Salty Stories

35 Things To Do Before I Turn 35

Anyone sick of my bucket lists yet?

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

#1 Join a Travel Retreat & #15 Visit Greece

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ original sound – Garden State Goofin

#3 Attend A Concert Alone

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

#10 Sit Front Row at a Concert

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

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

#20 Be A Mom For The Weekend

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

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

#14 Make Business Cards

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

#21 Attend a Networking Event

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

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

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

#9 Make an Ocean Resin Serving Tray

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ Glide – NEIKED & Portugal. The Man

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

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

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ Vienna – Billy Joel

#7 Get a Psychic Reading

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

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

#6 Watch a Movie at the Beach

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ original sound – ๐Ÿ’•addison๐Ÿ’•

#30 Visit a New Ballpark

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

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

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

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

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

#16 Bike over the 35 Bridge

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

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

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

#35 Recreate a Childhood Photo

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

@thesaltyju

Apronโ€™s a little tight. ๐Ÿ˜ฌ

โ™ฌ I’m Just a Kid – Simple Plan

#24 Ride a Horse

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

#31 Cruise to Lady Liberty

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

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

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

#23 See the Rockettes at Radio City

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ Jingle Bells – The Radio City Rockettes

#33 Go to Drag Show/Brunch

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ original sound – christmas sounds ๐ŸŽ„

#29 Hang with a Highland Cow

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ Cowboy Sunday – Amanda Rosa

#22 Make Seashell Art

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

#28 Write Book Draft Numero Dos

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

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

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

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

#11 Go to an NHL Game

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ Hells Bells – AC/DC

#12 Treat Myself to a Spa Day

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

#32 Crochet a Chunky Blanket

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

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

#34 Make Pasta From Scratch

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

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

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

#25 Dance in a Rainstorm

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

#13 Go Line Dancing

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

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

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

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

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

#17 Break Shit at a Rage Room

you should be scurred.

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ sonido original – PuroRock

#26 Attend a Writing Event

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

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

#19 Keep a Journal for a Year

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

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

#4 Be in the Audience at a Late Night Show

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

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

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

I…was not chosen.

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

He…was also not chosen.

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

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

#8 Go to a Strip Club

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

#18 Knicks Game at the Garden

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

Bonus #4: Watch the Moon Rise from a Lighthouse

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

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

@gardenstategoofin

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

โ™ฌ Dancing in the Moonlight – Toploader

Bonus #8: Visit Buc-ee’s

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

Bonus #18: Experience America’s ONLY Cattle Drive

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

No Budget Spa Days

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

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

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

*remember this snippet for later

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

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

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

Would be cool if there was heat in this cave.

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

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

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

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

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

Photo taken before I almost passed away from heat exhaustion

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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Salty Stories

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 havenโ€™t heard from the 40,000 times Iโ€™ve screamed it on my social media, 2025 is gonna be my year. I manifested a man in my future and heโ€™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 couldnโ€™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 didnโ€™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. Iโ€™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 Iโ€™ll never be able to buy a house. Just throwing money right in the trash.

In addition to almost daily avo toast, Iโ€™ve been beefing up my tomato intake AND started making a daily smoothie as a pre-gym snack. So in summary, Iโ€™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 thoughโ€ฆwhat 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

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

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

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


Hey There,

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

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

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

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

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

Warm Regards,

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

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Things I Googled In My 30th Year On This Earth

Proving that you do not get wiser with age, you just learn to trust the internet to be smarter so your brain can hold onto important things like every lyric to an N*SYNC deep cut.

We’re closing in on the first anniversary of my 30th birthday. Please send your condolences in the form of straight cash to my Venmo, homies. (@Julia-Giantomasi) Since last year I dug real deep and got vulnerable with all of my insecurities about aging and accomplishments (Thirty, Flirty & Full of Anxiety.) I thought I would keep the tradish alive and bare my soul again. Everyone knows revealing your search history is more embarrassing than admitting in a public-facing blog how many times you’ve pooped your pants so you can bet your bottom dollar I’ll be ousting last year’s edition. I started this piece during a comedy writing sprint (where you write every single day) in February and when I reviewed it for submission, I realized there was nothing satirical about it. I just straight up copy/pasted my Google searches and then roasted myself for them. So in the spirit of making fun of myself no matter how much closer I get to being an Old Maid, here’s actual things that I Googled this year to prove that we don’t need to grow up or even be smart to survive this thing called life, just as long as we have the World Wide Web at our fingertips.

Name of (insert โ€˜actor/singer/character/titleโ€™ as needed)

This has because almost a daily occurrence. As much as I religiously check IMDB to refresh my memory, it’s hard to admit but sometimes I don’t even remember enough to plug into IMDB and find the answers. But at any rate, about 99.9% of the time I canโ€™t remember the name of something or someone in whatever Iโ€™m watching at that current moment and I want to fire off a funny tweet about it but I donโ€™t want to have egg on my face for misspelling or mixing up actors.

Natural ailments for memory loss / How young can you be to start showing signs of dementia

Were you concerned when I just said 99.9% of the time I can’t remember something? Yeah, me too. Hence this very real Google search. Seriously did my brain just fall out of my head when I entered a new decade? Is this normal? Should I get an MRI? LMK, because my mom banned me from checking WebMD and I think this is a cause for concern. Also, if your only recommendation is fish oil pls see yourself out because the thought of taking a pill that either smells or tastes like fish makes me want to be braindead for the rest of my life.

Whatโ€™s it called when you start to fall asleep and have hallucinations?

Turns out this one is โ€œhypnagogic hallucinationsโ€ and the cure for it is to be less stressed. LOLZ. Guess Iโ€™ll be seeing bugs in my bed or on my walls as I drift off to dreamland forever and for all of eternity. I even started blind folding myself for bedtime (ya I know they’re called sleep masks but let’s call a spade a spade) and what’s fun about that is I now have a prop to rip off of my face when I wake up with a jolt, launch from my bed and yell, “WTF IS THAT?!” (referring to the made up creatures sharing a bed with me.) At least I provide a midnight show for my dog, so there’s that.

Can you mix Sudafed and alcoholic beverages?

It is not recommended, but research shows (2 sudafeds followed by 2 rum and cokes and a bud light) that you’ll probably survive, you just might feel like a real snoozy suzie at the bar. Probably still safer than the time I took my heels off in the middle of the bar on Halloween then proceeded to walk 5 blocks home barefoot.

Things that are cheugy

Thanks, Gen Z, youโ€™re all a buncha judgmental a*holes. If you are also above the age of 25 and don’t care enough to fire up the ole Google to find out what this means, I’ll give it to you straight, it’s a stupid made up word that the youths created to describe every single trend, personality trait and interest of humans in their late twenties and onward. Parting your hair on the side? Cheugy. Using the crying laughing emoji? Cheugy. My ENTIRE persona? C H E U G Y.

Matching your coordinates to your environment? Cheug City.

What’s a BENNY

Welcome to New Jersey, where they created a nickname specifically to insult anyone who didn’t grow up at the beach. Bayonne, Elizabeth, Newark and New York. Let it be known that Bayonne, Elizabeth and Newark ARE IN THE STATE OF NEW JERSEY. These people bully their own! You live 40 mins North of the beach in the same state? L O S E R. Within one month of living in Jersey, I bought a table off of Facebook marketplace and the seller told me that she’s from North Jersey but has lived at the Jersey Shore for 20 years…TWENTY YEARS…and her husband’s family still calls her a Benny. RUTHLESS.

BENNY with ATTITUDE.

How to make new friends as a single adult

Honestly there were many variations of this search and all of them were equally as weird and sad. No answers were found, yet many cringey efforts were made. 10/10 DO NOT recommend joining BumbleBFF unless you want to feel like you’re courting someone just to have a gal pal to talk Housewives and drink wine with.

How old is someone if they were born in 1970?

The ‘how to make new friends’ search and this search go hand in hand because after joining “meetup”–an app where you can find groups of people also seeking new friends based on your interests, I sashayed into a “Young and Fun in Monmouth County” group. Judging by the title, you’d think it’s a classic group of whippersnappers who are looking to grab drinks and sing karaoke and do game nights, count me in! I RSVP’ed to the new members meet up at a dive bar AND 90’s dance night right off the bat feeling like this was an easy layup for friends. Until I saw the collection of members out in the wild and immediately wondered if there was an age cutoff to “YOUNG and fun.” I doubled back and read the fine print. Members have to be born in 1970 or after. Hence this search because no matter what the decade, math will never be a strong suit of mine. FIFTY TWO. THIS GROUP OF YOUNG AND FUN PEOPLE ALLOWS PEOPLE WHO COULD BE MY PARENTS. NO OFFENSE TO THE OLDS, BUT IF I WANTED TO MAKE SOME FRIENDS IN YOUR AGE GROUP I’D SIT ON A BOARDWALK BENCH IN THE MIDDLE OF THE DAY AND CHAT UP THE RETIREES THAT ARE SWARMING THE BEACH ON A WEEKDAY ITCHING FOR SOMEONE TO DISCUSS THE WEATHER WITH THEM. I WOULD NOT HIT A DANCE PARTY WITH A GENT WHO COULD BE MY DAD AND FEEL ALL SORTS OF UNCOMFY WATCHING HIM GYRATE TO GOOD VIBRATIONS. So as I previously said, meeting people your age in a new city NOT through work? Insert fart noise here.

