WELP, I Tried. – Part Two

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

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

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

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

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

Here’s what I learned from this experience:

Group trips are not for me.

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

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

All was quiet on the trip organizing front until I get a text at the end of February asking where the rest of my money is. Um, was I supposed to know it was due? Apparently, yes. She tells me to just Venmo her again. Folks, this trip was thousands of dollars. Would you feel comfy tossing that over Venmo to a stranger? I ask if she can do Zelle instead because it seems a scooch more legit and she obliges. I literally have to move funds around to get everything set to send only to find out even Zelle is like, you good, ma? You can’t send that much money to someone in one day. Which is actually kind of comforting that there’s limits. Could’ve really used an alert when I Zelle’ed a crackhead $25 for fake Eras Tour tickets, but whatevs.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

This hot start was most obviously an omen for the trip. It was the equivalent of driving up a winding road to a creepy haunted house and there being a dead-eyed old man holding a sign on the side of said road that reads TURN AROUND in blood. Should I have seen what I needed to see at the airport and split in a cab for a week of solo trolling around Thessanoliki? Probably. But then I wouldn’t be able to write this blog and WHAT FUN WOULD THAT BE?!

Stray cats everywhere I looked, also an omen.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Salty Stories

WELP, I Tried. – Part One

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@gardenstategoofin
Literally just a Jersey girl who wants to have fun at RussellMania 💃🏻 #gardenstategoofin #stoneponysummerstage #russelldickerson #soldoutshow #sonicehesangittwice #happentome @Russell Dickerson
♬ original sound – Garden State Goofin

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

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

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

The only time I could see him was when he jumped on the piano…

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

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

Salty Stories

Three Cheers for The Jersey Ju!

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

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

Last Swim at The Jersey Shore.

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

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

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

After being too afraid to swim in the ocean for 2 years, today I went all the way in and was so proud of myself. So naturally on the way out that salty son of a bitch had to humble me by rolling me through a wave and stripping me of my bikini bottoms. I am done with the sea.
— Julia Giantomasi (@TheSaltyJu) August 14, 2023

Rooftop Movie at The Baronet (Asbury Park)

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

Lobster Roll from Point Lobster (Point Pleasant)

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

Sea Hear Now (Asbury Park)

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

9/11 Memorial (NYC)

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

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

Concert at Madison Square Garden (NYC)

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

Ocean County Park (Lakewood)

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

Historic Smithville

@thesaltyju
It was a beautiful day to exude main character energy in a historic village #CapCut #GardenStateGoofin #ExploreTheJerseyShore #NJDayTrippin #HistoricSmithville #PocketFullOfPosiesFlorist #VillageGreene #SoloAdventures
♬ Beautiful Day – Jonathan Roy

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

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

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Count Basie Theater (Red Bank)

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

Cape May Christmas Parade

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

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

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

Bluebird Farm Alpacas (Peapack)

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

Christmas at Palmer Square (Princeton)

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

Last Wave Brewing (Point Pleasant)

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

Hot Chocolate Walk (Red Bank)

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

American Dream Mall / TILT Museum (East Rutherford)

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

Wish Upon a Jar (Point Pleasant)

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

Bury the Hatchet (Freehold)

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

Tall Oaks Brewery (Farmingdale)

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

Deep Cut Gardens (Middletown)

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

Ocean Casino Resort (Atlantic City)

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

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

A Shore Summer Night with a Bunch of Mascots

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

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

Not pictured: Mrs. Met on her escape route, Partially pictured: my dad’s arm and foot as he slides in mid-chomp

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

Beach Yoga at Tiki Bar (Point Pleasant)

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

Boat Ride & Fireworks (Brick)

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

Argos Farm (Forked River)

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

F Coved It Up

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

NJ Restaurant Hot Takes:

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

Continued Quest to find Jersey’s Best Spressy

Just gonna copy/paste what I wrote last year because it’s the best description I’ve ever given: For those who are new to my rating system, I’ll remind you that much like Whose Line Is it Anyway, it’s a game where everything is made up and the points don’t matter. If I get a nice bartender, score goes up, if there are an incorrect number of beans, score takes a dive, if I’m already drunk, well it could really go either way. This year’s *most surprising* top spot is Broadway Bar & Grill. Never would’ve thought a dive bar could give good head. The Mainstay was another sleeper hit, mostly because moments before I tasted their espresso martini, I had one of the most disgusting cocktails of my life that also happened to be neon green. Nevertheless, this quest will continue til I’m 6 ft under, trick.

