging into their side wanting to die to gas ‘er up. Stop # 3 was for goats crossing the road. This was the only stop I would’ve allowed (it was mandatory) and I got a front row seat for animal cuteness. I’m sure my homeslices suffocating in the back did not enjoy this as much. 

Stop # 4 was 15 minutes away from the resort when two women insisted they wouldn’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 I’ve had to drink. We all peed before we left the airport and knew it was a 2 hour drive and I don’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 there’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 could’ve reached out and touched it. And there is…no recovering from that. It was the most wild thing I’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 wouldn’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. I’m not one of those girls that’s like oh I get along better with men, actually. I get along with plenty of girls. I love that girlhood is complimenting each other’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 would’ve been very beneficial to girls who don’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. I’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 I’ll never have children. Unfortunately, my body rejected the time zone in Greece and never adjusted. It was like it knew I didn’t belong there. 

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 didn’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 wasn’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 that’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 I’m gonna keep rolling the dice on socials. You win some, you lose some. 

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 writer’s retreat (I’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 they’re an ally and not a predator. And since I’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 we’re safely in July, I can now publicly declare…FLAMES. It went down in flames.


Let’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, there’s the dead air between sets as they switch the stages. When you think about it, there’s several wasted hours during a show that you barely notice when you’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 there’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 didn’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 they’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 doesn’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.


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 I’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 I’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 wouldn’t you know, I overcorrected my arrival time and didn’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 what’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 could’ve been in a canoe bobbing in the waves of the ocean behind me and would’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 Tummy Trials

As you might recall, I made the brave decision to detail my colonoscopy on this very blog a couple years ago. Since that fateful day when I sealed it into Internet history just what a disaster my intestines are amidst a dramatic retelling of my b*hole being plundered, I’ve continued living my life and hoping that one day I wouldn’t wake up bloated and ready to let out a constant stream of noxious gas forever and for all of eternity. Sure, I’ve continued to dabble in over-the-counter remedies, again, hoping that one secret sauce would unblock the dams and let the poop flow freely, but not so freely that I needed a diaper. My tummy trials have continued with powders, pills, gummies, and most recently, a foray into the ever-obnoxious world of drinking greens every morning. Just as I knocked all of the H2O warriors off of their pedestals, I’ll do the same for the Green Goddesses. Did NOTHIN. I went through a whole tub of Bloom, drinking a daily greens smoothie every morning, and honestly I think I got MORE constipated if that’s even possible. So way to go, wellness babes. You’ve really got it figured out.

Well, I had one last bullet in the gun that I’d like to point directly at my digestive system and fire… and that was seeing a dietician. Please join me as I process my disappointment through jokes on what it’s like to willingly see a dietician when you’re not trying to lose weight or eat healthy, but you just want to stop poisoning your dog’s breathing air with toxic toots. (I’m so sorry, Charlee.)

In case you haven’t heard from the 40,000 times I’ve screamed it on my social media, 2025 is gonna be my year. I manifested a man in my future and he’s not gonna want to marry me if I smell like a sewage plant and spend the majority of my waking hours on the can. So step 1 is fix my tummy. Wellness starts from within, so I went back to the gym and started eating avocado toast. Avocado toast was discovered by the rest of the world a decade ago, and everyone pinpointed avocados as the only reason millennials couldn’t afford to buy a house. I felt like there was too much heat on the green stuff at this particular time, plus I genuinely didn’t know when an avocado is ripe or how to cut it, so I sat back and let everyone else enjoy it before I finally dabbled for the first time this year. Shit is great. I’ve really been missing out. I also throw 1-2 out a week because they have weird spots on the inside or completely rot on my counter so I can confirm this is why I’ll never be able to buy a house. Just throwing money right in the trash.

In addition to almost daily avo toast, I’ve been beefing up my tomato intake AND started making a daily smoothie as a pre-gym snack. So in summary, I’m exercising, and eating fruits/veggies erreday. Problem solved, right? Do I still toss back frozen TGIFridays potato skins & boxed mac and cheese on a weekly basis? You bet your ass I do. Not together though…what do you think I am, a synthetic powdered orange cheese factory? But now that I’m more balanced in my cheese to veggie ratio, I wasn’t feeling as ashamed as I usually am about my total disregard for my body and thus felt it was finally time to expose my habits to a dietician and say HELP ME, I’M POOR FULL OF SHIT. After completing a lengthy questionnaire where I once again doubled down my life philosophy, I had my first appointment.

But not before I had my last hurrah of a bender via the Super Bowl. Couldn’t tell you one thing about the game itself, but I will always accept an excuse to app my face off for 3 hours.

Since a dietician is a real bougie kind of doctor, this woman was located on the main street of a very rich beach town above a boutique that sells the type of clothes one might wear around Turks & Caicos on one’s monthly vacay. I saw my Dr’s very white woman who wears Lululemon to Whole Foods name on the door and I opened it not sure if I was going to walk into a little waiting area. Nope, I walked into her sitting at her desk in a coastal chic loft with very white carpeting. So not only did I barge in without knocking but I also tromped mud all over her white shag. Hot start! That first impression will tell you everything you need to know about this 50 minute appointment. I’m a big, messy, slob who would hook up an IV to a fondue fountain if given the option, and my dietician was a perfectly dressed, very fit, celestial being who is probably 75% kale and spoke in soft tones. As I proceeded to crack jokes about the smell of my farts and my harrowing experience at the GI where I caught a finger up the butt and was told I was pooping wrong, this dietician politely smiled and took notes. I had the good fortune of learning that my GI missed several tests that should’ve been administered before my colonoscopy, which as you recall, I had to demand. And then…we got into diet.

If I wasn’t already feeling inferior (I most certainly was) this would be the moment that I felt like a raccoon scavenging a dumpster for food. I mean, you would think I told this woman I’m channeling Morgan Spurlock and on a McDonald’s-only diet by her judgmental reactions. After pointing out my new love for avocados, I ran down a typical day of food for me, which is: bagel and schmear for breakfast (or eggs, bacon, & toast), turkey & cheese on a roll for lunch (or salad with prosciutto, olives, and cheese), and a meat, veggie and starch for dinzies. One cup of coffee a day and plenty of water (with soluble fiber powder) up until my nightcap of 1 glass of wine while I watch my evening programs. Pop quiz style she repeated my options back to me and asked me how many grams of fiber was in each option. Unfortunately for me, I had to say zero every time and honestly I was waiting to be sent to the chokey for my meal choices. I was quick to point out that I drink my fiber, per my last GI’s instruction, I powder my water with fiber for each meal. Well, apparently that’s not really doing anything, so I’m super glad I’ve spent the last 2 years stirring up a sand concoction to drink with each meal. She told me to get psyllium husk fiber (now we’re splitting hairs over what type of fiber is better), which spoiler alert I did and I poured it into water, used an electric mixer because it came out looking like cat vomit and after vigorously mixing it turned into a flesh tone gelatin that I wouldn’t touch let alone ingest, and that tub was promptly returned back to Trader Joe’s. SICK SUGGESTION! (This is the one thing I don’t have a photo of and I really regret not snapping one but I was too busy gagging, so enjoy some internet snaps instead.) Guess what my old “bad” fiber powder looked and tasted like? Water. No chewing necessary.

What’s even more embarrassing about this diet rundown is that I wasn’t even divulging the real deets of what ingredients I’m willing to consume (trick question, I don’t look at ingredients, if it tastes good I slam it in my boca), or the fact that I KNOW I’m eating probably 2-3 times the portion that I’m supposed to be eating per meal. Also, it’s February…so I very slyly was able to omit my hot dog intake because who the hell is eating wieners in the winter?! Now that you know how much I DIDN’T SHARE, don’t you feel like I was unfairly punished here?! In fact, homegirl LAUGHED at my bit about a life without cheese is not a life worth living and then goes, so you have to cut dairy out of your diet. EXSQUEEZE ME?! If that’s the case then just put me out of my damn misery, now, Doc! I sprinkle cheese into every single meal like I’m the damn dairy fairy. Let’s not even get started on the counter-covering charcuterie boards my family erects at holidays. This past winter I tried making a new soup recipe every few weeks, and guess what each soup called for? AT LEAST 3 TYPES OF CHEESE and heavy cream. One of them had Velveeta in it! Even my veggies have cheese. Green Giant’s frozen cheesy noodles and broccoli is a STAPLE side dish in this household for one, serving size for a family of four. SO I GUESS I’LL STARVE, BABE.

And starve is just what she’s having me do. I left with stacks of paper in tow, all listing terrible items to buy at the grocery store that not only taste like blech but also will basically bend me over at the register as well! Wanna know why most people eat like shit? BECAUSE THEIR JOB (OR MULTIPLE JOBS) DON’T PAY THEM ENOUGH TO AFFORD THE ORGANIC, ALL NATURAL, GLUTEN FREE, DAIRY FREE, DUG UP FROM THE GROUND BULLSHIT. Don’t even get me started on the notion that Whole Foods can charge triple the price for food that still has soil on it. So, wanna hear what a woman who has FOR SURE never fed her child a dino-shaped frozen chicken nuggie told me to buy? Sure ya do!

My breakfasts will now consist of fruits, chia seeds, whole grain bread and *natural* nut butters–ya know, the kind that have 4 ft of oil sitting at the top of the jar. My lunch suggestion was turkey, arugula, & vegan cashew pesto on whole grain bread with fruit as a side. And my dinner is a meat but the veggie can’t be cheesin and the starch should be a skin-on potato or sweet potato (no sour cream or butter.) Also, no more artificially flavored coffee creamer in my 1 cup of Joe per day. You know what’s fun about that? NOTHIN. PS if you want your life ruined like my co-worker ruined mine back in 2015…artificial vanilla flavoring in coffee creamer is actually a secretion from beaver’s anal glands. YOU’RE WELCOME. And s/o to Joella from Accounting who shared that tidbit with me as I poured vanilla flavored creamer in my cup. The best part of waking up is drinking beaver buttt juiiiicessssss!