@thesaltyju

90โ€™s dance party? Yeah I think Iโ€™ve got something to wear. #dresseswellforatheme #90skid #thebestdecade

โ™ฌ Good Vibrations – Marky Mark And The Funky Bunch
Crushed the 90’s dance party wardrobe tho, too bad there was no one young enough to appreciate it without readers

How can you see if someone unfollowed you on Instagram / How can you tell if someone blocked your number

Breakups in 2022, man. So many avenues to contact or check in on each other and since I’m probably still Facebook friends with the kid who bullied me on the bus in 7th grade, I clearly don’t have a grasp on what it looks like to cut anyone from social media. Listen, at the end of the day, anyone who unfollows me on social is missing out on quality content–flowers, beaches, sunrises, and the occasional video shaming my dog for being an uncoordinated doofus. Their loss. Quick PSA though: if you are the dumper and you block the dumpee’s phone number for literally no reason, you are a real flesh dumpster. (Say dump again.) I don’t make the rules, I just enforce them. Who made the rules, you may wonder? Taylor Swift, Queen Bee of breakups, obviously.

Was this just an excuse to post the GOAT of breakup song music videos? YUP.

How do you spell Jake Gylenhall/Gyllenhall/Gylenhaal

And speaking of…honestly couldnโ€™t Taylor have shaded a man with an easier last name to spell? November was FRAUGHT with spell checks on this manโ€™s name. Heโ€™s one notch below Matthew McConaghey(sp?) as my most googled name for spellcheck.

@thesaltyju

To ALL of my friends begging me to hang outโ€ฆIโ€™m booked on Friday night. #redtaylorsversion #swifttok #alltoowell

โ™ฌ All Too Well Taylor Swift – TaylorswiftxFolklore

What do you report doctors to when they’re bad?

After seeing a dermatologist who confused me with another patient then proceeded to cut me open and stitch me up with 0 explanation, my shirt pulled up over my head and the door wide open, I was FIRED up to report this doc to the medical version of the Better Business Bureau. Unfortunately if you choose to spend half of your life in school and the other half of your life paying it off, you can pretty much do whatever the hell you want. What a letdown to find out that I couldn’t pull the ultimate Karen and tattle on this doc to the reigning doc association, so instead I used my PHENOMENAL writing skills to blast off a very detailed response to the office’s “how did we do?” survey. Guarantee no one read it, but it made me feel a teensy bit better even if I will forever have a raging scar in the middle of my back from the drive-thru hack job biopsy I received. Whoops, guess I’m still not over it. (Peep a snippet of my scorched earth feedback below)

Boom. Roasted.

Do dolphins rape people?

I actually googled this in 2014 (see tweet below for proof) after visiting a particularly sassy dolphin named Nick at the Clearwater Aquarium. However, I included it in this list because if I hadn’t searched this exact phrase then, I absolutely would’ve this year as I planned my dolphin swim excursion to check it off the ole bucket list. I swam with a female dolphin and she was quite a lovely lady, but I will say out of all the whistles that were blown that day, none of them were rape whistles. So I think we can officially put the rumor that dolphins are feisty rapists to bed once and for all. I cannot vouch for dolphins in the wild so protect your bishop, Glen if you ever find yourself in the open sea.

Everything was consensual here, but tbh I really would’ve appreciated a face smooch. Hand kisses are for prudes.

Iodine smell after Covid

Couldnโ€™t tell you one single thing about iodine except that itโ€™s the word I pulled directly out of my ass after an entire afternoon with a weird chemical smell stuck in my nose a whole 5 months after I had Covid and recovered from it. Google was also like, do you really mean iodine, boo? This one remains a mystery.

Praytell

No explanation and absolutely no memory of this one. Other than using the interwebs as spellcheck sometimes I just pick a random phrase that I don’t really know the definition of or where to use it but I feel like it might work somewhere in my life. I’m assuming this was for a blog but who knows, maybe I was just trying to spice up my everyday conversation vocabulary, I do declare!

What time does the Super Bowl start?

Honestly throwing the super bowl in a day before Valentineโ€™s this year really messed up my internal clock. Itโ€™s never that late in the month, right?! Football is stupid. At least I didn’t need to look up anything associated with that Halftime show because it was TAILOR-MADE for my age demo. Make that lineup into a tour and I’d buy tickets faster than an upside down Fiddy can say, “Go Shawty.”

The girls who get it, get it, the girls who donโ€™t, donโ€™t.

Shocking to no one: I donโ€™t. Another stupid Gen Z thing. When will I stop googling young people phrases? WHEN I’M SIX FEET UNDER, TRICK. Seriously, there’s a reason friends and fam text me and ask me what these sorts of things mean. They know I hate having FOMO and have no shame in my Google game. So if you’re ever embarrassed about searching something on your own, just shoot me a textie text. (This also applies to celebrity nudes or sex tapes. Chances are I’ve already done the dirty work to search such smut and I’m happy to share and keep your browser history clean.)

Can I pop the white bump on my eyelid?

At first glance I figured the makeup artist who had a severe issue with gluing my fake lashes on for a wedding this past fall left a glob of glue behindโ€ฆthen three weeks later when it was still lingering on my eye, I was excited to find out if Iโ€™d discovered an inconvenient pimple to burst. Seriously, I think I salivated a little at the thought of embarking on new pimple popping real estate on my face. As it turns out, itโ€™s ill-advised to pop and guess what is still living rent-free on my eye 6 months later? THANKS FOR TELLING ME TO LEAVE IT ALONE, MOM, NOW I HAVE PERMANENT CHUNKY EYE.

Can I get pink eye from my dog?

For those of you who have had the pleasure of knowing me for many years, you’ll know that 2018 was the year I couldn’t seem to stop getting pink eye. I’ve been a ferocious eye rubber my whole life (not sorry bout it, my eyes be itchin) and it turns out itchy eyes doesn’t mix well with touching people’s dirty towels at a spa. The summer I worked at the spa I picked up “the pink” twice and then had PTSD for anytime my eyes watered that I had it again and would immediately started splooging cream into my eyeball as a precaution. It also coincidentally was one of the times in my life I was sans health insurance and that goopy eye cream was EXPENSIVE so I really wanted to get my money’s worth. But I digress, back to the real issue here, my dog licks her butthole roughly 900 times a day. I’d say if her tongue isn’t caressing me with sloppy kisses, it’s cleaning out her nether regions. So when a rogue lick caught me in the eye when I wasn’t paying attention, you bet your bottom dollar I was hopping on over to Google in fear. Happy to report dogs cannot pass pink eye but also it is not recommended to let their tongues grace your moneymaker because they carry a whole lot of bacteria. Whatever. Respectfully, I decline. I didn’t get a dog to not get on the ground with her and let her all up in my grillpiece with smooches.

*Also I refuse to reveal everything I’ve googled since procuring the pooch because the limit does not exist to what I won’t ask the Internet. From “what can’t dogs eat” to “why is my dog dipping her paw in the water dish while she’s drinking” to “how do I get my dog to stop biting me” there is not one thing this dog has done that hasn’t been researched. And boy oh boy it’s a slippery slope, you’ll go from thinking you’re a great dog mom who wants to be proactive and knowledgeable to feeling like you traumatized your dog because you pushed her butt into the crate one time. The great news is I’ve had her for almost two months and she’s still alive and thriving so shout out to me for that. I also rescued her from living on the streets with a homeless drifter so I’m not saying I’m a hero, but I’m not NOT saying it either.