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

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

Salty Stories

Year Two as The Jersey Ju

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Is this not the most dive bar bathroom you’ve ever seen?

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

@thesaltyju
Celebrated August 1st accordingly. #saltairandtherustonyourdoor #swiftie #maincharacterenergy #jerseyshore
♬ August The Summer I Turned Pretty Version – ⸆⸉

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

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

@thesaltyju
Sometimes you just gotta drive an hour and climb inside an elephant. NJBucketList LucytheElephant NationalLandmark JerseyShore beatouristinyourownstate
♬ original sound – The Salty Ju

I may never get over that there are pizza chains calls Tony Boloney’s and Johnny Pepperoni here. Way to lean into the stereotype, youse guys.

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

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

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

Salty Stories

One Year as The Jersey Ju

For anyone who read the angry novella of the worst moving experience of my life, not only did I somehow make it through that, but it was ONE YEAR AGO! I survived a whole ass year in New Jersey. And let me tell you, after almost dying every time I dared to get behind the wheel in my first few months, I did not think I would live to tell the tale. Luckily for all of us, not only did I survive, but dare I say THRIVED? I dare not. I’m totally kidding. I did not thrive in my inaugural year as The Jersey Ju. I waffled at best. And even though I believe I’ve become a more aggressive driver, and grown thicker skin (just a touch) like the combative people of my new home state…I have not forgotten my roots. And if there’s one thing I’ll do no matter where the hell I live, it’s create a bucket list in order to force myself (and unwilling victims around me) to explore and take a bajillion pictures. Since I haven’t blogged about my life in a hot minute, I decided to chit chat about all the things I’ve done in my first year as a Jersey Girl!

Can we call me a Jersey Girl now? That’s for you to decide and me to find out. I suspect no one truly becomes Jersey until they’ve completed a “locals only” journey of experiences much like Robin on How I Met Your Mother became a real New Yorker. What Maury Povich is to NYC, The Boss is to New Jersey and I trust that as soon as I catch that sweet goatee trolling around Asbury, I’ll be well on my way to being a true New Jerseyan. (Good news I have this hilarious Bruce shirt I got at a boardwalk tourist shop that definitely doesn’t scream BENNY and one can only hope I’ll be wearing it when I see him.) But for now, please accept the fact that I embraced my new home state in bucket list form as a giant first leap to becoming JERSEY STRONG.

Since I am nothing if not extra, I split my list into 4 categories. The first three categories I ripped EXCLUSIVELY from an NJ.com series that was published when I first moved here where Peter Genovese pointed out *the* thing to do in every county in New Jersey. I furiously scribbled down the ones that were up my alley (wine, food, biking) and then let friends and co-workers add in their own recommendations.

Obviously you have a set of eyes and can see that these two lists remain largely unchecked because both eating and boozing in public require an iota of a social life. I’m fine going out alone when I’m traveling because I’m moonlighting as a work jetsetter AKA #TheCorporateJu. Going out alone because I have no friends to join me?! MORTIFYING. There will never be a time where I’m out solo dolo and do not think every single person in that establishment has turned their chair to stare at me and wonder why I’m such a smelly loser. This is a hump I am yet to overcome and it would be cool if you could just support me in my insecurities here. If you recall, I did boldly show up to Taylor Swift Trivia alone. And it didn’t go well so that really set me back on my progress. Regardless, here’s a highlight reel of the Eats and Booze bucket list items.

Pete & Elda’s (Neptune City) Staring out hawt by ruffling some Jersey feathers…WHAT THEY SERVE HERE CANNOT BE CALLED PIZZA AND I WILL THROW HANDS WITH ALL OF THESE CENTRAL NJ NUTS WHO TOLD ME I JUST HAD TO TRY PETE AND ELDA’S IF I WANT TO KNOW WHAT REAL PIZZA TASTES LIKE. BOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOO. The sauce was weird, the crust tasted like a sweet croissant with flaky pastry consistency and I honestly could barely choke down my normal 2 slices that at a good pizza place I can delete in mere minutes. Sorry, not sorry.