Speaking of juice, when I was bragging about my fruit intake, I told the doc about my 3pm smoothies to get my blood sugar up so I don’t keel over on the elliptical at the gym, and she pointed out that a smoothie is a meal and not a snack. A smoothie is not a meal for me. It’s like drinking a glass of chocolate milk as a little flavor savor. It tides me over for about an hour and then I’m ready for the real deal. It was suggested to me that adding protein powder would give the “fullness” I’m looking for. It most certainly does not. Does this smoothie give a stunning pop of color to my ‘fit for the day? Yeah duh. But does it fill me up? No, I’m fucking starving.

So in summary, this dietician told me about a bunch more tests I need from the GI–one of them being post-marking a turd…should be fun, deleted dairy from my life without batting an eye, sent me links to expensive protein powder and vitamin brands to buy, judged me the hardest, and then followed up by submitting a full report with multiple pages of notes to my GP that included this spicy little snippet:

SHOTS FIRED, DOC! For a little context, which she provided none of in this nonsense: as she interrogated me about what I would or wouldn’t eat, I quipped that I was raised in a house full of chicken tendies, mac & cheese and pizza, so we weren’t really experimenting with organic cuisine. And when asked if I would make an intricate meal, I said I do not enjoy cooking and therefore try to make quick, easy meals. And when she brought up fruits and veggies, I told her that I live alone and can’t eat them fast enough before they go bad and end up wasting and throwing out food each week. TELL ME HOW THAT TRANSLATES TO GREW UP EATING MAC AND CHEESE AND PIZZA. DISLIKES COOKING, SINGLE AND LIVES ALONE. I mean, I guess thanks for writing my dating profile for me? Dislikes: cooking and being single. But also the opposite of thank you for sealing that into my medical record and bringing a doctor I saw one time for allergy meds into it? Feels like punishment for making you steam clean mud out of your white rug. PS beans are DISGUSTING.

Needless to say, I gave the dietician the ole, ‘don’t call me, I’ll call you’ farewell. And then I went to a new GI, who told me a stool sample is unnecessary (God, I love doctors all having a conflicting opinion on what I need) and agreed to give me a SIBO breathe test and a lactose intolerance test so I can tell the dietician to shove her dairy-free diet up a grass-fed cow’s ass. The SIBO breathe test is basically to find out if I have bacteria living in the wrong part of my gut, which can cause the rotten egg rips. I was mailed a box with a bunch of bags to blow into and very detailed instructions. Do I look like I work in Dexter’s Laboratory? There’s a HIGH margin of error if we put me in charge of this. I barely figured out how to do my own Covid tests and that was just to get out of work anytime I had a sniffle. TBD on this adventure, as I’m still going back and forth with the doctor on if insurance is even covering my little at-home experiment. I’m sure I’ll document it for laughs if I ever spit into a bunch of baggies and shove them in the mail.

My lactose intolerance test was last week. My instructions were to fast for 12 hours and drink 12 oz of milk before going into the office. Chocolate milk was approved and you’re an IDIOT if you choose to drink white in this scenario. Plain milk at the crack of dawn? Ick. I’d rather drink chunky psyllium husk fiber. So that’s how I found myself setting an alarm for 6am to chug chocolate milk. Honestly, it was delicious but I would’ve preferred to wake up and move around a little before doing essentially a chocolate car bomb.

I put a filter on this because my skin color at 6am in winter is that of a corpse.

My little prep sheet said the test was going to take 15-20 mins. I was in that office for an hour and a half and when I tell you I thought I was going to pass out from hunger, that’s the understatement of the century. I had a tech who had legitimately no clue what she was doing and I had to blow into what I imagine a breathalyzer looks like at 15 minute intervals. The way she explained it was, “if you blow higher than a 10 more than once, you’re lactose intolerant and if you don’t, you just keep blowing until it’s done.” Um? I blew a 1 and then she told me to take my little cardboard mouthpiece and F right off to the waiting room until I’m called again. You know what’s awkward? Holding the thing you’re shoving into a machine and spitting into and not remembering which side you put your mouth on and which side you put into a definitely saliva-filled machine. What an ironclad process we have here. I held it like a fat J to feel rebellious. (Is that how you hold a fat J? Asking for someone who’s never once smoked weed.)

Anyway, I blew a 1 every single time and that bitch did not set me free until it was basically lunch time. I’m not a doctor, but after I administer this at-home breathe test I will be, and I THINK IF YOU BLOW A 1 TWICE, YOU’RE VERY TOLERANT OF LACTOSE AND CAN GO EAT BREAKFAST. Also, not for nothing, but I’m very confident at this age I would know using my own brain and logic reasoning if I was allergic to dairy. But once again, who am I to advocate for my own body?

As I blew my last 1, I placed an order for a pork roll egg & cheese across the street. It had been weeks since I’d had cheese on a sammy and damnit I deserved it. I inhaled that thing on the drive home, even dripping grease on my leggings like a slob kebab. Worth ruining a pair of pants because it was truly a religious experience. And that, my friends, is why you can add all of the flax seeds, arugula, quinoa (tastes like actual flavorless orbs) and oat milk to my diet all you want but YOU WILL NEVER TAKE MY CHEESE.

See you in another 12-18 months when I revisit this topic because subbing berries for chips and pesto for cheese at lunch time is for sure not going to fix 33 years of IBS. By the way, Dave’s killer 21 whole grains & seeds bread RIPS my mouth to shreds on the daily. So, the saga continues…

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Salty Stories

The Salty Ju Turns T E N!

Although it’s true I’ve been salty my whole life, today marks a decade of being salty in a permanent and very public forum. I’ve never once deleted a blog or retracted anything I’ve said, even when it was probably blatantly ill-informed or incorrect. And that my friends, is the beauty of the people’s internet. Say whateva ya want and keep it moving. Since I’ve made this milestone a BFD and hyped it up for several months and forced two celebrations down your throat, it only made sense to also memorialize it on the thing that we’re celebrating in the first place. So, humor me in this reflection/summary of 10 years of doing something…the longest I’ve ever done anything. Or don’t humor me and buzz all the way off, ‘CAUSE I DON’T EVEN WANT YOU READING MY BLOG IF YOU DON’T SUPPORT IT.

The Origin Story

Let me paint a picture of what ten years ago looked like for ya girl. I had moved to Boston in September of 2014. For a job? No. For a boy? That’s very rom-com adorbs, but also no. To get my masters degree at Harvard? HAHAHAHAHA. Nah. I did exactly one calendar year out of college, 8 months of that year living at home and working my first “corporate” job with my sister as my colleague and I said, that’s enough of that. So, I packed up a truck and hit up Allston Christmas, which by the way, was about as terrible as everyone says it is. Moving shit off of a truck on a tiny street with cars parked on either side while everyone else does the same exact thing is stressful AF. What was even more stressful was living off of my savings for the first month there with no job prospects. I’ve had so many hot flings with unemployment, it’s almost hard to keep track at this point but at 23 years old, this was my second or third and that’s already too many for being a fresh college grad. Also, this detail has nothing to do with my employment status, but I’d be remiss if I didn’t mention that I was skinny as hell when I moved to Beantown. Like, so skinny that I could wear a hard crop top that showed my belly button and pull it off. This was the last time I could do this. I peaked at 23. Which is also the age I lost my virginity. Coincidence? PROBS NOT.

Ok, back to professional speak now that you see how snatched my waist was. Luckily, I landed a temp gig doing admin work at Boston College and it was while I was doing mind-numbing data entry that I revisited the idea of a blog. To be perfectly honest, I was a HUGE Barstool Sports junkie and had read it every day since I had discovered it in 2009, relating the hardest to blogger KFC, who blogged at his full-time job as an accountant until they finally started making some money and he quit to go FT smut. He was my inspiration not only for his style of writing that was super conversational, but also sneaky blogging while getting paid by another company. He also followed me after I tweeted the below shout-out and clearly read some of my blogs or knew me well enough that when I went to a meet and greet after his comedy show in 2016, he goes IT’S THE SALTY JU and that made my LIFE. Didn’t get me a job. But a semi-famous internet persona knew who I was for a brief moment in time in the 2010’s and we’ll always have that.

I’d be lying if I said when I mulled this blog over that I didn’t have future goals of actually turning it into a job one day. At first I was aiming for the E! News, TMZ, Perez Hilton upper-echelon of celeb goss. I figured, if I ran my blog exactly like they did, that’s just a resume to submit if there was ever an opening for a writer. A few months in, I was setting my sights on Vulture or even Buzzfeed, really moving those goalposts from websites that draw a penis over Lindsay Lohan’s face or report a celeb death before the family is informed, to websites that write quizzes titled “choose a bunch of baby names and I’ll tell you which Disney Princess you are.” FOLKS, SHE IS GOAL ORIENTED.

Anyway, after polling everyone I’ve ever met and asking if they’d read a blog if I wrote it and of course feeling super insecure about it, while also wondering why the hell I chose to make a video for my capping project in college instead of a blog, which is perfect for me and EVERYONE else did it for an easy A… The Salty Ju was born. It certainly didn’t hurt that Taylor Swift dropped 1989, her much-anticipated foray from country into pop and I immediately had material to blab about. Realistically, you couldn’t stop me from blabbing those first few months of blogging. It was like a dam had broken and my 23 years of opinions NEEDED to be released in long-form blog or I would be killed by the Boston strangler. It also set the precedent for me to create Taylor content for every move she made. Something I’ve very much cooled off on, but those eras are forever sealed into the interwebs, which honestly is fine because in comparison to what her fans do now, I was tame.