Super Tongue Sneak Attack

Bonus: A behind the curtains peek into the Google shitstorm that occurs just to write ONE blog. Here’s my search history from the night I wrote the Met Gala Red Carpet blog:

  • Does gilded mean gold
  • Are flappers in the gilded age
  • Does the gilded age include the 1920s
  • When is mid century
  • Did cars exist in the 1800s
  • The British are coming meme

Honestly I would feel embarrassed about how LITTLE I paid attention in History (Sorry, Mr. Muench) except for the fact that judging by that red carpet no one in Hollywood paid attention either and they pay people to make them look smart and good so, HA. The Salty Ju would not exist without the power of the Internet (both to answer all of my dumb questions and to publish all of my idiotic words) and I wouldn’t have it any other way! Seriously if an apocalypse happened and I didn’t have an iPhone with 5G in my hands at all times, I would die within 5 minutes and I don’t care who knows it. Onto 31–excited to see what another year of a deteriorating brain and body will bring me ๐ŸŽ‰

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Pop Culture

An Email to JLo Containing Unsolicited Relationship Advice

Editors Note: After JLo texted me the below video urging me to email her, I wrote this piece and submitted it to a pop culture satire site to be published. They accepted, said they would publish it in about a week. That was over a month ago. In light of the recent updates in JLo’s relashe status, I felt it was necessary to do a scooch of editing and fire it off myself. Cause yeah it’s nice to be validated by outside publishing, but also by the time they post this piece, JLo could be on her 7th engagement so time is clearly of the essence here. ENJOY.

Hey girl,

Itโ€™s me, the one (out of thousands) that you text when youโ€™re on a marketing blitz or when you just want to say, โ€œMerry Christmas, Babyโ€ with a sparkle emoji. Recently you texted a video to your inner circle (me) that you want to create a community through email where you share your most personal news that you wouldnโ€™t share on a talk showโ€ฆ#OnTheJLo. Although I feel humbled to be chosen as a part of your inner circle, I also have to be true to our close friendship and keep it 100 with you, like I would any other BFF. Typically when a close gal pal is acting out, I gently keep her in line with a passive aggressive text. If the behavior persists, Iโ€™m forced to stop liking her Instagram photos for a week to show that sheโ€™s on thin ice in our girl gang. That gets her attention REAL quick. Now that Iโ€™m someone you feel like you can confide in, I owe you the same respect. Except something tells me if your glam shot had one less like out of the 1.9 billion, your feathers wouldnโ€™t be ruffled. I guess that means Iโ€™ll have to take a more tough love direct approach with you. Sliding right into your Yahoo inbox like the rest of your inner circle does without a doubt.

So I just have one question to start and that question is obviously WHY BEN? BBGurl, you are a QUEEN. You are on top of the world and still crushing it. Youโ€™re 52 years old with a body in peak physical condition. Your skin is flawless, your hair is shiny, youโ€™re still touring, churning out bangers AND creating relatable rom coms. Itโ€™s like nothing can stop you, except of course, for the 250 pounds of dead weight on your arm with a cig in one hand and a Dunks icey in the other. When you started flaunting your reunion, I entered the first stage of grief and sat in denial that a total boss babe like you would ever take back her sloppy ex-fiancรฉ from almost twenty years ago. I let it slide because nothing will get under a manโ€™s skin more than moving on IMMEDIATELY from a relationship and I knew that ARod mustโ€™ve been seething from this revelation. It also seemed super charitable of you. Fake date Ben Affleck fresh off of a breakup and give that sad sack some good publicity after he got dumped by a total hottie and has been in and out of rehab. I thought, good for you Jen! Find a way to write this deed off in your taxes this year. (Do superstars pay taxes? You can get back to me on that.)

Except here we are almost a year later and yโ€™all are still together. Not just still together. Y’ALL ARE NOW ENGAGED. We can no longer brush this off as a publicity stunt. It has now made the full transformation into a good ole fashioned bad decision. And listen booboo, we all make them, especially when it comes to love. Usually, if we make some bad moves in our twenties and thirties, itโ€™s just called growing up. If youโ€™re still making the same mistakes (cough cough 6 engagements) in your forties and fifties, it might be time to get a better therapist, girliecat. I know this may sound harsh but I gotta spill the teaโ€ฆcuz Iโ€™m realโ€”just like you taught me to be in your smash hit with Ja Rule circa 2001. You know whatโ€™s also real? The tattoo of a dragon that covers Benโ€™s *entire* back. Jen. Jenny. JLo. Be honest with yourself. Do you want to wake up 15 years from now spooning a wrinkly golden dragon back while stale cigarette smoke clings to the drapes in your bedroom? I donโ€™t want to put words in your mouth but no you do not.

Iโ€™ll level with you here because I donโ€™t want you to think Iโ€™m coming strictly from a place of judgment. Iโ€™m only coming at you from a place of experience. No, Iโ€™m not from the block. And no, I didnโ€™t star in movies with my ex or plan a multi-million dollar wedding at risk of being mobbed by paparazzi. Lastly, I certainly didnโ€™t have an adorable couple name like Bennifer seared into pop culture history. However, I know firsthand what itโ€™s like to keep going back to a real slob kebab of an ex-boyfriend with some questionable ink who didnโ€™t deserve me. I know what it feels like to want the comfort, nostalgia, and chemistry of an old flame. And yeah, it can be distracting when the whole world loses their damn minds because you two are canoodling on a yacht off the coast of Italy just like in the Jenny From the Block music video. But I gotta give you a peek into the future from a gal whose seen this film before and didnโ€™t like the endingโ€”it ainโ€™t your fairytale, homegirl. It ainโ€™t even one of your phenomenal blockbuster chick flicks from the early aughts. Your leading man isnโ€™t Matthew McConaughey in The Wedding Planner. Your leading man is Matthew McConaughey in Magic Mike. Heโ€™s seen some shit. Heโ€™ll drag you down.

And as you most recently said in your acceptance speech for the iHeartRadioย Iconย award, โ€œLet me tell you something else, I am just getting started.โ€ YEAH YOU ARE, BABY! Dump that trash into the Boston Harbor like he’s British East India Company tea and take an unburdened strut right toward world domination, you beautiful princess warrior with an ass that wonโ€™t quit. GO ON WITH YOUR BAD SELF. You got this. I believe in you.ย 

Love,

A Concerned Bestie

PS Shoot me a textie whenever you want to take a post-breakup tropical getaway with your inner circle because we all know a green diamond does not a lasting relationship make. Iโ€™ll be there with a beach bag packed and a pump it up playlist of your best sassy single jams when it all falls apart. ๐Ÿ’‹

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Salty Stories

Stay Grounded

Remember back in August when I had a traumatic moving experience and I wrote jokes about it to stop myself from crying about it? Feel free to refresh yourself HERE. Well, ever a magnet for disaster, Iโ€™m bootscootin on back to the blog with my latest saga. I had to take a week to process as I went right from this shitshow directly into a 5 hour drive home for Thanksgiving and if weโ€™re being real honest I physically havenโ€™t come up for air between cheese dips and wine in the past week. Now that Iโ€™ve finally detoxed, itโ€™s time for yโ€™all to gather round and hear about the time I went to a wedding with my ex-boyf and we almost got stranded at LAX. 

First thingโ€™s first, letโ€™s address the elephant in the room for all the gossip queens. Why would I travel cross-country with an ex? The answer is really quite simple. Iโ€™m forever on a budget and Iโ€™ve lived with this man beforeโ€ฆhe is well-versed in my digestive system from hell–which only gets worse when I travel. He’s seen some shit. Literally. He ainโ€™t gonna disown me for stinking up the hotel room when my In-N-Out comes in and goes right back out…whereas I canโ€™t confidently say the same if I were to bunk with another acquaintance. Other than reasons directly related to my b*hole, we actually get along and like hanging out with each other in the way that everyone tells you not to do when you break up. Weโ€™re renegades. Sue us. So now that weโ€™ve settled that, letโ€™s point out our obvious differences. Eric is a fly by the seat of your pants guy, Iโ€™m a neurotic freak. Also a bonus for me because I knew that I could have complete control over our travel plans like my Type-A ass dreams about. He just needed to show up and take the middle seat so I didnโ€™t have to sit next to a grody stranger. This wedding was two years in the making after a COVID postponement and we were VERY antsy to get on out to California and celebrate with our friends. These days there’s a whole lot of things that can throw a wrench in travel plans so we were just praying that we didnโ€™t get sick, no extra vaccine/testing travel mandates were thrown into the mix and nothing got delayed or cancelled. Thankfully everything went off without a hitch on the way there and exactly according to my carefully constructed travel itinerary where I laid out all of our reservations and even the local weather forecast all in one doc. See? Neurotic. I even emailed it to everyone I know should anyone want to stalk my travels. Our parents appreciated that. I packed 6 weeks worth of snacks and alcohol for two six hour flights that we both slept through most of and honestly if anyone ever wants to fund my plane ticket, Iโ€™m a PHENOMENAL travel buddy. My fanny pack was chock full of tissues and gum too.