Laurita Winery (New Egypt) is bumpin with events. I attended 90’s night in the dead of winter where I dressed like it was ’97, drove 45 mins with 2 brand new friends only for them to promptly tell me upon arrival that they actually don’t really like 90’s music and we should split. I drove more than I grooved in my overalls that evening so we’ll guh ‘head and take an L there. Still looking for any takers who want to attend line dancing night at Laurita so I can check line dancing off of my master bucket list (much alcohol will be involved.) Hit me up if you want to boot, scoot, & boogie.

@thesaltyju
90’s dance party? Yeah I think I’ve got something to wear. #dresseswellforatheme #90skid #thebestdecade
♬ Good Vibrations – Marky Mark And The Funky Bunch

Windmill Hot Dogs is the Hoffman’s/Heid’s of the Jersey Shore. If you know me, you know why I absolutely NEEDED to go there. A hoffies hot dog, cheese fries and a medium birch beer is my death row meal and I don’t think I’ve ever gone more than 3 weeks without tossing that five star cuisine down my gullet.* So it was time to see how the Jersey version fared and folks, it was NOT good.

*I just received my routine bloodwork results from my annual physical and my cholesterol was high. Can’t imagine why. My doctor noted that perhaps I’d had a greasy meal or alcohol in the days prior to the test. Uhh…yeah babe. All of the above. She also suggested I eat more leafy greens & legumes. I’ve never laughed harder at a doctor’s note in my entire life. A LEGUME?!

Not only was the hot dog about a solid foot longer than the bun, but this wrinkled ween looked like it was not a day under 100 years old. That dawg was on the rollers for a cool 8 hours just shriveling out of existence yet ironically, not getting any shorter THUS CREATING MY NIGHTMARE OF A HOT DOG. What am I supposed to do with that? Just take a raw dog bite until I hit bun a foot later? Get outta here with that trash. This wiener was so hard to stomach that I did something I’ve never once done during feeding time, I shared. Charlee Girl got to try her first two bites of hot dog (after I bit it off and peeled the skin because I was terrified she was going to die eating it) and you know what? She approved. So at least someone liked Windmill. Wasn’t a total loss but rest assured I will not be returning (sober.)

Alright, now we’re cooking with gas, a list exclusively of things I can do without companions! Although, the most disappointing discovery this year: both climbing activities have been ripped from my greasy little paws. Barnegat Lighthouse AND Lucy the Elephant are currently undergoing renovations and will not be open for climbing in the near future. My legs thank them, my excitement for taking a photo from the inside of a metal elephant trunk does NOT.

Manasquan Reservoir is not for casual bikers who take their beach cruiser out for a stroll as my vagina may never recover from the uneven gravel and overgrown tree roots for all 5 miles of this trail. Also I had Covid when I went so I really deserve bonus points.

Mantoloking Bridge County Park is actually just a boat slip (Thanks, NJ.com 🙄) and I really wish I hadn’t driven 40 mins with an over-eager pup looking for a walk to learn that. Even Charlee was like this place stinks.

Ocean Grove is the cutest G-D Victorian house beach town and I creeped the HARDEST on all of the adorbs porches and front yard gardens. (I’ve also been touring each beach town with Miss Charlee Pervs and so far Ocean Grove is #1 for quaint views & vibes.)

Thompson Park (Lincroft) became one of my go-to bike routes in the fall except for the fact that I still never figured out how to loop around it and got lost in it more times than I’d wish to admit. One time someone stopped me as I was putting my bike away and asked me which way to go on their bike and the jig was up. I was forced to confess that even though it was maybe my 5th time there I am directionally challenged and shouldn’t be allowed to bike without a GPS guiding me every step of the way. Gr8 golden fall views though.