If I may, I’d like to really detail how into this blog I got, and how much I assumed it would bring me a blossoming writing career. I started by unloading years of pop culture takes like dissecting what the Olsen Twins wore in the 90’s (my second most viewed blog of all time.) Pre-Internet content was a gold mine for me in the wee Salty Ju days. Then, I was inspired by another writer I had been following, Julie Klausner, a Housewives recap writer for Vulture. I thought, I watch a TON of TV. I could do that too! I started by recapping Real Housewives of Beverly Hills–just like her, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery. Then, all of my college roomies had been obsessed with The Bachelor and urged me to start watching so I could blog that, too. Didn’t have to ask me twice! My very first season of The Bachelor was Chris Soules in 2015. Being a fresh set of eyes to the Bach universe made me the perfect candidate for recapping because I was gleefully entertained by every trope and had not yet realized every season is exactly the same. Once I was hooked on that, I also added in the network shows I was watching at the time like Nashville or Empire. That’s how I found myself watching TV almost every night with a notebook taking notes, then going into work the next morning and immediately typing out a recap to be posted by 9am the day after a show aired. I reasoned that all of the big pubs make sure recaps are posted by the time you start work the next day (so people like me can read it at their desk.) If you’re a part of Bach Nation, you know that they LOVE a 2 or 3 hour episode. There were some Monday nights where I was staying up until midnight to get as much pre-written as possible so I could still get it published first thing the next morning.

An example of the hard-hitting notes I was taking. Thank God I saved these precious words all these years.

AND DON’T EVEN GET ME STARTED ON AWARDS SHOWS! Realizing I could turn two blogs from one awards show in a red carpet AND a recap, I was doing the most. I’d be sorting through hundreds of red carpet photos while watching the show, taking notes for a recap, AND live tweeting. In the early Twitter days, EVERYONE was talking about the show in real time. Accounts were letting comedians and writers do “takeovers” to give their commentary and obviously, I thought this was my moment to shine. I literally get exhausted thinking of how much I was working on a Sunday night fo free. I feel like this is a nice time to remind everyone *once again* that I have never made a dime off of this blog, nor have I ever been offered any sort of opportunity from it. Instead, I pay an annual fee for the domain and WordPress hosting just simply for this space to exist. But sure, let’s give kids millions of dollars to make ‘get ready with me’ videos on TikTok. 🙄

The Evolution

Now that we’ve established I’m the type of person who has put more time and effort into this website for 10 years than she has into any of her paying jobs combined, I think it’s suffice to say, this blog is incredibly important to me and has been a MASSIVE part of my adulthood. Of course, if this WAS a paying job, I’d probably grow to resent it and lose the spark I’ve managed to keep for this long. I write about exactly what I want to write about, no word count (clearly), no editorial feedback. And if someone reads and likes it, GREAT. And if not, I can remain blissfully unaware that no one likes what I wrote. Unless, like the commenters on my running errands during the workday humor piece, y’all are a bunch of dicks and comment that you hate what I wrote. Thankfully, my salties have only been positive commenters through the years and I truly appreciate that.

Since The Salty Ju’s inception, I’ve had 17 different jobs – honestly, it’s possible that number is higher because even I lose track of how many FT and PT gigs I’ve bounced through in the last ten years. That being said, I’m sure this blog has also cost me job opportunities. If I had a nickel for every time I said “it’s a very specific type of humor and it’s not for everyone,” I’d be able to pay for this domain for the next 10 years. I wear the logo on my sleeve (jean jacket). I changed all of my social media handles to The Salty Ju and at some point came to accept the fact that this isn’t a heightened version of myself for entertainment, it’s really just me. I am the Salty Ju and she is me. I put my actual personality out there for all to see and judge in every snarky blog. Which can work in my favor, like when the only boyfriend I’ve ever snagged supposedly started reading my blog long before we began our courtship, and it became a way for us to flirt and compare notes on classic 90’s flicks in our early dating days. Tip to all future suitors, ya better be a fan of the blog cause it ain’t going anywhere and complimenting my writing is the fastest way to my heart. And let’s get real…in 2019 and 2020 when I was going through a breakup from said boyfriend, then quit my job and moved back home, then that sly minx of a pandemic hit to really solidify the suckfest that was my life, this blog became my lifeline.

Between actual therapy, and me sitting on the couch of my parents guest room every night until 2 am writing “diary” entries that would soon become chapters for a book and eventually “Salty Stories” on the blog, writing was the only thing that kept me moving forward. That year was when The Salty Ju evolved from bitching about People’s Sexiest Man Alive to talking about shitty things that were going on in my life that felt like the end of the world, and trying to make it entertaining enough for others to relate to and laugh at. And thank God for that, because if I hadn’t hit my rock bottom (800 different times), I wouldn’t have thrown every minute of my life into writing a book, which wouldn’t have led me to getting connected with the satire community, which wouldn’t have resulted in getting published on websites other than my own and I never would’ve started taking myself seriously and calling myself a comedy writer. I still mostly do it as a bit, because I have imposter syndrome, but if I may be so bold to put this in writing, my end goal out of this whole adventure is to eventually publish my book. How long will that take? Beats the hell out of me. One thing’s for sure, if I can stick with a blog for this long without turning a profit, and put up with people asking me if I’m Jewish every time I tell them the name AND spell it, I can keep working toward becoming a published author.

The Stats

I’ve always been a numbers nerd because I’m type A and I love the shit out of accomplishing things. That’s why I’ll tell you that in 10 years I’ve published 625 blogs. 200 of those blogs were posted in 2015 (I TOLD you I had a lot to say!) For comparison on just how nuts I really was, in 2023 I published 15 blogs. BIG DIFF. Also, I’m laughing at the stats that WordPress gives me. According to them, my most popular day was February 4, 2019 with 331 views, which is odd because I don’t even think I published a blog that day. And, I’ve had a total of 144,288 visitors. S/O to all of you for finding my corner of the internet either completely on accident, or on purpose. Even if it was to hate-read.

The Highlights

For newcomers, the OG crew, or anyone who can’t remember 625 blogs (ME), below are 10 sleeper picks that hold up, or are just so ridiculous and uniquely me. To be fair, when you blog about timely pop culture events or happenings, with many links to social posts or YouTube videos that inevitably get removed, not much ages well. So I’ve tried to avoid linking to those. One thing that never goes out of style? My annual Hallmark Holiday movie blog that I’ve done all 10 years.

Since I’ve put so much blood, sweat, tears, and diarrhea into this labor of love through the years, it’d be a missed opp not to toss one last promo of old material into the mix. My TV recaps can still be relevant in the binging era as people re-watch or discover old TV shows. So if you happen to dive into the perils of reality TV or BAD scripted music-themed dramas, please don’t forget to follow along with my episodic rants.

And lastly, I’ve curated several playlists to match literally any mood you ever might have. From throwbacks in rap, pop, and punk, to TV specific soundtracks, to summer paloozas, to breakup songs. These are playlists I still have in rotation on the reg, and some I even created weird hype videos to promote. I really will stop at nothing to be embarrassing. Regardless, these playlists are timeless and still slap, so if you have Spotify, check them out!

The Kudos

AHright, I’m wrapping it up now, I swear. A couple months ago I took a sweatshirt to an event where a vendor does chain-stitching on the spot. I asked her to stitch The Salty Ju, because I can never have too much branded swag. Natch, I had to explain what that means and as I shared that it’s my 10 year old blog, she replied “oh, that’s cool that you’re still blogging, I remember back when it was big and I HAD to read my regular blogs every day.” Most people would let this backhanded compliment fly, but I’m not most people. *in Michael Jordan voice* And I took that personally. I thought she was being condescending AF telling me oh that’s cute you’ve hung onto a dying medium that absolutely no one cares about anymore. And I simmered on it until right now. She’s not wrong. Long-form writing was very much a fad that got WOMPED by the age of social media and audio/video content. Once people realized they could watch a 30 second video, or listen to a podcast while they did other shit, the blog pretty much died. RIP.

Leave it to me to join a trend at its downfall and then never let it out of my cold, dead hands. I DID consider other mediums many times. I attempted a podcast in 2018 and immeds started crying because I hated the sound of my voice. In 2020, I got way more into TikTok, unfortunately attempting dances 😬. I think we can all agree that ain’t me. Writing is what I like to do, and if that’s not cool then in the words of my sassy 7-year-old niece, WHO EVEN CARES?! What’s cool about this decade-long run is that people (you) still read what I have to say. Even if it’s just one person. Even if that one person is related to me and had a direct hand in bringing me onto this earth. HI MOM! 👋🏻 I write because it makes me feel better and if one person gets a case of the HAHA’s from it, that’s pretty awesome.

SO THANK YOU, READER! To my subscribers who get my ramblings delivered right to their inbox, GRAZIE MILLE. Even if those ramblings are delivered right to your spam folder. Still counts. To anyone who has commented or liked or reposted or interacted with any of my work at all on social media, MERCI. I see you, and you’re doing the lord’s work. The algorithm–especially on Facebook–is that the more interaction there is on a post, the longer it will live in a page’s feed and get resurfaced for new people to see. So every little bit helps for my quaint fanbase of Salties. Also, words of affirmation, though not my love language, gives me the warm fuzzies to keep writing. And of course, thank you to anyone who made an effort to celebrate this accomplishment with me IN PERSON in either New Jersey or Syracuse. Showing up to have a drink so I didn’t have to ring in this anniversary alone meant the world to me! If you didn’t make it, please know that you were swiftly added to the list of people who are dead to me. Last but certainly not least, to family and friends who have been a part of blogging fodder willingly or unwillingly, who have been forced to take countless obnoxious solo shots of me everywhere we go, who have been co-stars in my lil videos, who have had to edit writing or give feedback, I quite literally couldn’t have done it without ya. YOU DA REAL ONES.

My salty era is far from over. I’m gonna keep being publicly salty…and vulnerable, messy, self-deprecating, goofy, obnoxious, emotional, opinionated, sarcastic, and keep oversharing out loud for hopefully another decade. ❤️

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Salty Stories

Table for One

I’m 33. I’m single. I live alone. I work remotely. And I’m not on the dating apps.