Immediately upon landing, Eric tried to board a shuttle for a janky rental car company that was not ours and I realized that as much as I needed a roommate who didnโ€™t care if I ripped too many farts, he needed a flightmate who paid attention and had a bomb ass itinerary. Iโ€™m guessing he seriously reconsidered that after a full day of being stuck next to me ended in an 11PM PST (2AM EST) ROUSING passenger seat rendition of All Too Well (10 Minute Version) (Taylorโ€™s Version) (From The Vault) where I pretended my cell phone was a microphone and hadnโ€™t quite learned all the lyrics yet so I made noises through the ones I wasnโ€™t confident in. Wanna test your exโ€™s patience? Scream-sing a breakup song into their grillpiece while theyโ€™re driving through the mountains in the dark in a rental car in a state they donโ€™t live in. Itโ€™s a G-D miracle I wasnโ€™t fed to the coyotes that night. Instead, I rewarded my phenomenal concert with cheese fries.

Now to the real meat of the story and I don’t mean a double double, no onions. Itโ€™s all fun and games until you get to the end of the trip and realize youโ€™d rather saw your arms off with a butter knife than spend an entire day traveling back home. Especially when youโ€™ve gotten a taste of that sweet, sweet, California weather. It was 80 and sunny on the drive to the airport Sunday morning. Having already taken Monday off from work as a recovery day, I suggested (mostly joking) what if we justโ€ฆdidnโ€™t leave today. Mr. โ€˜Iโ€™ll just board a bus to anywhere without lookingโ€™ replied, โ€œOk. Sure.โ€ After confirming that he wasn’t being sarcastic, I remembered that the app told us upon check-in that our flight was overbooked (shocking, I know.) We gave the airline a quick call and as most things with airlines go, if youโ€™re unwilling to make travel changes, they incentivize you with a voucher, but if youโ€™re a couple of NY idiots who just want another day of warm weatherโ€ฆyou get nothing and you’ll like it. The airline rep happily changed our tickets for no additional fee (TYSM Covid) to the same flight the following day. To reiterate, United got what they wanted by bumping people from their overcrowded flight but didnโ€™t have to pay a dime for it. This piece of the puzzle isnโ€™t super integral to the story but itโ€™s important to note that we were riding that vacay high and opted for a bonus day. And ooh baby was that bonus day sweet.

Monday morning it was back to reality. After far too many jokes of โ€œshould we just never leave?โ€ (in retrospect, we probably shouldn’t have put that thought out into the universe, multiple times) we begrudgingly returned the rental car and got ready for this suckfest of a flight. Both of us had only traveled with carry-onโ€™s, something I wholeheartedly do not recommend for a formal event. My bridesmaids dress alone filled the suitcase and since Iโ€™m an obnoxious overpacker, I jammed much more in. The amount of times I sat on my suitcase to zip it in this very short weekend was enough to teach me a lesson about overpacking, but alas it is a lesson I will never learn. We hauled our overstuffed suitcases through LAX, where security noted we were *super early* uhh, thanks for the shade for being organized fliers, hooch. Having not eaten breakfast yet and being 3 hours early for our flight, we went in search of some of the fine cuisine you hear about at airports. We settled in at the Rolling Stone Cafe. Drooling in anticipation of a breakfast burrito and coffee, I placed my order and the waitress immediately crushed my dreams by telling me breakfast ended at 11. Itโ€™s an airport, not a McDonaldโ€™sโ€ฆsince when are there stringent breakfast rules at a place that lets you get boozed up anytime of the day before boarding a plane. She then doubled down on worst person Iโ€™ve ever met and told us they had no chicken tenders either. That was going to be my next order (yes, Iโ€™m five.) Finally I settled on a burger and friesโ€”she asked how I wanted said burger cooked and when I said Medium Rare, she fired back, โ€œwe can only cook it medium.โ€ Then why even ask? Hangry Juโ€™s patience was already wearing thin. Eric ordered a chicken caesar salad to which she replied, โ€œwe donโ€™t have any chicken at all.โ€ LEAD WITH THAT, HOMEGIRL. โ€œWelcome to Rolling Stone Cafe: Breakfast is over and thereโ€™s a chicken shortage so the only thing you can order on this menu is our burger, hockey puck style.โ€ How hard was that?! Iโ€™m not saying I should have her job but Iโ€™m not NOT saying it either. Obviously the meal was trash. I asked for bacon on my burger and got none but was sure charged for it. Eric paid for a salad missing its main ingredient. McDโ€™s wouldโ€™ve been a zillion times better and 1/4 of the price. Hot start. (There were certainly no sunset fries there.)

From there we moved on to inject some caffeine in ya girl and found that the only coffee shop had one employee taking the orders and making the drinks. I was hard up for some Christmas in a cup (peppermint mocha cold brew) so I waited the 20 mins to get my fix. Naturally after I placed my order, reinforcements were sent for this poor soul. Finally, we board the plane only to find out we’re in the very last row. I guess when you switch your flight you get the seats no one else wanted, directly in the potty. Noted for the next time we wish to YOLO it up. We get settled in and ready to fly the friendly skies when there is an IMMEDIATE announcement over the loudspeaker that this plane’s left engine was leaking fluids on its travels to LA and they’re going to check things out. If you live on Planet Earth you must understand that if there’s a reference to any plane issue on the left, Phoebe’s left phalange bit is going to immediately take over your brain. 

We laughed about it but then we realized, when it’s on a fictional TV show and it’s going to finally bring Ross and Rachel together, it’s funny. When you’re about to fly across the G-D country with an engine that’s “leaking”, it’s very unfunny. WHY THE HELL WOULD THEY ANNOUNCE THAT?! To give everyone a panic attack before they’ve even hit the runway? This very much seems like a “you guys could’ve discussed this discreetly before making a public announcement scenario.” Or I don’t know, MAYBE checked things out before putting 200 people on a plane? Just a thought. They continued to make announcements every few minutes, even shutting the plane off at one point to “see if that might help.” I’m no plane expert but I don’t think rebooting it like it’s a 1990’s PC is going to zip up the leaky ole engine. As we’re waiting for the final verdict, I suddenly am about to burst with urine and have to do that very obnoxious thing where you use the plane bathroom before it is approps to do so. I had peed before we boarded but with all this nervous energy and that peppermint mocha coursing through my veins, I had to relieve myself. That bathroom had SEEN some shit. I mean, seriously, it looked like an airplane bathroom after a 12 hour flight to Bora Bora. Toilet paper all over the floor, tissues gone, sink soaking wet for whatever reason. Place was WRECKED. And I don’t know if it was just my breaking point but when the most important part of the plane (I’m spitballing here but the engine seems pretty important) isn’t even functioning correctly and you see the state of the bathroom before anyone has even been in it on this flight, it really puts a sour taste in your mouth to continue on this journey. The pilot agreed. Not because he saw the bathroom looked like a thruway truck stop, but because he was done pretending that it would be chill as hell to fly a broken plane 3,000 miles. He told everyone to get the hell off. He said it nicer, but after finally getting in the mindset to do this stupid trip, we were in no mood to be displaced. Other passengers were applauding the flight attendants and pilot for “making the right decision” and “keeping us alive” as if they were ever going to take off with a bum engine and kill everyone right before Thanksgiving. Let’s relax on calling them heroes. As all the thankful passengers are busy slobbering all over the airline staff, us rational folks are wondering what the hell we’re supposed to do now to get home in time for turkey. I mean they all but gave us a rousing rendition of “Na na na na, na na na na, hey hey, goodbye” but they never told us if they’d get another plane or service this one, or find us connecting flights. NOTHIN. We sat with our thumbs up our butt by the gate waiting for further instruction. I finally asked the gatekeeper what we should do and he told me to hang tight because they don’t know anything. After about 20 mins he got on the hot mic and said ALLLL YOU SUCKA MC’S AIN’T GOT NOTHIN ON ME. JK, he told us to go to customer service. It turns out we were the only two idiots to not know how to do that on our own. As we rolled on up to customer service we were DEAD LAST in line. 