Visiting Cape May Historic Lighthouse was the byproduct of REALLY wanting to see NYC at Christmas for the first time ever (an unchecked item to come in the next category) but Omnicron taking a giant dump on those plans. I settled for Christmas in Cape May instead and of course had to squeeze in a beach visit for lighthouse views on a freezing December day (after warming up with espresso martinis first obvs.) 10/10 would recommend taking the trip to Cape May regardless of the weather. Their downtown area was beautifully decorated for Christmas, they had lots of cute restaurants and bars to pop into and catching the sunset at the beach was the cherry on top. I took about 15 billion photos in the 6 hours I spent there and *not to brag but definitely to brag* my shot of the lighthouse from the sand has been posted on Cape May Point’s Insta & a random Cape May fan account no less than 3 times. So I am basically a Cape May legend. I mean this was their Christmas social post:

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Not sure why they didn’t want to post this Buzz Lightyear selfie with the lighthouse instead, but whatevs. I accept.

Here’s a small sampling of photos I snapped that day:

Holland Ridge Farms (Cream Ridge) found itself a new seasonal sucker in me. A farm full of in-bloom flowers and photo props? SIGN ME UP. Fall gave us a Salty Ju birthday sunflower photoshoot (and a lesson learned that cutting your own sunflowers is basically an arm workout.) And Spring transported us right to the Netherlands with Tulips as far as the eye can see and a full day of Mother/Daughter flower bonding and modeling.

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Mt. Mitchell Scenic Overlook (Highlands) has a nice view of New York City across the water (I confirmed this after texting a fellow Jerseyan because I would’ve hated to be the nerd who’s like check out those city VIEWZ and it was a peek at Red Bank or something.) There was also a 9/11 memorial and patriotic flower arrangement that I especially thought was cool as I was exploring it near the 20th anniversary of the attacks. I took about seven thousand pictures for such a small spot so clearly I enjoyed it.

And last but certainly not least, the bucket list that I created from my own brain, the experiences that I decided were vital to becoming a Jersey Girl AKA shit that I wanted to do now that I live 15 minutes from the ocean and one hour away from two major cities.

Eat a Philly Cheesesteak in Philly was my first check off the list at a social media summit last August, and it felt right to kick things off with a greasy food item. It felt even more right that after INHALING this cheesesteak, my boss witnessed a mouse scurry across the floor behind my chair. We were just starting to get to know each other and she got to learn real quick how afraid I am of creatures as I played can’t touch the ground and Usain Bolt’ed right down the stairs and out onto the street without a backward glance. Grateful the rodent waited until AFTER I finished my meal to show himself. Could’ve really ruined the experience at Jim’s South St.

See a show at The Stone Pony, a seedy rock club known for its affiliation with Springsteen. I knew I wanted to see a live show there but the usual suspects who perform there are *much* cooler than I will ever be. So all I had to do was wait for my middle school crush and favorite musician (former lead singer of Something Corporate/Jack’s Mannequin) to swing through. Happy to report I didn’t have to wait long because Andrew McMahon stops at the Stone Pony on every tour. I got to see him stomp all over his piano for the first time in four years and also learn that this historical music venue looks and smells like the basement of a frat house.

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Place a bet in AC. Pretty spicy of my job to send me to both Philly and AC so that I could mix business with pleasure and accomplish two items on the BL. Knowing that AC is the epicenter for white trash gambling addicts, I was not all surprised to walk into Harrah’s on a Wednesday afternoon and instantly be smacked in the face by a cloud of cig smoke and a bunch of degenerates placing bets. Other than my tried and true $1 WPS bet at the Saratoga racetrack, I was a gambling virg and wanted nothing more than to have a very main character-esque on a heater at the blackjack table movie scene. I recruited my boss to document this which resulted in walking around looking for the easiest game to play but having no clue what we were doing and eventually asking a pit boss to direct us to a table for baby’s first gamble. He pointed us to craps and said they would explain it to us because there wasn’t a big crowd. They did not explain it but thankfully a fellow gamblin librarian held my hand and told me what to do. Within seconds of a stranger rolling the dice, I lost $10 and was frowned upon for bringing a paparazzi with me to the table. (Peep the pit boss holding up his hand, the universal sign for “cut the shit.”) If there’s one thing that I know about gambling, it’s to always walk away on top. I had a taste of the juice and I needed to finish my glass. So we found the ever-classic slot machine so I could feel the rush of pulling a lever and seeing dolla dolla bills, y’all. And lo and behold, I won $22 on my third spin. It’s a miracle I didn’t quit my job right there, saddle up to this machine for the rest of my visit and yank that lever on repeat with a fag hanging out of my mouth. Instead, I collected my cash (to be spent on a rubbery bagel and a water the next morning) and rode the high of being a winner for the rest of the week. See below for my US Weekly, Stars They’re Just Like Us photo spread.