I’m not on the dating apps because I thought I would make my grand debut on Hinge with my 6 stunning photos and witty one-liner prompts and hot men would be falling all over themselves to message me, wondering how exactly such a catch is single. I’ve given Hinge three honest attempts now over the course of the last two years. Spoiler alert: that fantasy of cleaning up the moment I crack open the app never once came true. Instead, I was met with the creaturiest of creatures. Creaturiest isn’t even an adjective and yet I’ve made it one because there’s no other word that can adequately paint the picture of what lies in wait in online dating in the Central Jersey Shore region, age range 30-35. During my last dance with Hinge this past May, I got into a literal war of words with one candidate who couldn’t stop alternating between asking how my week was going or how my weekend was on repeat. At first, I was spitting my A game in sarcasm and hilarious convo starters…giving it the ole college try that this chump might loosen up and start to hold his own in the conversation. By week 2, I realized he only had one move and it was saying the week was crazy and asking how it went for me. And because I’m immature and think everything is fodder for a bit, I then got into a “how’s your week going-off” with this unsuspecting character. I was bloodthirsty for a battle of who could volley it back without actually saying anything of substance more and I wasn’t backing down. I wanted to win. It was clear we were stuck in a TGIF tornado and I wanted to be the last one standing in the eye of the storm. Unfortunately, I’m pretty confident I was talking to an actual robot and finally had to admit defeat. It was like IM’ing with Smarterchild. (s/o to my fellow millennial late-night AIM whores…idk how we can justify chatting with a bot, but I guess it was cool for that time.) Out of all of my fails on Hinge, giving up the “how was your week bit” and letting “Michael” win was my BIGGEST F. Here’s a snippet of ole Pete and Repeat’s robot moves, plus a lil bonus of what someone sent to me after just viewing my profile one time. He wanted to wear my skin to his birthday, obviously.

As you might be able to gather from that glimpse into sheer insanity, being on a dating app and genuinely thinking I’d find a husband from it was not doing great things for my mental health. I was obsessed with checking the app multiple times a day and was disappointed every time I did. I was coming from a place of desperation and the options at my fingertips were grim as hell and all of that made the perfect storm of plummeting my self-confidence and general hopefulness that I’ll ever snag a mans. I’ve come to learn that no one wants to be on that app and therefore has a real negative “this is a last resort” attitude from the jump. Also, men are TRASH at marketing themselves. It’s really not that hard to post some good pictures and be normal answering questions. Seeing the brown trout that I was reeling in on that app was genuinely making me feel like lake scum. I know I’m funny (you do too since you’re reading this right now.) I know I photograph well…or at least I hope so because otherwise the world is being absolutely PUNISHED by how many photos of myself I post on a regular basis. But you would think I’m Ursula with the responses I was getting. So taking all of that into account, I deleted Hinge and said I can find other ways to hurt my own feelings.

So that brings us to present day, where I’m very much not looking to be a lonely old spinster and would LOVE to find a partner, but I’m not subscribing to basically the ONLY method for dating in the year of our Lord 2024. The peanut gallery has told me that deleting the apps means I won’t meet anyone because apparently NO ONE EVER DATED OR GOT MARRIED BEFORE 2013. In my most recent therapy sesh, she urged me to think outside the box of other ways I could put myself out there and meet someone without re-dipping my toe into the cesspool of Hinge. And let me be clear, if you’re itching to make a suggestion and your suggestion includes any of the following cliches that make me want to hurl my body off of a cliff, pls refrain.

  • You’ll meet someone when you’re not even looking.
  • It’ll happen when you least expect it.
  • Trust the timing of your life.
  • Everyone has their own path.
  • Enjoy being single and do what you love and you’ll attract the right guy.
  • Don’t settle.
  • Don’t compare yourself to others.
  • Be open to new experiences.

Obviously, everything about my lifestyle is isolating and knowing that, I’ve always made an effort to get out and do things even if it means doing it alone so that I can meet people, connect, and socialize. It’s not always easy…in fact it’s usually pretty difficult to constantly be doing stuff alone when I’d rather be enjoying it with someone. But I’m not going to hide from life just because no one wants to date me, SO SUCK ON THAT. While many of my interests and activities lean more towards the girly groups (craft nights, biking, flower fields, reading Reese Witherspoon Book Club picks, etc.) I figured just existing outside of my home is upping my chances. I’ve tried to work from coffee shops, attend a group exercise class, hang at dog parks, go to the beach, and check out breweries by myself or with the dog. Realistically, my homegirl Charlee should be pulling in mad booty. She’s super cute and friendly as hell. And yet not one time has anyone under the age of 55 ever struck up a conversation with us in public. My dog park group is 85% retirees. On the rare occasion a male in his twenties to thirties shows up at the dog park, I often have to ask myself is this man actually attractive or is he just the only man here that isn’t wearing compression socks.

I even went so far as to taking myself out to dinner on a Saturday night this past summer because I figured no one else is wining and dining me so why not do it for myself. I biked to the local seafood joint, brought my own wine, clammed it up, and read my lil thriller. It was nice to get a change of scenery but I assure you I was surrounded by families all wondering if this was a choice or I got stood up. Since it was beautiful out and good food, the vibes were high and I was able to romanticize the shit out of this sad circumstance and act like I was the main character of an Elin Hilderbrand beach read and not like I couldn’t get a soul to buy me a crabcake.

Now the weather is getting chillier and we’re heading into my favorite seasonal depresh months where it’s dark all the time and the wind is always whipping. GR8! This is when I really need to force myself to go do things. And, of course, always conscious of saving money and not overspending, I’ve got to limit my excursions to live within my means. That’s why when half price sushi night came back at a local restaurant, I immediately thought this would be the perfect sitch to step out on the town solo for another date night. I obsessively checked their Instagram to make sure there was indeed a price cut. One thing about me, I will bend over backwards for a discount. I will die for a deal. Cheap date and proud of it, BB! I put on an adorable outfit, mascara (a rare occurrence these days), and took the 3 min drive downtown. I would’ve biked but the wind has already started it’s 8-month long F-U campaign against humanity. I debated bringing the book I’m reading but made a conscious choice to leave it at home. In my RomCom-saturated brain, I pictured sitting at the bar with no book or phone as a distraction, striking up a convo with another like-minded hottie open to sushi chats for the ultimate fishMEAT-cute.

I walked in, was greeted by the hostess, immediately asked if it was 1/2 price sushi night to be up front with my intentions. She said yes, I asked if I could sit at the bar to which she also gave me the affirmative, and then I did a hot lap of the bar and saw every spot taken with sushi in front of each individual and realized that every other Point Beach resident apparently had the same idea. Get a life, everyone. I hit up the hostess stand again and said I guess I need a table. She asked, “for one?” WOW, WHY DON’T YOU SHOUT THAT INTO A MEGAPHONE SO EVERYONE HERE KNOWS I’M EATING ALONE LIKE STEPHEN GLANSBERG. She then proceeded to sit me basically in her lap at the hostess stand. First high top table by the door, so either I’m getting knocked into by people entering and exiting, blown over by the gust of wind that hurls through every time the door opens, or confused for staff because I’m within touching distance of the hostess stand. GR8 SPOT, BABE! I take in my surroundings as I am facing the entire restaurant like I’m onstage at a freak show and see that there’s one TV in my sightline and it’s playing the YES network pre-game radio show. No sound. No captions. WHO THE HELL PLAYS A RADIO SHOW YOU CAN’T HEAR ON TV?! So I don’t have my book. I can’t feign interest in the TV because I’d literally be watching Michael Kay yap into a microphone without knowing what he’s actually saying. And every time I just look out into the room, I awkwardly catch eyes with someone and shit gets weird. You wanna yell at our generation for having our noses buried in our phones? WELL, WHAT OTHER CHOICE DO WE HAVE?

I sat staring into the abyss for an uncomfy amount of time. So much time that the hostess actually asked if someone had been over to take my order yet. I guess when you sit on the sidewalk it’s easy to be forgotten. Surprised someone didn’t ask me how long the wait was. One gentleman did ram his entire body into my table coming off of the bar too hot and had I gotten my drink yet, I would’ve been wearing it. No apologies were made because I had an invisibility cloak on, apparently. A guy finally comes over, takes my drink order and because I’m awkward I didn’t tell him I was ready to order too since I had a cool 45 mins with the menu to decide. Yep, you read that correctly, I’m so terrified of speaking up, that not disrupting the server ‘drinks then entree’ pattern is a fabulous example of how crippled I am by day-to-day interactions. Yet I’ll write an entire blog about one bad night and share all of my vulnerabilities on the world wide web. I AM a riddle, folks! But like, a fun one? I should save that tagline for the next time I’m forced to answer an online dating prompt.

Anyway, the server comes back and takes my order and I notice that there’s no verbiage on the menu about what counts for 1/2 price and what doesn’t, so I assume the whole menu is fair game. I order sashimi and rainbow roll. It comes out 5 mins later…the perks of eating skinned cold fish. In that time the radio on TV has switched to Texas Chainsaw Massacre. What a perfect dinner time show! I get to shove a roll in my mouth while humans get sliced and diced in front of my face. The ambiance is stunning. There’s two guys around my age sitting at the high top next to me putting away massive amounts of sushi and I have basically fallen out of my seat leaning to check if they have wedding rings. That’s how committed I was to still turning this night into a W. Then I saw a pretzel with cheese delivered to their table and almost puked in my mouth. Sushi and a pretzel? What are you two, serial killers?!

Tuna was kinda chewy.

I delete my sushi at warp speed. TBH, it wasn’t even that good. I goofed and ordered sashimi thinking it was nigiri and was immediately disappointed when it was delivered sans rice. The rainbow roll was cut so big that I had more than one occasion where my mouth was so full I thought I was going to choke…let the records show I’ve never seen a bite too big…or the fish was flopping out of my mouth and I had to unattractively poke it back in with the chopsticks. I locked eyes with a staff member mid-cheeks full and overflowing with raw fish bite and she literally made a face of pity at me. It’s time for me to hit the road, Jack. I signaled for the check and WOULDN’T YOU KNOW IT, that baby shows FULL PRICE SUSHI. I call my nervous awkward bird of a server back over and say this is supposed to be half price. He magically produces a paper insert menu with HALF PRICE SUSHI in block letters at the top. He tells me that ironically, I ordered two things not included on that specialty menu. COLOR ME SHOCKED!