It’s right about here that we both get the *sinking* feeling that perhaps we were being punished for taking a bonus day. We had flown too close to the sun and we were paying for it in a 2 hour customer service line. I’d seen enough Hallmark holiday movies with traveling home for Christmas snafus and let me tell you, ain’t nobody trying to buddy up and find a rental car together and I didn’t see one single Christmas tree farm employee who said he could give us a ride toward New Jersey if we helped him deliver some trees. So THANKS FOR THAT FALSE ADVERTISING, HALLMARK YOU BUNCH OF HOLIDAY TRAVEL FRAUDS. As we shuffled forward inch by inch, employees walked up and down the line SHOVING the virtual assistant on their app down our throats. You know a customer service experience is about to suck BALLZย when they’d rather you AIM chat with someone in Sri Lanka than stand in front of a human being and interact in real life. When one attempt with the virtual assistant ended in “there are no flights until 3pm tomorrow” we decided to try our luck with the 3-D assistant, hoping our pleading faces might help get us into another airport by tomorrow morning. Woo, buddy were we dead wrong. Let me preface this bitchfest by saying that I’ve worked in customer service for many a year. It sucks. Most customers treat you like shit because it’s easier for them to take their frustrations out on a complete stranger than pay for therapy and get to the real root of their problems. I tend to feel as though I’m a compassionate customer having been on the other end of irrational rage and attitude. HOW-EV-ER, I do not tolerate dumb. That’s a whole different ball game and this airport was full of dummies. We get to the front of the line finally and the woman says “What can I do for you?” We very kindly reply, “is there any way that you can get us home as soon as possible.” And she says no. She says there are no flights. None. Zero. You mean to tell me that in this massive international airport, there is not one flight available? We didn’t tell her where we could fly to. We could’ve said we need a flight to Sioux Falls, South Dakota. But she just said no. Really that should’ve tipped us off immediately that she was a lazy MF’er who was probably on the last leg of her shift and would prefer to just tell us to F off than actually help us. But we had no other options according to this twat, so we asked if we could at least get a hotel voucher. Our flight was “delayed” until 5am the following morning and I feel like covering the hotel was the least that these turds could do. She had me read our confirmation number (readily available on my handy dandy itinerary) and told us she texted us hotel and food vouchers. We waited a few minutes, they didn’t show up. We looked at her for more guidance. She stared back at us. Was there any activity in that attic of hers? Hard to say, but no. Considering we went through this exact word for word scenario SIX MORE TIMES. I read that reservation number SIX FUCKING TIMES and she said ok I sent the voucher. And we stood there getting texts and emails from EVERYBODY ELSE and no voucher. At one point she accused us of opening it. WHY THE HELL WOULD WE STILL BE STANDING HERE TELLING YOU WE DIDN’T GET IT IF WE OPENED IT?! I’m getting my 7th email of the day about the latest sale at Bath and Body Works but I’m not getting your shitty voucher OBVIOUSLY THIS IS A YOU PROBLEM. At this point I was enraged. But ever afraid of confrontation and causing a scene, I still kept a low profile with my sass. Rather than using her pea-sized brain to find another way to get us the vouchers, like say, I don’t know, old fashioned PAPER, she told us that the United Virtual Assistant could send them to us and kicked us out of line. I spun around and muttered backward “well you’ve been very helpful” in my bitchiest tone and immediately tripped over my luggage that didn’t spin with me and almost ate shit. Strong exit. That’ll teach her.

We hit the bar to booze off our anger, charge our dying phones and fire up this virtual assistant bullshit again. I don’t know what these third world country employees are getting paid but they better get a year end bonus with the way United is hawking their chatroom services. A/S/L and also CAN YOU GET US OUT OF LAX BEFORE WE BLOW OUR BRAINS OUT?! We picked the one bar in a dead zone where the wifi didn’t reach (natch) but it didn’t really matter because the virtual assistant remained to be as trash as everyone else we dealt with at United. The She-bot informed us that vouchers can only be acquired at customer service. I thought I was about to witness Eric spike his beer off the bar in real time when he received that message. If he did I would’ve gotten on the bar and done an Irish jig around it with my middle fingers in the air. That’s how done I was with this airport. At least whatever holding cell they put us in would be equivalent to a hotel voucher, right? We went back to customer service. At this point the only people trickling in were richies doing pre-check on their way to Hawaii. I spit in the face of their hang loose about to be in paradise demeanors. I just wanted to see the world burn at this point. HOPE IT RAINS THE WHOLE TIME YOU’RE THERE. MAHALO! The United rep who dealt with a MUCH grumpier duo this time around was more helpful in the sense that he didn’t tell us to buzz off. In fact, he had to call his own customer service line just to get us printed vouchers. WHAT DOES THAT SAY ABOUT THE STATE OF CUSTOMER SERVICE IF A CUSTOMER SERVICE REP IS ON HOLD JUST TO GIVE YOU THE AIRLINE EQUIVALENT OF KOHL’S CASH. I sat on the floor and made snarky comments, a skill I’ve honed in my thirty years on this earth.

Another half hour later we walk away with real life paper vouchers. Forty dollars for 2 dinners and a hotel stay with no idea where the shuttle is to get us to said hotel. We meander out and don’t see any signage so we ask where to find the shuttle. We’re met with a buttload of ‘tude. I think my favorite thing about this whole debacle is that every employee that’s supposed to be there to help acts like we’re inconveniencing them. Ma’am I’ve been in this airport for 8 hours wearing a mask that now feels like a damp gym sock on my face and I just want to know how to get to this 1 star hotel for 4 hours of sleep. MY SINCEREST APOLOGIES FOR DARING TO ASK YOU A QUESTION. Once we’re standing at the shuttle stop and we see our shuttle CRUISE on by, we realize that you have to FLAG your shuttle down like it’s a taxi. The hits just keep on comin. At the same time, we’ve got a local news crew interviewing everyone around us about how it was the last day for airline employees to get vaccinated and was there a noticeable difference in level of service. HOW MUCH TIME YA GOT, LADY. Point that hot mic on over this way and you’ll get an earful from the Jersey boy next to me who has a photo of Trump hanging in his apartment. Now we’re cookin with gas. Just kidding. We left her alone and lost our chance at becoming local news viral because God forbid we miss that damn shuttle again. 

By the time we finally got to the hotel we would have already been back home in New Jersey had we not boarded a leaky faucet of an airplane with no left phalange. Jus sayin. We learn that the hotel restaurant accepts our food vouchers and that ONE dinner at this establishment costs $28. Well bend me RIGHT over. I had to go down to the lobby and order our food with the vouchers because we couldn’t use them over the phone for ordering room service. An extra thirty dollars later on top of the $40 vouchers and we had to-go containers with food that tasted like it should’ve been at an Applebees $13.99 per meal price point.

After wolfing our food at the hotel room desk like the animals that we are, we decided it was time to call it quits for the night since weโ€™d be getting just a few hours of sleep before our ass of dawn flight. I had the unfortunate realization as I laid my outfit (the same plane outfit Iโ€™d be putting on for the third day in a row) out for my 3AM shower that I was FRESH out of clean undies. I always overpack undies but I also like to switch from day time to night time โ€˜roos if Iโ€™ve had a long day. And this trip was full of long days. Since crusty used undies was not even a little bit of an option, I had bikini bottoms that were never worn as the pool was colder than the ocean and I had the *CLASSIC* Spanx that most girls own yet none admit to ever wearing. (See disturbing visual below.) 

On the one hand, you could actually eat right and work out and be skinny, on the other, much more attractive hand, you could eat whatever you want, never exercise and then when you need to look skinny, slurp all those rolls into a pair of 10 ft long spanky pants that tuck right underneath your nipples. OPTION B ALL DAY ERREDAY, FOLKS. Since I could not POSSIBLY fathom having a TSA scan of granny panties that reach my neckline, I went for the bikini bottoms and I DO recommend. No swass, maximum comfort, flexibility, AND moisture wicking. I might start wearing bathing suits instead of underwear always. 

After 0.0 hours of sleep because I couldnโ€™t stop feeling like bugs were crawling on me and literally googled this hotel’s reviews in the middle of the night looking for bed bug commentaryโ€”there were none but I was fully prepared for that to be the next trauma. We arrived at the airport at a ripe 3:30 AM and security wasnโ€™t even open yet. But people were sure lined up! Ah the joys of traveling, where the worst of humanity comes out to play. We got in line and as they opened and we got up to the front, some sneaky little 18 year old ho-ho laying in wait cut in front of us. She then proceeded to pull out her phone and take a selfie and check herself out. Who are you trying to look good for at 4 in the morning, bish? Get the hell out of here. We made it a point to cut her back when we got up to go through the metal detectors. Because weโ€™re a couple of Tom Pettyโ€™s and we had ENOUGH. She’s lucky I didn’t strangle her with my control top panties right then and there. Whoever she was trying to look snatched for better feel #bLeSsEd she made it home for the holidays without incident.