Natch this is the first time I’m seeing this menu, which leads me to believe the hostess had it out for me from the get-go, even before my dumpster table choice. She knew what I was here for and slipped that discount menu right on out with a sleight of hand. I’m nothing if not inappropriate, so I replied to my server, “well F me, right?!” He was certainly not expecting that response but he saw the “I’m cheap AF” glint in my eye and knew I wasn’t going down without a fight. He told me he’d go see if he could fix the bill. KthxbyEEEEEE! I’m not saying he’s the problem, because this was clearly hostess girl-on-girl crime, but if someone orders sushi on a half price sushi night, wouldn’t you take a beat to say, I don’t know if you know this but those aren’t included in the deal? I could either say, sure I’m rich, I don’t need to nickel and dime you for mid sush. Or what I would’ve said is YEAH, OBVIOUSLY I AM HERE ONLY FOR A DISSY, DUDE. WHICH ONES ARE THE CHEAPIES? Either way, he would’ve given me the option. Not really a crack team here.

He returns to the table, slides the bill over to me, and purrs, “I talked to some people and took care of it.” OH, OK PHIL! Did you just wink? Am I dating my server now? Did I get what I wanted after all? I’m kidding, Phil can’t handle me. I paid the bill and beat it out of there as fast as I could but not before noticing the bar was wide open when I left. Sometimes it doesn’t pay to be 33 trapped in a 65 year old’s body that will literally wither away if she doesn’t eat dinner at 5pm sharp. I live in an early bird special town and that doesn’t bode well for chair availability. I’d never survive in Boca.

As always, I relive this fail of a night on my drive home, already thinking about how I must blog another CLASSIC Salty Ju hopeful to a fault, fantasy-bursting, mediocre experience. I was already looking forward to ripping my bra off and getting into soft clothes and probably never leaving my home again. But NOPE, the universe had one more practical joke in store for me. In the form of a LITERAL practical joke. As I drive down the road leading to my neighborhood, I see teenagers up ahead in the middle of the road. Since I’m not looking to kill a child, I naturally slow down, which isn’t hard since the speed limit is already 25 and I’m barely crawling. That’s when I see two lil punks meet in the middle of the road, hold their hands out, and run back towards the edges where their stupid lil punk friends are waiting, iPhones out, flash on, cameras rolling. Since I’m hip to the Tok, I know exactly what they’re doing because I’ve seen it before while doom scrolling. It’s a “prank” kids do where they mime like they’re pulling a rope across the road, and then film drivers’ reactions. If I had to guess, your chance of getting an outraged reaction from a Jersey driver is about 8 million percent higher than anywhere else in the country. So these little shits are pretty smart. They get their Tok views from their dumbass high school buddies and a laugh.

NOT TONIGHT, BITCHES. I was a SECOND away from womping on the horn and screaming FUCK ALL THE WAY OFF out the window. A real R-rated version of old man yelling get off my lawn. KIDS THESE DAYS. Go back to ding dong ditching, ya fools. I’m so afraid for our future if this is what youths are doing for weeknight entertainment. What’s even more sad is that these f*ckfaces will end up making six figures from a post like that in the era of influencers as a career. I sped through and gave them a dirty look, which is my idea of confrontation. I also wished (in my head and through text) that one of them gets clipped. I’m not a monster, I don’t want a kid getting seriously injured but would LOVE a lil dust-up with a side mirror or something. Just enough to scare them straight.

Listen, I’d like to end this story with the fact that I’m never going out for solo bargain sushi again, or that I’m never going out again full stop. But we all know that’s not true. As long as I’m breathing I’m going to keep trying and then weaving a tale for the greater good when I end up mortified. In fact, If you’re a long-time listener, first time caller and this story rang a little familiar it’s because I told almost the same exact story after attending Taylor Swift Trivia. The only difference is that three years later I’m out looking for a man to dine with and not 22 year old friends who know what time Taylor Swift was born. That’s called growth, baby! So whatdya think? Should we continue the saga? Do I keep tabling for one and reporting back until I’m a skeleton? LMK.

Also, not a cry for help but kind of a cry for help…if you have any suggestions or know of any babe sodas interested, I’ve really had to kick the huzz hunt into high gear after finding a mouse living in my grill for the second time in the past three months. A grill that I use every single night. And let’s not forget about the Stuart Little that was cruising around in my glovebox last November. So, REALLY need a bruh to manage all of the rodents trying to infiltrate my life and punish me for merely existing. I am a beautiful princess but I’m not trying to be Cinderella out here kickin it with mice pals so there is an urgent need to fill this prince role by EOY. Pls inquire within. And don’t even think about asking me how my week is going.

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Salty Stories

Three Cheers for The Jersey Ju!

Oh, did you think this annual Jersey adventures recap blog was going to stop at year two? That’s cute. If anything, I’ve upped the ante by creating GardenStateGoofin, an account SPECIFICALLY for all of my Jerseylicious dalliances. All jokes aside, I will make a Grade A effort to be much briefer in this year-long summary of activities than I have in years past. Key word being effort. Sure, I can’t sit still and if I don’t have an activity planned for a weekend my head nearly explodes, but also, I get that not every activity is worthy of a never-ending ramble. That being said, while the stuff I share through my content on IG/TikTok is all positive vibes because no one wants to be tagged in a “your place stinks” post, you know you can count on me to keep it real over here and serve the tea. Let’s dive in to year 3 in Jersey, year 1 living in a beach town!*

*If I may quickly address this, obviously the biggest difference this past year was that I finally achieved my dream of living at the beach. And if you read my Side Hustlin Hack blog, you know it hasn’t been easy to maintain the beach lifestyle in this economy. I have to be both a penny pincher and work multiple jobs to hang onto this dream for dear life. So, I just wanted to say for realsies how grateful I am to be here and I’ve tried not to take any of it for granted because I also know what it’s like to get laid off and have to move back home. I’ve spent a lot of time this year appreciating not only the town I live in but also the condo I’ve landed as well – can’t beat my peaceful balcony view of boats passing through the canal! Basically romanticizing every little thing that I do like I’m the main character of a romance novel has become my way of life and I’ve loved it so much and also would love it if my romantic co-star would enter stage left now and whisk me and my beach cruiser right into the sunset. Kthxbyeeeeeeee!

Last Swim at The Jersey Shore.

Please mark Aug 13th on your calendars as the triumphant day that I returned to the ocean to overcome my recent fear of swimming here and also the traumatic experience of almost dying and declaring that I’ll never go back in. A real rollercoaster of emotions on this day. I have revealed to many friends (and probably all of you at some point too) that I’ve never been afraid of swimming in the ocean, but I’m also not overly confident about it either. I grew up vacationing in Jersey and Cape Cod and always went swimming with my Dad and older sister (my middle sister quit the ocean before she reached double digits when she learned fish poop and pee in it.) I won’t say I’m a strong swimmer by any means, but I floated around and enjoyed a dip or two on the occasional summer vacay. In 2018 I went on vacay to Wildwood and was taught how to boogie board and pee in the ocean. One small step for man, one GIANT leap for The Ocean Ju. Here’s proof of me being a Jersey Shore ocean lover back in the day (and an awkward bird, sick dino arms, lil Ju):

Upon moving here, I went in by myself with some rough surf post-hurricane, got womped a few times, and was like eh, I’m all set. Psyched myself right out and from August of 2021 to August of 2022, I never went in further than my shins and would just do a little splish splash whore’s bath to cool down. Let me also share that in that year span I took trips to Jamaica and Siesta Key where the water is calm, warm, and pretty clear and had no issues doing a nice salt water soak with my dad. It was just the Jersey Shore that had me on the ocean fritz. Where the water is not clear, the waves can be pretty rough, and I’m by myself 98% of the time so if I were to struggle or drown no one would be looking out for me. Sure, there’s lifeguards but also they’re more focused on the children rather than the woman in her thirties who should know how to swim by now. So my friend took me to the beach on August 13th and said, you’re gonna get in the water. And I accepted this challenge, mostly because the only option for peeing was a disgusting port-a-potty. I’d rather die. The first round in was lovely. I peed, I floated, I got an actual cool-down at the beach instead of just melting on my chaise lounge for hours. I came back and took this v. excited selfie as proof and sent it to my whole family to say I DID IT! I SWAM IN THE OCEAN! (Similar to me screaming I’M DOING IT the first time I peed in the ocean as a fully grown adult.)

The over-confidence was what killed me. I approached round 2 like an old pro. Like I’d been doing this every day and not like I just went in the ocean for the first time in years. I got too big for my britches and flew too close to the sun. I was floating and whizzing away and then I felt like maybe the waves were starting to get bigger than I was ready for. So I decided to exit earlier than my friend. I swam to shore and just as I was standing up a wave came at me full force and knocked me down, pulled my bottoms down to my ankles and rolled me underwater. Was I held down for 5 seconds or 5 minutes? Hard to say but my life flashed before my eyes and I thought about Annemarie in Blue Crush hitting her head off the rock and I was like well this is it for me, hope my friend enjoys finding me dead in the water with my bare ass in the air. As soon as I could, I resurfaced, pulled my bottoms back up and skedaddled back to my chair to act calm, cool & collected and pretend like I meant to do that and definitely didn’t just think I was going to die bottomless in 1 inch of water. Obviously, we are done with the ocean. (In New Jersey ONLY…I dipped in Florida again this spring where the waves don’t try to kill you repeatedly on 10 second timer. )

Rooftop Movie at The Baronet (Asbury Park)

This was originally suggested to me from a guy on hinge, and it IS an adorable date night idea, but that’s clearly not the journey I was meant to take here. I kept an eye on their schedule for the summer and when a movie I hadn’t seen yet popped up, I went…solo of course. Parking is a real bitch in Asbury and I’d say that’s the only downside to this. Otherwise, catching Top Gun 2 on the roof overlooking Asbury Park with an ocean breeze on a summer night Labor Day Weekend was a top-notch experience. Tickets were around $12, I brought my own beach chair, blanket, & tumbler of wine and sprung for fresh popcorn. Would definitely go back if I had interest in seeing another one of their movies. Could’ve for sure done without the couple who showed up late, pulled chairs together directly in front of me and unloaded a feast of Chinese food. Not only did they block my carefully curated perfect view, but their food stunk and they were annoying. If you get the vibe that people ruin my experiences more often than anything else, you’d be absolutely correct because we need a new plague.

Lobster Roll from Point Lobster (Point Pleasant)

I really want to love lobster and I try it every single time thinking this will be the time that I do, and it always ends up tasting fishy to me. Point Lobster’s Lobster Roll was recommended to me because of the copious amounts of butter they use. I’m never going to say no to anything dripping in butter. So at Point’s Seafood Festival last fall, I budgeted the $20 for this teeny tiny roll and deleted it in seconds. Can confirm, it is delicious. Can also confirm I threw twenty dollars away on something that was equivalent (filling-wise) to eating a few oyster crackers.

Sea Hear Now (Asbury Park)

Although I’m not a music festival girlie, and I certainly would never spend hundreds of dollars for two full business days of music when I don’t know half the bands, I was given the opp to sit on a patio adjacent to the festival to hear the headliner, which happened to be The Killers on night 1 of Sea Hear Now last summer. I wasn’t able to see the stage, but I could hear it now and when faintly off in the distance I heard the opening notes of Mr. Brightside, I asked everyone around me if they were playing that on the loudspeakers at the restaurant to warm up the crowd. To which everyone replied: no idiot, that’s The Killers starting their set and WHAT A BOLD MOVE. Honestly that’s why I thought it was the radio because who the hell OPENS with their biggest hit that everyone wants to hear?! Obviously a hipster band that wants to weed out the fairweather fans up front. I enjoyed singing along to the distant music, then I enjoyed even more double fisting for the rest of the evening, taking a bunch of drunk videos of people leaving the festival at the end of the night and then trying to become a bouncer at the next bar we went to. I think that’s about as close as I’ll ever get to attending a music festival and I’m good with that. I can’t imagine paying to have strangers crowding my personal space on a sweaty beach as they mosh to the whitest party song known to man.

9/11 Memorial (NYC)

I know NY is not NJ…but, the city was a cool 6 hour drive from where I grew up, so realistically, it took me moving here to actually have a lot of NYC experiences, therefore I’ll lump them in. I’m not a museum gal by any means, but I had always wanted to check out the 9/11 Memorial and Museum because my perspective of that day is WILDLY different and far removed from anyone who lives here. I wanted to see and hear the stories I missed the first time around and really view it through the lense of an adult rather than the 10 year old who saw some pictures here and there but never really fully grasped the weight of that day. My dad agreed to go with me and I can confidently say neither one of us would recommend this to anyone else. It was overwhelming at the very least. There was SO much to take in, and really it wasn’t a great setup to be able to consume everything that was being presented. The museum starts with the history and a lot of structural information about the World Trade Center itself, which wasn’t really interesting to me but not really having an idea of what was ahead, we took our time reading and going through this.

You kind of wind your way down into what is essentially the basement where all of the personal effects and debris and stories are. And there are SO many, obviously. So not only do you feel kind of trapped down there (a feeling I imagine was thought out when designing this setup) but it also feels like you’ll never resurface. There’s audio clips playing on loop of newscasters reporting, emergency services calls, actual voicemails from the victims, etc, etc, etc. It’s jarring and sensory overload and that’s just the sounds. On top of that there’s things to look at and LOTS to read. Each piece has its own plaque with a story. As this place was OVERFLOWING with tourists, you can imagine how stressful it is to stand and try to read something in size 12 font on a placard as people push you to also get closer and read it or what I noticed a lot of people doing, stepping in front of me to take a picture of the plaque as if they’re going to sit down later and go through the museum on their phone. It sucked and I was over it only about halfway through consuming it. I wasn’t retaining any of the actual stories because they were everywhere I looked and it was too hard to actually process anything. Then on top of feeling claustrophobic and like I didn’t know when we would come up for air, Apple decided to play a mean prank and do a test “emergency notification” while we were in there, which means everyone’s phones emitted that terrifying alarm sound at the same time and I 100% panicked and was convinced we were experiencing a 9/11 style attack of the remains of the original. So yeah, all in all, not for me.

Concert at Madison Square Garden (NYC)

Nothing brings you back up after reliving the most catastrophic terrorist attack on American soil than hitting up MSG for the first time to see John Mayer tickle those guitar strings for the second time. Even though Den and I were sitting basically up in the rafters (twas all I could afford), it was still a great venue and John Mayer knows how to put on a damn show. It was his acoustic tour and he made sure to remind everyone in the room that he knows his way around a musical instrument. Unfortunately, the tool behind us wanted to also remind all of us that he thinks he’s a phenomenal singer as he ONLY sang harmony to John for the entire show, trying to impress whatever date he conned into going with him. I hope she deleted his number immediately afterward. It was on the ole bucket list to catch Billy Joel at his MSG residency, but wouldn’t you know he decided to end it last month (selfish of him, TBH) making his ticket prices even MORE outrageous than they normally were this past year since everyone knew his time was coming to a close. THANKS A LOT, WILLIAM.

Ocean County Park (Lakewood)

You’ll pretty much only ever catch me exploring a new park during fall when I wanna peep the shit outta those leaves. Now that I’m in a different area, I relied on google to give me a park that *didn’t* consist only of hiking trails (paved path or I don’t go) and this was the winner. So I took Chuck on a rare weekend it wasn’t downpouring in October so we could appreciate some sassy orange leaves. Well, apparently we were way past peak and the showings were grim. Don’t know that I’d ever head back to this park, mostly because as we were getting in the car, I was approached by a stranger danger who seemed to have been loitering around the parking lot waiting to chat it up with someone and I was the clear winner. I got this man’s life story in a very brief amount of time and was also swindled into taking his number because as a millennial, my cellphone is never not in my hand, which really screws me over for any “oh I don’t have it with me” or similar lies to get out of exchanging numbers with someone you absolutely never wish to speak to again. So that’s how I found myself learning that he lives right across the street from the park and vowing to never step foot in this park again for as long as I live. He also did indeed text me after the fact. I may be eternally single, but I really know how to attract lonely old men! So I’ve got that going for me, which is nice.

Historic Smithville

A day trip spot that has often popped up in my searches, I trekked down there for one of my many gov holidays in November. It’s one of those classic “stepped back in time” little cluster of shops, restaurants, and outdoor space. Immediately felt like I forgot my bonnet at home and should be churning butter.

Instead, I took a billion photos, made some unnecessary purchases in the little boutiques and then saddled up to the bar for a solo wine tasting of course. Where I then got *just* buzzed enough to buy a $30 bottle of wine to take home for Thanksgiving. #SupportLocal. Did I personally fund the Village Greene that day? Probably. It was an adorable little fall excursion full of weird chicken/duck hybrid animals trolling around and also it would’ve been 18 million times more enjoyable if I had a buddy (read: huz) to share it with. As my therapist likes to remind me…both things can be true. Is this the theme of my life right now? Ya duh. PS I made the sole cashier at the florist leave the store to take photos of me with these wings. I apologized maybe 800 times for doing so. We literally had to wait for customers to leave so it wasn’t a free-for-all. But look how snatched I look in that skort poppin that leg with those giant wings? WORTH IT.

Count Basie Theater (Red Bank)

Seemed odd to be heading to the Count Basie to see a comedian who I discovered through TikTok, but those were the circumstances. Much like Smithville, this theater is a relic of the past and very historic-looking. My friend and I sat in the last row because that’s what $14 tickets the day of show will get you. We laughed at Trey Kennedy singing and mocking how stupid people are with a special side-show of the stupid woman in front of us hurling all over the floor then bouncing, leaving the cleanup on aisle barf for us remaining survivors of her carnage to manage. It was an evening I’ll never forget.

Cape May Christmas Parade

If a town is going to go hard in the paint for Christmas, I’m going to do my best to be present for the occasion. My godparents go to the Cape May Christmas Parade every year, and my mom and I decided to join this year. I’ve been to Cape May before at Christmas time so I knew they turned their adorable Victorian downtown into a festive dream, but I hadn’t caught the parade, where people put out beach chairs midday to save their spot and then just drink and eat as floats and dancers roll by all night long. As much fun as it is cheering for the local VFW’s decorated pick-up truck, gallivanting around Cape May drinking, eating, and shopping with my family was the real highlight of this excursion. Also scream singing Taylor Swift at Carney’s with a total stranger. And getting into an Uber that for sure had puke all over the door. And spending a night in the 5-star Sandbox Motel of Wildwood.

When we checked in earlier in the day, the owner/receptionist/manager/party enthusiast was for SURE still drunk, there were a bunch of people loitering by the front door and he said everyone was cool and they’re all regulars, so it’s a fun time and things tend to get loose with this crew. He referenced drinking no less than 10 more times during our check-in, handed us our key and just as we were about to let ourselves in, a kid comes RUNNING up to make sure we had a table outside of our room. In December. Once I saw all of our fellow motel homies sitting at their outdoor tables smoking cigs (or not cigs), I understood the company we were keeping at the Sandbox. We were invited several times to mix it up in Room 5 where everyone ends up at the end of the night. Committed to the bit, I was willing to do so but when we returned at midnight, Room 5 was dark. We outpartied the degenerates. Please enjoy the tour of our room, the swan towel really sent me.

Now here’s the movie theater production of the same 24 hours. See how easy it is to paint a completely different picture than getting sauced in a Santa hat and sharing a bed in a questionable motel with your mom?! That’s some Scorcese magic, BB.