We boarded the plane and it was 80% empty. As we walked through both first class and business class with almost no one on board, I started to get excited thinking that perhaps on a technicality (everyone else being more savvy than us and getting the hell out of dodge the day before) I might be able to have my only first class flying experience. Lord knows Iโ€™ll never be able to afford it. In my salivating haste I forgot the part where the first class snobs would NEVER allow common trash to infiltrate their section just because there are empty seats and also every airline employee on this earth stinks. We walked back past empty rows to the very last row of the plane where we belonged. And wouldnโ€™t you know, a nice old chap comes cruising on back and joins our pod, rounding out the ONLY full row in the entire plane. The United treatment right up until the very end.

Luckily, once the safety talk started–and we were reassured this was not the same plane with the drippy engine–one flight attendant took pity on us and said we could move up but made SURE to give us a short range of rows we were allowed to touch. WE GET IT, KIND SIR, POOR PEOPLE SECTION ONLY. I laid across three seats and tucked in for a nap with the seatbelt metal digging into my muffin top and my feet hanging off the edge. If I didnโ€™t know any better, Iโ€™d say that is JUST like first class. The plane rocked diagonally on the landing, I almost puked directly in Ericโ€™s face and also crapped my bathing suit bottoms (probably wouldโ€™ve absorbed that shit right up) and the saga was over. We laughed, we almost ralphed, and we got to sneak a peek at the Matthewsโ€™ home from Boy Meets World for about thirty seconds before I screamed that someone was coming out of said house and ran around the corner and hid.

Oh, and we also got to see our besties get married. Shout out Kat & Mat, a close second in greatest things Iโ€™ve ever seen in California. #WorthIt.

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Abolish Biz Casj.

A portion of this HEAT on the art of business casualwear was originally written in 2013 upon my entry into the workforce post-graduation. I can confidently say that ten years later, I still don’t know what the hell is approps to wear to work. Therefore, I have made many edits to the original “blog” now that I have almost ten years of perspective and about 6 million jobs under my belt.

Letโ€™s talk about business casual for a second, shall we? Now despite my obvious obsession with using casj to describe everything in the world, where does casj actually come into play in business casj? Seems somewhat like an oxymoron, no? Here are my two main problems: Numero uno, I think dress โ€œslacksโ€ or business suits are meant for the 50 and over crowd or Hillary Clinton. This essentially rules out any of my options for weather less than 60 degrees. So basically I canโ€™t dress for a job 9 out of the 12 months of the year in Upstate New York. Makes sense. However, this means that for those three summer months I can wear sassy dresses and look like the most feminine but also professional chick this side of the Hudson. Which leads me to my next problem: Iโ€™m 5โ€™8โ€. I know that youโ€™re thinking, oh sheโ€™s 5โ€™8โ€– probably has legs for days. And you would be absolutely correct. My legs are my best asset, tysm for noticing. HOW-EV-ER, you probably didn’t account for the fact that deeze stems can turn any “normal length” dress into a downright scandal. Again, I know you’re thinking it but please donโ€™t compare me to a Victoriaโ€™s Secret Angel, unless the Angels eat cheetos and bagels every day and havenโ€™t had a thigh gap since middle school.

While we’re on the topic of middle school, let’s all hop into the magic school bus with me (Ms. Frizzle, obv) as your host to zip on back to 2003 when my trauma with appropriate dress truly began. It was the tragic days of pre-teendom when a girl shoots up like a beanstalk and gets little baby boobs that barely justify forcing her mom to buy her a lime green training bra at Limited Too. This is right around the same time that the school starts implementing dress codes because the 12 year olds want to show off said lime green bra to impress their AIM boyfriend who they’ve never actually talked to in person. If this sounds like folklore to you, it’s because 12 year olds today look like they’re 21 with their shiny hair and curvy bods as they earn more than their parents just by shaking their perfectly round a$$es on TikTok. If I sound bitter, please know that I am. Rest assured none of today’s lil hoochies will ever develop a sense of humor or a personality that one can only gain from the series of unfortunate events that I’m about to unfold for you. Once Spring hath Sprung, so did my little awkward body into some shorts and dresses for school. This is when I started frequently being pulled over, mid-morning commute in the busy hallway coming from homeroom. I’ve never been pulled over in real life but I can imagine that everyone walking the halls looked at me with pity much like drivers do as they zoom by someone who got nabbed on the highway for speeding. Except these were my formative years. My years when showing off your lewk on the way to Language Arts was the highest form of self-assurance. Instead I had a “supervision aide” (Note: this is a WASP way of saying hall monitor, and let’s be real if you have a fake bougie title to make your job that is completely unnecessary sound better, you’re probably the type of person who has a real power trip in life) scolding me for my “inappropriate clothing.” Just so we’re all clear, I did not have a Mean Girls-esque cool mom who let me watch Girls Gone Wild and go to school wearing belly shirts and booty shorts. Neither my asshole nor my RB curtz were visible, so this really shouldn’t have been a problem. This is when the fingertips rule was first thrust upon me. You may wonder what fresh hell the fingertips rule is and OoOh baby I’m about to tell you. This is the rule, 1 zillion percent made up by school administrators, where if you put your arms down at your sides, the dress or shorts that you’re wearing should be longer than your fingertips. I felt personally victimized by the fingertips rule. I’ve had the body of Gumby since I was 10 years old. No one with long legs has short arms. THAT WOULD BE A T-REX. So naturally, my fingertips basically hung around my ankles. Just kidding, Iโ€™m not an ape, jeeze. But seriously, I was told I could only wear shorts that passed the fingertips test.

Telling a freshly hormonal teen just trying to be cool as shit that she can only wear menโ€™s shorts to school is basically social suicide. Naturally, like a baby bitch I cried to my mom, who promptly called the school (yeah she was a Karen before Karen’s existed so take THAT), which then led to a principal’s office fashion show. I shit you not, I was requested to model an array of American Eagle shorts for my MALE PRINCIPAL to approve if I could continue to wear them to school or not. Why? Because I was being threatened with punishment for not following the dress code JUST BECAUSE MY BODY BUILT DIFFERENT, BABY. I think we all know this scene would never take place today. Principal Creep would’ve been cancelled so fast it would’ve made your head spin while I strutted my booty shorts down the hallway. Regardless, this perv allowed a select few pairs of shorts, and I’m pretty confident they were all bermuda shorts. A trend that try as I might, I still wake up in a cold sweat thinking about how hideous they were. You know what doesn’t look good with a big ole booty and long legs? Shorts that are fitted and knee-length. Add braces, frizzy hair and an AGGRESSIVE sweating problem to that and you’ve got 7th grade Julia in a nutshell. THIS IS WHY I’M FUNNY. (Seriously, peep that wide angle, knee length khaki cargo skirt.)

Credit to me for going significantly shorter in 8th grade. TRY AND STOP ME NOW I’M ALMOST IN HIGH SCHOOL.

So, as you can see from my digression, the fingertip rule has haunted me my entire life and posed a real problem when faced with business casj. The first job that I was required to dress professionally (not wearing a Wegmans polo and black pants) was working for my dad at his small window and door business. By small I mean it was me, my dad and one other employee who was in her early twenties. Most people who work for their dad get that straight nepotism treatment and collect their check as if it’s basically allowance. When I worked for my dad, he made me cry for what I thought was perfectly acceptable office attire. WHAT A MEAN DAD. I showed up to my first day of work the summer between my sophomore and junior year of college wearing a shiny short sleeve blouse with beads around the neck, black shorts and black flats fit for the Mayflower with a ginormous silver buckle on them. My dad immediately shouted WHAT ARE YOU WEARING?! And told me to go home and change. Sweat trickled down my back as I flashed back to 7th grade and looked around to see if my crush Brogan was watching this go down. Then I remembered I was 20 years old and thought I could WEAR SHORTS TO AN OFFICE. No seriously, I fought him on this. I go these are my dressy business shorts. BUSINESS. SHORTS. Who the hell did 20 year old Ju think she was? I dug my buckled flats right into the carpet and told him this was a nice outfit. I even brought my mom into the fold trying to get her to defend me. I was on my own for this one, partner. We were back to the Principal’s fashion show except this time, my mom was taking me to the mall to buy business casj and model it for my DAD afterward. Needless to say, the shorts were never worn to the office again. I can confirm, however, that I wore them out on the town NO LESS THAN 100 TIMES, further proving that these shorts had no business being near the word business. Frat parties, bars, concerts, you name it, these shorts made an appearance over the next 5 years until I inevitably got too fat for them. Please enjoy a slideshow of my “business professional” black “dress” shorts. (Sorry for being a trash monster employee, dad.)