Bluebird Farm Alpacas (Peapack)

December is when I started GardenStateGoofin and thus upped the ante with my content. My very first video was Cape May and I really leaned in hard to the cinematic feature on my new iPhone 14. This video is no different. Also, #grateful for the 60 degree December which made it a real joy to beebop and take a stroll with alpacas. This experience was absolutely a one and done. I learned MUCH later that there’s an alpaca farm in the town next to me and I really didn’t need to roadtrip an hour to kick it with farm animals, but I feel like it made the experience more authentic. My friend and I learned some alpaca fun facts, then we had ample time to kick it with them in their pens with bags full of food where my friend showed how seamlessly skilled she was at grabbing a selfie with these majestic creatures and every time I pulled my camera out near one they dodged me like total a*holes. Some of us are just more gifted at selfie’ing with animals than others. If I sound jelly it’s cause I am. Then came the walk and walk is a generous term, folks. Imagine walking your dog but it’s 150 lbs and just wants to eat grass and tell you to F off. We walked maybe 4 ft with them. The activity should’ve been called “bring an alpaca to eat grass and force it to pose for photos.” But now I can say I walked an alpaca and I have the piccies and vids to prove it and THAT’S REALLY ALL THAT MATTERS. TYSM JUNO AND PANCHO. PALS 4 LIFE.

Christmas at Palmer Square (Princeton)

Hey, here’s the tea. If you ever see on ANY list that one of the top Christmas cities in New Jersey is Princeton, you tell that list to buzz right off. I lived it, I saw it, it’s NOT. They paint pictures of ice skating and a giant Christmas tree and cozy little boutiques just like NYC. Well there’s only one Big Apple twin in Jersey and we all know it’s Freehold. Princeton has a 2 block radius of adorable-ness before it turns into a ghost-town and within that little square, there WAS a big tree, but that was about it. Their ice skating rink was embarrassing. My friend and I committed to trying out ice skating for the first time, picturing that it was going to be like Rockefeller and when we laid eyes on the iced over sandbox that they were charging people to skate on, we laughed out loud. No joke it took us 30 minutes of circling to even find it tucked behind a hotel, barely visible. I mean if we got on that ice we could’ve touched each end with arms outstretched. Big YIKES to Princeton’s Christmas game. That didn’t stop me from making an adorbs false advertising video because I wasn’t about to waste a trip with no content and I was trying to build my account. If there’s a lesson to be learned here it’s obviously don’t believe everything you see on social media, including mine.

Last Wave Brewing (Point Pleasant)

Full disclosure, I had been to Last Wave before, but I’ve never walked there with Charlee from my home. I chose the first snowstorm of the year to do so. Charlee gets exercise, I get to take blizz photos to capture the ONLY time snow is beautiful, and then I treat myself to a beer halfway through the walk. We all win. Charlee didn’t really though because there’s nothing she hates more than being in a place full of people and being leashed away from them. Homegirl is real social and just wants to be able to greet all at her leisure. Breweries may be dog friendly but they’re not down with letting your dog roam free and honestly I think they should reconsider (for Charlee only.) I awkwardly stood near a barrel directly on top of the bathroom because the place was packed and spent the next hour trying to keep Charlee from pulling me toward people while also spilling my beer from her jerky movements. It was SUPER fun. Brewery is great, my dog in a brewery? Not suh much. Tough stuff, lesson learned. S/O to the woman behind the bar who came over and intervened at one point because a group of touchy kids wouldn’t leave Chooch alone and she noticed how uncomfy she seemed. Girls supporting girls.

Hot Chocolate Walk (Red Bank)

Snitches get Stiches

This was advertised as a Hot Chocolate Walk and stupid me pictured Saratoga Chowderfest and deemed it a can’t-miss. You can tell it’s the dead of winter and peak seasonal depression when I’m willing to drive 45 minutes for drinking hot chocolate outside. If you’ve noticed a theme of me latching onto something and over-hyping it, you know what comes next. There was no Hot Chocolate Walk. In a small boutique that sold jewelry and art, we met a polar bear who (I swore I wouldn’t tell anyone but the statute of limitations has passed) talked to us and told us they had free hot chocolate inside. We got a lukewarm cup of Swiss Miss after pretending to be interested in making a purchase there. No one else was serving hot chocolate. No one was even outside. It was a true ghost town. Be better, Red Bank.

American Dream Mall / TILT Museum (East Rutherford)

Waited for my girlypops to get here for the drive into North Jersey for their version of the Mall of America. The mall itself is a mall, there’s fancy wings with stores that are above our pay grade, and then stores you would see at any other mall. They had a whole floor that was decked out like a winter wonderland which I creamed my jeans for. Majestic. An ice skating rink, a ferris wheel, a water park, legoland, etc. Those attractions all came with their own admission fee and we decided to go for the TILT Museum instead, which is a 3-D art attraction within our budget. You take a spin around (doesn’t take super long) and they tell you where to stand to take a picture or video of you interacting with the art. For an Insta-hooch like me, this was a dream. Since lil Kenz is an insta-hooch in training, she was on board as well. I mean, honestly if you don’t want a photo surfing a hot dog over NYC, you have a giant dump in your pants. It was a fun, unique activity and I definitely recommend it to anyone looking for something different to do.

Wish Upon a Jar (Point Pleasant)

Just down the street from me is an adorbsies little spot where you pick out your pottery, pay for the item, and then embrace your inner Picasso and paint away. You can bring your own food or beveraginos (adult or otherwise) and let the creative juices flow. It was the perfect activity for Kenz to get crafty, but to be perfectly honest, us adults found it incredibly soothing and I’d do it again anytime. Here’s our masterpieces.

Bury the Hatchet (Freehold)

I told my friends that I wanted to go to a gun range and we settled for weapons that can still harm you but probably won’t kill you. Whatever. Buncha pussies. Really it was just an opportunity for me to try something, be bad at it, then immediately be over it and more thoroughly entertained by demanding they take photos of me with the neon signs. Classic Ju. I still was a good sport and tossed every weapon at least one time before giving up. Still think this is better than bowling, but probably not as great as poppin caps.

Tall Oaks Brewery (Farmingdale)

Celebrated the first random hot day (followed by 2 full months of cold and rain before the sun made an appearance again) by having a good ole fashioned girls day at the newest brewery. This spot has the perfect outdoor space and if we had dogs with a quarter of the energy, probably would’ve been calm and pleasant. But alas, our girlypups are bursting with youthful exuberance and must sniff everything and everyone. So it was a Sunday of managing the dogs and managing to still catch a quick buzz in the sunshine. The owners were a real dream and tolerated us definitely overstaying our welcome. They’ve even continued to support Goofin on social media, which I quickly learned is the difference between a business I visit one time, and a business I’ll become loyal AF to. As someone in the social media game, it doesn’t take a lot of effort to acknowledge content when you’re tagged (a like, comment, or even share if you’re feeling generous.) Yet the amount of free promo I’ve given places and they still ignore it completely. DEAD TO ME. So when someone goes the extra mile to show some love for my efforts, they’re a friend for life. Tall Oaks being one of them.

Deep Cut Gardens (Middletown)

Really jumped the gun on Deep Cut because I was so hard up for bloom season. It wasn’t a TOTAL waste because the greenhouse part is all-seasons, but the exterior of this place was grim as hell in mid-March. I made a vow to go back in the summer when the outdoor garden would be poppin but honestly nothing sounded less appealing than giving up a good beach day to drive an hour to a garden. So, it is what it is. Did it bring me a lot of joy to see bright florals on a cold, windy spring day? Sure did.

Ocean Casino Resort (Atlantic City)

For my birthday this year, my sister and I heavily researched a number of weekend destinations driving distance for us both and after seeing the prices of those destinations and doing a quick reality check, we concluded that a Thursday night in AC was more aligned with our income bracket. Plus, my sister had never experienced AC and thought it was glam like Palm Springs, and I REALLY needed to be front row for the glass to shatter on that rosy theory. Witnessing her disgust as we stood in a Dunkin Donuts in downtown AC next to several homeless people AND got hit up for cash mid-breakfast was v satisfying. Unfortunately for my long-standing birthday curse, the weather was freezing monsoon in NJ and tropical summer breeze in Syracuse. ‘Cause of course. Kinda put a damper on my carefully crafted research of which places we could hit up along the boardwalk on my birthday bender as we were stuck exclusively in Ocean Casino Resort for the night unless we wanted to literally blow into the ocean. The resort itself is very nice. It’s brand new, so there’s only *some* suspicious stains on the carpeting rather than the entire place smelling like a stale cigarette and looking like a 50 year old jizz stain.

However, the crowd was dead as dead could be on a Thursday night a week before MDW. It’s not like we were there on a Monday in January. I mean I was wearing a walking sparkly billboard that said BUY ME A DRINK and not one person offered. Got a lot of shouted HAPPY BIRTHDAY’s which is good for NOTHIN. Get me drunk or get the hell out of my face. We played the slots, had some drinks, ate the finest cuisine (Wahlburgers), and then excitedly got into our matching espresso martini jam-jams and ate pringles until we fell asleep.

A Shore Summer Night with a Bunch of Mascots

For as much as I babble stories on every medium imaginable, I don’t know that I’ve ever written out the Mr. & Mrs. Met saga. In my first year as The Jersey Ju, I made it to Citi Field for the first time and declared that I absolutely needed to meet the Mr & Mrs and my godfather informed me that’s reserved for the people who fork over the big bucks for suites or private parties. So I settled for watching them trumpet all over the dugout when Diaz came out and immediately zoned in on the fact that Mrs. Met is draggin a wagon and can twerk like nobody’s biz. I proceeded to go to Citi 3 or 4 more times that year and never laid eyes on those giant bobbing baseballs up close and personal. Year 2, just after I published last year’s blog, I hit up my last game of the season with the whole fam dam. Lurking in one of the clubs we had access to because my sister is VIP, my dad caught wind of the iconic duo cutting through to their next excursion. My dad was overserved to say the least at this game, and had no problem flinging himself at them and asking if they’d take a picture with me. I would fawn over how my dad made my dreams come true, but he then wedged himself into said picture while chomping on a soft pretzel and I had to crop him out because he was also ruining my dreams. So was Mrs. Met, who saw Mr. Met stop for a photo, and bootscooted right over to the escalator, giving me a swan wave as she descended. With that gliding exit, she became my white whale.

On opening day this year I said I was coming for her. My first game of the season was dollar dawg night and in between jamming franks into my furter hole, I caught Mr & Mrs making the rounds at the top of a section. I ran right up to Mrs. Met, and said CAN I GET A SELFIE? She nodded her head yes and as I snapped the pic she walked away. ICE COLD. Now it was personal. I was going to get this twatwaffle if it was the last thing I did. Luckily for me, the happiest couple in baseball made a special trip to my backyard probably to drum up some fans because the Mets were stinkin up the joint. And I said COME TO MAMA! I rounded up a crew (someone I had never hung out with before, always good to have a brand new friend get a front row seat to your lunacy) and declared to my loved ones that if she gave me the Heisman one more time I’d swan dive right into the ocean. Within the first half hour of the event, I caught her going into the back for a cool-down and basically screamed right in her bulbous face asking for a picture. She obliged because she probably thought I’d burn the place down if she didn’t. And she was not wrong. And then I texted that picture to literally everyone who had been following this saga and said I GOT HER. And that folks, is how you turn taking a picture with a mascot into an Olympic sport. I had theories about how Mr. Met was a man of the people and Mrs. Met is probably supposed to act harder to get. The mascot handler really had a good laugh at that one. He was also probably entertaining me for fear of my mental stability. Whatevs. I got what I wanted.

After reaching the summit of a 3 year long quest, I was euphoric, and it was a summer night down the shore and that’s how I found myself accidentally having the exact classic Jersey Shore bar experience I was looking for when I went to Bar A 2 years ago. And those are the BEST kind of nights. I drowned myself in cucumber vodka, I danced to my favorite 90’s cover band and told them after their set that I was their biggest fan in a definitely creepy way, I complimented some guy wearing a shirt that said “stuffing wieners in faces since 2005”, I got a dirty look from his girlfriend, and I kicked it with an entire group of dressed up characters loudly wondering if any of them were attractive underneath their sweaty giant heads. I distinctly remember screaming to my gal pals “we should do this every weekend this summer!” And then I woke up the next morning with an anvil on my head and looked at how much money I spent and never did that again for the rest of the summer.

Beach Yoga at Tiki Bar (Point Pleasant)

This is more me patting myself on the back than anything else. Back in January, my dad and I went to B2 Bistro and our waitress was so fun and cool that I immediately wanted to be her friend but I settled for being her friend on IG and following along her yoga and photography journey. In summer she posted about holding beach yoga sessions and though I have never once done yoga, I AM obsessed with the beach. Looking for a reason to get out and be social and also maybe not be a fat slob all summer, I messaged her and asked how hard it was. I’ve got a real knack for turning a group fitness class into a war zone and I figured this would be no different. I got a foot cramp and almost keeled over in a Pilates class, I knocked a kid’s glasses off in a Zumba class, and the one spin class I took, I pretended to adjust the knob for more resistance when in reality I was barley staying on that v uncomfortable seat. Needless to say, I’m uncoordinated AF and it’s best that I flail in the privacy of my own home with a YouTube workout video. Obv she told me it was a gentle practice and to come anyway. And even though I had anxiety about it and I felt weird and I’m not athletic NOR flexible, I said OK! I was terrible at it. I had no clue what I was doing and my favorite part was the end when you get to lie on your back with your eyes closed and she came over and gave me a head massage. BUT I DID IT! And everyone was super friendly, she was a great instructor, I started my day at the beach, and it was good for me to push myself and be active. And I did it one more time and didn’t get any better but still felt proud of myself for making an effort, and then summer happened and it was either 900 degrees or pouring hurricane rains. So, maybe in the fall.

Boat Ride & Fireworks (Brick)

In year 3 I befriended someone with a boat. LUCKY ME! Always make sure your friends have money or belongings that can bring you up into another tier of society, otherwise they’re not worth being friends with. I’M KIDDING. But I am grateful for my first boating experience in Jersey, because I got to watch the dreamiest sunset and then fireworks over the water on the perfect summer night. Previously, I’ve only boated on lakes in Upstate NY on the rare occurrence when I’ve secured an invite on a friend’s boat and the biggest difference I’ve noticed between lakes and ocean is that lakes the boat barely moves and ocean it bobs around and makes me want to hurl over the side. So that’s always a good thing to learn when you’re on the boat with a bunch of people who are not experiencing debilitating nausea. Keeping my fingies crossed that I just need to tackle this head-on and get used to the motion of the ocean.

Argos Farm (Forked River)

My most recent adventure and another fail for the books. If you want to peep sunflowers in Jersey, Holland Ridge Farms, which I visited my first year is definitely top dog. Happy Day Farm, also a first year adventure would probably be a good bet as well (the sunflowers were already passed by the time I went for blueberry picking.) After seeing Argos sunflower selection, I’d say guh head and skip this one. First of all, the sunflowers were dead as hell. Which is no fault of the farm, that’s just weather, baby. But nothin worse than seeing a bunch of sunnies hanging their heads. On top of that, an employee asked us to watch her admission stand while she left for a few minutes. Sorry, but if I wanted to work here I would’ve applied for a job not purchased a one-time ticcie, miss thang. And the rest of the farm was really catered to small children and also incredibly empty on the day we went, which made it look even sadder. There was no booze to be had, which honestly should be a staple at this point. Even if families are attending, let the parents sauce it up a little while they tolerate their kids saying MOM WATCH ME for the 9 billionth time on the giant slide, or trampoline, or zipline. We were promised by the owner that their Fall Festival is their real bang piece and also includes a brewery, so I’m not counting out future vizzies to Argos, but I certainly didn’t need to catch their Sunflower Fest.

F Coved It Up

Snuck in another first right at the buzzer by getting on aforementioned friend’s boat and cruising over to F Cove on a Saturday afternoon. I bought dramamine and was ready to go until every person I was with told me I’d basically roofie myself if I took that and drank. So we cut out the drugs and I prayed I wouldn’t be the only one booting in F Cove *not* from booze. Happy to report I didn’t get nauseous OR blow chunks! Am I basically Skipper now? Pretty much. And after hearing for many summers about how F Cove is basically TRL Spring Break in a very small stretch of definitely pee-infested waters, I was prepped to see some sloppy. And honestly, everyone kept their shit together while we were there, which was disappointing to say the least. The spiciest spotting was a girl in a Trump 2024 bikini barely covering her big ole floppy cans and b*hole shimmying on a waverunner with boxes of pizza. I don’t know if she was selling the pizza or just showing us that she had it and we didn’t, but it was a real close call that we didn’t catch nip dumping out of that teeny tiny bikini. Good thing Trump’s name is so short. Though I have seen boats n hoes before, I’d never seen a pizza boat. And that was pretty great. Next time, I’m getting a pie while I float.

NJ Restaurant Hot Takes:

  • Nicholas Creamery – as a diehard soft serve girlie, this the ONLY place I’ve loved hard ice cream AND corn-flavored ice cream. Don’t question it, just do it.
  • Shore Fresh – Get literally anything here, it’s all delish. I’ve had crabcake, clams casino, steamed clams, lobster bisque, & clam chowder. All a delight.
  • B2 Bistro – Was nervous to try their sushi but it was divine.
  • Jersey Shore BBQ – Awesome burnt ends & brisket. Mac and cheese has been hit or miss on the soupiness.
  • Divi Tree Coffee Co – Bomb PEC & coffee.
  • Point Lobster – Ordered a lobster bake for the first time. Had all of the regrets in the world. Honestly almost puked from dissecting it to eat and ended up with lobster in my hair and under my nails. Stick to their lobster roll.
  • Shogun Legends – Very good sushi.
  • Bad Hat – One of those places where the portions are minuscule and you leave hangry.
  • Pop’s Diner – BEST home fries in the game. Perfect crispiness.
  • Sinner’s Steakhouse – I tomahawked and I never want to not tomahawk again.
  • Charlie’s – Way too fancy for me. I’m an uncultured swine and don’t want 4500 ingredients in my meal.
  • Broad St. Dough Co. – Two words: CHURRO BITES.
  • River Rock – Don’t eat here.

Continued Quest to find Jersey’s Best Spressy

Just gonna copy/paste what I wrote last year because it’s the best description I’ve ever given: 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. This year’s *most surprising* top spot is Broadway Bar & Grill. Never would’ve thought a dive bar could give good head. The Mainstay was another sleeper hit, mostly because moments before I tasted their espresso martini, I had one of the most disgusting cocktails of my life that also happened to be neon green. Nevertheless, this quest will continue til I’m 6 ft under, trick.

Since starting GardenStateGoofin in December, I’ve posted two videos a week except for the week I was in Florida when I gave myself a true vacation from all of my hustles. You’re probably thinking, WOW you’re amazing, you’ve created 75 posts AND organically grown your following each month while also doing a full-time job and also Door Dashing and Rovering (for January & February) and also scheduling all the social media each week for an agency (from February to present) and also getting 3 humor pieces published and also blogging on The Salty Ju occasionally and also keeping your dog alive and also keeping yourself alive and also TRYING TO HAVE FUN AND ENJOY LIFE?! And to that I say, YUP. I AM amazing. I also get paid for exactly 2 of those things I just mentioned, my FT and my PT. So am I amazing or just plain dumb? Don’t answer that.

What’s important here is that the things I enjoy doing the most are the things very few care about and certainly won’t be paying any billz anytime soon. But realistically, if I started to get paid for any of these passion projects, they would become a job and thus be soul-sucking. I appreciate anyone who is reading this or who follows along on my variety of accounts and is somewhat entertained so that my efforts aren’t completely wasted. That being said, considering I did spend a whole lot of time these past 9 months making videos quite literally every time I stepped outside of my house, I’ll gently nudge you to cruise on over to @GardenStateGoofin on Instagram or TikTok and see what I’ve been up to! And HERE WE GO, let’s keep Goofin into my 4th year in the Garden State! (Not in the ocean though…never again.)

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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 don’t shine! Hot start, I know. The most important thing I learned growing up didn’t come from a textbook, it came from my childhood dermatologist repeatedly checking my butthole for moles. As it turns out, moles don’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. 😑 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 might’ve indicated that or maybe it’s the fact that all the other 7th graders chant “SWASS” 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 you’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 won’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 it’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, THAT’s right. You’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. 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. 😏

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