From there we graduated to knowing that shorts were a hard no, but learning that I could wear bike shorts underneath my dresses that were too short. That way, if I bent over someone gets an eyeful of black spandex rather than butthole. It was genius. I could continue to go from daywear to evening wear with just the removal of my spanky pants. No more measuring the fingertip to fabric ratio in the Forever 21 dressing room when you’ve got a failsafe. Think smarter not harder. I continued to do this with crop tops–add a tank top underneath and wear a high skirt, bingo bango, biz casj. I really started to push it when working with my sister at my first full time job post-college. My boss was no longer my dad, but I pushed hard for the reinstatement of casual Friday’s, emboldened by the fact that my sister was now my co-worker and everyone listened to whatever she said. Casj Friday’s consisted of us rolling in hungover from Dollar Thursday’s at the Sky Chiefs game wearing jeans, a graphic tee and reeking of Bud Lattes. Apparently casual days also extended to all of winter as I took the liberty of wearing my zebra Snuggie full-time because the heat wasn’t properly circulating in my cubicle. The issue that many people face, but few discuss with a Snuggie is that it’s far too long to walk in and there’s nothing that keeps it intact as you move freely about the cabin. Again, it was my big brain that tackled this fashion faux pa by instructing my sister to snap the back of my Snuggie shut with binder clips and walk the halls of our office like I was checking in on my disciples.

As I cycled through jobs (ooh baby did I cycle), I always started out strong, trying my hardest to look profesh. Putting my best foot forward. I began to wear dresses that ALMOST hit my knees and begrudgingly, I began to accept that business slacks were inevitable. When I started a new job in spring of 2019, I got all sorts of jazzed for the fresh start, went out and bought leopard and red biz pants to show that not only was I destined to be in the C suite someday but also I’d be trendy as hell when I finally made it. My first day I rocked those red pants like you wouldn’t believe. Came home and made my boyfriend do a full photoshoot of me on the porch like it was the first day of school. Went to change into my jammies later on and THAT’S when I realized there was a gaping hole right down the seam of the butt of these pants. My first day ABIDING BY THE LAWS OF BIZ CASJ and everyone still got front row seats to my buhhole. What a treat for all.

Too busy lookin profesh AF to feel the breeze on my butt cheeks.

It was then (and three days later when while wearing my leopard dress pants my boss quit and left me high and dry at a brand new job) that I decided it was time to give up on perfecting the art of business casualwear. Being that I was working in the entertainment industry, it was finally time to let my freak flag fly. Graphic tees and jeans AWL DAY. And guess what? Never once did I get canned for my ๐Ÿ”ฅ flamin fits, SO HA.

This shirt was probably accurate, this company was RIPE with happy hours.

And once again, we’ve come full circle, as life tends to do. After being unemployed for almost 2 years, wearing coordinated sweatsuits or jazzy bike shorts depending on the season, ditching the notion of a bra completely, I am once again expected to dress in officewear. What was a problem for my lanky ass body in 7th grade, is even more of a problem today as the length of any fabric of clothing (top or bottom) has ceased to exist. I was recently at a country concert in the year of our Lord 2021 and saw so much belly and bits between the crops and the junderwear on the youths, I felt like we needed Chris Hansen to come break up the party, STAT. And I’ve gotta find dresses that are long enough for work?! Get the hell out of here. Unless I’m shopping at Target’s recent colonial woman churning butter collection (the women’s section), I’m fresh out of options. Picking out a work outfit that isn’t pajamas and isn’t a “try to keep up with the trends so you don’t look old in a bar” specialty is a straight up nightmare. And therefore, I propose we eliminate the mere notion of BUSINESS CASUAL. What EVEN IS IT?! Me rocking my fresh new leopard fanny pack to work with a stack of my business cards inside of it? That’s biz casj as hell. I do my job just as well in my cozies as I would in ripped slacks trying to fit the part. SO LET IT HAPPEN. Who’s with me?! Let’s hit the picket line. ABOLISH BIZ CASJ OR WE STRIKE!

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Moving Still Sucks Balls

On day 2 of what was supposed to be a one day move, I was wide awake at 3 in the morning on a mattress covered in plastic, with a blanket and a couch pillow, sweating my life away and I opened the Notes app in my phone and typed โ€œMoving Still Sucks Balls,โ€ a blog title to return to at a later date when my life was not in shambles and this move from hell was over. 

Well, squad, THAT DAY HAS ARRIVED! (I recounted the entire tale to my therapist last night and she told me that Iโ€™ve spun this into a very entertaining story and she felt like she was there with me. BINGO BANGO thatโ€™s all I need to blog this out.) BUCKLE YO SEATBELTS. The bitter and salty feelings are still brewing at the surface a week later but I can spoil the ending before I start from the top: I did indeed finally make it to New Jersey. For those of you who have been living under a rock, my 30th birthday gift this year came in the form of a full-time job offer in the dirrty Jerze. The job allowed me to stay remote for most of the summer and I set my sights on an August move, finding an apartment (in the midst of a mass NYC exodus to the Jersey Shore, #blessed) in late June. It was immediately after I signed my lease that I started looking into moving companies. As you may also know all too well, Iโ€™ve moved about 9 zillion times. As someone who has moved more times than most of you will in a lifetime, I can without a doubt inform you that it blows. Itโ€™s stressful and a ton of work and thereโ€™s only so many times you can guilt friends and family into being your free laborโ€”especially when youโ€™ve exceeded the appropriate amount of moves, of which I most certainly have. So this time around I decided to hire movers to make the transition smoother and also not have to listen to my dad bitch about loading my bike into a rented U-Haul for the fifth time in two years. You know how people say money canโ€™t buy you happiness? If I had unlimited amounts of money and couldโ€™ve paid someone else to move my shit each of those dreadful times so dear old dad and I didnโ€™t scream at each other over inanimate objects or a rented truck mishap, Iโ€™d be happy AF. But alas, my funds are limited and therefore I spent several weeks seeking out quotes to find the right moving company with the right price. (*important note: Despite having movers this time around I did still scream at my dad. But in my defense, he told me to relax. How a man who raised three girls still doesnโ€™t understand that under no circumstances do you ever tell a female who is not at all relaxed to โ€œjust relaxโ€ is beyond me. Praying that screeching at the top of my lungs DO NOT EVER TELL ME TO RELAX finally hammered this lesson home for him.)

After getting ghosted by essentially every local company I reached out to, it was time to look at national companies and I was not pleased about this. Relying on someone in a different part of the country to handle my move? Sounds like a recipe for disaster. I stumbled upon a few names that essentially operated like sales call centers. Hard selling and pressure to make decisions on the spot when it comes to thousands of dollars are NOT my specialty. Weโ€™ll soon learn none of the skills I needed for this move were my specialty. Apparently snarky one liners and pop culture references will get you no where in moving land. My second call of national companies was to BLANK company. In the interest of my lawyer I should keep their name undisclosed at this time. Weโ€™ll just call them Dark Circle Moving. Dark Circle took a full list of my inventoryโ€”weโ€™re talking a one bedroom apt here, folks, my biggest pieces were my couch, bed & dressers. The rest we couldโ€™ve wrangled into a few RAVs and a pickup if we needed to (as weโ€™ve done before.) The quote they gave me was higher than I was looking to spend so I said thank you and intended to keep calling until I had collected enough quotes to make an informed decision. Dark Circle didnโ€™t love that idea. They were not about to let me hang up without making a sale. They brought in the โ€œmanagerโ€ to close the deal and by close the deal I mean tell me a bunch of lies about how this company is not a broker and theyโ€™ll do the move themselves while also telling me an uncomfy amount of times that with his โ€œspecial touchโ€ he could bring the estimate down to what I was looking for. I donโ€™t want to know what he was touching but my dad was standing right there listening and told me to just close the deal and be done with it. (Heโ€™ll deny this, but it’s the truth.) So I said fine and right then I was told to pay a deposit and sign a contract on the phone, allowing them to get me to sign whatever garbage they were peddling without reading it. IT WORKED! I signed a contract that said, โ€œWe can literally do whatever we want so ya done fucked yourself, booโ€โ€ฆin so many words, of course. I didnโ€™t have a yummy feeling in my tummy about this.

A week out from my move, I still had an estimated price and an estimated move date between August 9th-August 10th. The Friday before I got a call from a quality assurances manager to update my inventory (read: increase my estimate per crumb that I added to my inventory) and tell me Iโ€™d need certified funds. Certified to who? Your guess was as good as mine. When I asked what day Iโ€™m actually moving he replied, โ€œOh I donโ€™t know, I donโ€™t handle that.โ€ If I were to hear from someone that weekend, Iโ€™d probably be moving Monday, if I didnโ€™t hear anything, Iโ€™d probably be moving Tuesday. Obviously the schedule was super reliable. So I just had to be ready to move my life to a different state for two straight days. I called customer service from the bank parking lot to see who I should make the certified check out to and she told me a completely different nameโ€ฆletโ€™s just call them Eagle Movers. SO EITHER YOU GUYS ARE RUNNING AN ILLEGAL BUSINESS FRONT WITH A DIFFERENT NAME OR Yโ€™ALL ARE CONTRACTING OUT MY MOVE TO A DIFFERENT COMPANY WHICH YOU SAID YOU WOULD NOT DO. Either way, NO. When I inquired what would happen if the moving company showed up and changed the estimate that I owed and got certified checks for, she replied โ€œIโ€™m not sure, maybe have them wait while you go back to the bank and change the amount.โ€ Ironclad plan, dum dum. I got cash out instead. It honestly felt like a bank heist to have this much cash in my possession at one time. Clearly Iโ€™ve never dealt drugs.

On Monday I called for an update as to what time I could expect a truck to roll through. Customer service told me they couldnโ€™t get in contact with the driver and they still werenโ€™t 100% sure what day he was coming. AGAIN, not knowing if youโ€™re staying another night or WHEN YOU ARE MOVING four hours away is PROBLEMATIC at best. I expressed my frustrations but as many of you know, I poop myself at any sort of confrontation. I get nervous and shaky voice and think of everything I shouldโ€™ve said immediately afterward. Also this customer service bid couldnโ€™t have cared less. In fact, SHE sassed ME. She told me she hasnโ€™t called me back (I called 3 times on Monday throughout the day) because she didnโ€™t have an update. OH GREAT. LET ME JUST SIT WITH MY LIFE IN BOXES AND MY THUMB UP MY ASS AND YOU LET ME KNOW WHEN YOUR TRUCK DRIVER IS GOOD AND READY TO MOVE ME. I said, โ€œSo a truck can just show up with no notice?โ€ And she said, โ€œYeah.โ€ Cool, cool, cool, cool. At 6PM she called me to tell me the driver would be there between 8 and 12 the next day.

GuEsS wHo DiDnโ€™T ShOoooooOOOwwwWww?! I called at 12 on the dot and said whereโ€™s my truck? At this point customer service dumzilla already knew it was me, we neednโ€™t waste time with formalities. She told me she couldnโ€™t get a hold of anyone. Rinse & Repeat. Day two of this garbage. At this point I was now sniffing into other local moving companies begging them to take mercy on me and move me at short notice so I could tell Dark Circle to kick rocks. As you might have assumed, all the local moving companies laughed directly in my facehole. I had to wave my white flag. I wanted to be a grown ass bitch who handles her problems but my phone call confrontation stage fright was getting the best of me and it was time to call in reinforcements. I had my parents (waiting for me and the movers in New Jersey) pull a Mean Girls 3-way bullying call to rip customer service a new b*hole while I silently cheered them on from NY. The word scam was used gratuitously. They said theyโ€™d let us know within the hour where the driver was. They called back and said the truck got held up and would be there in 2 hours. Iโ€™m not a psychic, but I had a pretty universal calling that they were 100% blowing smoke up my ass. That was confirmed when I got a call and a text that read โ€œhi call me back I am driver.โ€ I call this jabroni back and he tells me heโ€™s never even heard of my move and they just called him for the first time five minutes ago. Heโ€™s sitting on his couch, in New Jersey. He tells me he can maybe get there by 10PM. UHHHH? That’s past my bedtime, strange man. I hand off his number to my dad to deal with this hot mess. At this point I donโ€™t think it could get any worse. Sure, zip on over here and move me out at midnight. While youโ€™re at it, just take a load off on my bed, Iโ€™ll sleep on the couch and weโ€™ll all set off in the morning together. WHAT.

The plan made by โ€œdriverโ€ and my dad was for him to come at 8am the following morning and get this shit over with in one trip. I had now turned in my internet and started to head down to New Jersey with a car bursting with shit, including a mattress for me to sleep on in my new apt that night. I had already given up on this circus and was ready to at least empty my car. On the first 20 mins of my drive I received two other calls from different drivers both saying they were on their way to my apt tonight and could move me out after 8 oโ€™clock. Sure, bruhs. Why donโ€™t you all show up and move me out. The more the merrier. Another 3-way call took place in the Spectrum parking lot this time with a different customer service rep who conducted the first 10 minutes of the call thinking I was Angela. TIP TOP SERVICE. I told this gentleman that he was running an absolute shitshow. He didnโ€™t particularly appreciate that. He got us nowhere and then hung up on us. We confirmed the 8AM time with โ€œdriverโ€ and cut Dark Circle out of the communication since they proved to be useless idiot middlemen who canโ€™t even get in contact with whatever shitty third rate moving company they contracted to. I turned around to head back to my packed up apartment and unload all of my cold foods packed into coolers back into the fridge. I gobbled two plain cheeseburgers and a medium fry, went to a friendโ€™s house to shower for the first time in 24 hours and steal some wifi for a hot second (having TVโ€™s packed and no wifi is basically the equivalent of living in Alcatraz), then came back to crash for the night. Started out on the couch, woke up covered in sweat at 1:30 AM with my feet hanging off POSITIVE that it was morning. It was not. So I pushed my plastic-wrapped mattress back onto the frame and stuck my boiling hot skin to it for a cozy night of slumber. Let it be known that when it rains, it POURS for ya girl. This exact week happened to be the perfect storm of the return of hotter than Satan’s butthole humidity (after crisp fall temps the week before) AND the shedding of my uterine walls. THREE CHEERS FOR RADIATING HEAT FROM MY BODY AND MY UNDERCARRIAGE. You know what’s fun about disposing of your period accouterments into a McDonald’s bag because you already took out the trash because you already thought you were moving? NOTHING.

โ€œDriverโ€ shows up at 9am. Within 30 seconds of him entering my apt he tells me that thereโ€™s no chance I was quoted the right amount with โ€œall that I have.โ€ WHO CALLED IT?! I DID, I DID, I DID! I would relish in being right but I cannot relish in anything that empties my savings account. Because of COURSE the moving company that shows up two days late is demanding more money from me to actually do the job. AS IT TURNS OUT, in the big ole scammy scam of movers, Dark Circle had me list my inventory in full and then said yeh we donโ€™t care and quoted me for a truck space that wouldnโ€™t even fit my couch. They knew I would never pay the estimate amount and Iโ€™m gonna go ahead and guess they didnโ€™t care because they got my deposit and handed me off to scammers #2 Eagle Movers who would pocket whatever price they named from me on that day. My apartment in New Jersey has a flight of stairs (which Dark Circle was fully aware of) and yet I was charged an additional $150. For STAIRS. Bend me RIGHT over. I had to go to the bank and get out an additional $1300 and then I panicked because math is NOT a strong suit for me that I wouldnโ€™t have enough still and stopped at a second ATM to get another $200 out. The fact that Bank of America didnโ€™t send me a text that said, โ€œu ok?โ€ is still baffling to me.

When I finally returned with my disgusting amount of cash for a service that was 0% worth it, I was then forced to count out half in front of a driver who was staring at me. At this point I was full-on sobbing, which really didnโ€™t do great things for my image as just thirty minutes earlier this same driver told me heโ€™d rather deal with my dad โ€œman to man.โ€ You know, because women are trash. This particular woman (ME) is not a money person. When I was a Wegmans cashier and people asked for cash back, I almost ALWAYS added the amount wrong to the total and then had to count it three times before giving it to them. Handling cash makes me frazzled as hell. I donโ€™t think Iโ€™ve ever once counted out exact change because the pressure of someone staring at me while I add in my dumb brain is enough to make me never use currency again. CC 4 LYFE. And now that my Discover taps? Woo baby, I will never pay any other way. TAP TAP, HONAY. Anyway, back to me snotting all over $1600 to a misogynistic a*hole. It was not a good scene. He had 0% sympathy as he grubbed all my money away from me. And to add icing on top of this very shit-filled cake, the minute I stepped out of my car into my new apartment that Iโ€™ve never seen before after a 3.5 hour drive and a bursting bladder full of iced coffee, this driver says to me โ€œI need my balance.โ€ OH ABSOLUTELY, GOOD SIR. God forbid I use the bathroom and look at my new home that I just shelled out $7K in a day to move into when I should be coating your palm with piles of cold hard cash instead. How could I forget?! It must be because Iโ€™m a girl with a tiny brain. Hey, while weโ€™re at it, did you want me to also write out a quick check to send your kids to college as well? Everythingโ€™s on me today, no worries at all. You take whatever you need.

Welcome to New Jersey, indeed. Hope this crash landing arrival isnโ€™t a foreshadowing into my new life as The Jersey Ju. Stay tuned as I surely use more hard lessons learned as entertainment for my blog!

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