Also important to note that I talked MAD shit about how boring this conference was going to be because there’s no way librarians get turnt, and then was proven very wrong when I took advantage of the awards ceremony open bar, got fuzzy on the deets, made a bunch of new work friends and stayed out until 1AM. Took me two days to recover. #IssaVibe AC, BAYBEEEE!

Go blueberry picking. Once I found out that the NJ state fruit is the blueberry, I knew that plucking my own was a must to become at one with my new roots. Turns out no one cared to share this experience with me, so I went ahead and did it by myself on the very last day of the season. And it showed. Pickins were real slim. But I got to dress like an actual blueberry, saunter around a farm on a Sunday morning and pick a healthy snack for the beach later. Win, win, win.

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Try pork roll sammy. I learned immediately upon moving here that one of Jersey’s greatest and most fiery debates is over a piece of meat. South Jerseyans (and most of Central) call it Pork Roll, North Jerseyans call it Taylor Ham (a brand of pork roll.) It’s basically like calling those things that hold your boogz a tissue or a Kleenex. As a tried and true crispy bacon lover, it was going to take a lot for me to invite in a new breakfast meat…especially one that looks exactly like Canadian bacon. (Yea I got a lot of dirty looks for that, but I stand by it, COME AT ME BRO.) I asked several people how to order my pork roll and practiced it in the mirror so I didn’t look like a noob at the deli and there was literally no reason for me to get so worked up because the second I stammered out “pork roll egg and cheese on a bagel,” the guy behind me ordered a Taylor ham egg and cheese and the owner goes “A WHAT?!” The guy immediately apologized and said he just moved down this way and hasn’t adjusted to calling it pork roll yet. I giggled nervously thinking the owner was just messing with him. He WAS NOT. The owner legit almost kicked this poor soul out of his shop for ordering his breakfast sammy wrong. He shouted, “TAYLOR HAM IS A BRAND, YOU KNOW, SO IT’S JUST WRONG.” And before I could bear witness to a pork roll slapping, my sandwich was ready. I scurried out of there to enjoy my first PR with a side of fisticuffs over the name. I’ve grown to love a good pork roll egg and cheese, salt and pepper on a roll (bagel is too thicc) so I’m glad I gave it a chance.

Find Jersey’s best espresso martini. I got the best espresso teens on LOCK in Saratoga, so it was only natural that I begin the quest for the best in New Jersey. Since spressy marts (workshopping some sassy names here) are all the rage with the millennial crowd right now (may I remind you, I’ve been drinking them since I was in college, trendsetter 4 lyfe) NJ.com curated a list of the best spots. This was a good start for my list (see below) but I also like to go off the cuff and just order one anywhere I go for a full rating. This bucket list item is checked off because it’s a work in progress. I won’t stop until I reach the top, but trust that I’m working on it every chance I get. Very sorry to report that I got lost in the sauce and forgot to formally review at Wharfside, Birravino, The Shrimp Box or the second bar whose name I don’t remember in Cape May. Guess I’ll just have to go back and get anotha.

Eat crab legs. This one got added to the list after I admitted to my boss that I’d never tried a crab leg because I was intimidated by all of the tools needed to eat it and never want to be stressed while eating. Shouts to my girl Tiffany who was like oh we’re going to getchu some crab legs and I want to walk you through this v. buttery experience. So that’s how I found myself having a big ole plastic bag full of crab legs and shrimp for lunch on my birthday and then going back to the office with butter stains on my dress, smelling like a crustacean. Did it taste like buttery garlic deliciousness? YUP. Did I struggle the most to get even a morsel of meats? Also yes, which is why I don’t think I’ll be a regular crab-eater. If I can’t toss food down my gullet at warp speed, I don’t want it.

Mets Game @ Citi Field. Having been to a game at four major baseball stadiums, but not having checked both NY teams off the list, I knew seeing the Mets at Citi was a must and waiting until they were having a hot streak of a season really worked in my favor. Despite my dad peeling open a nanner on our drive to the train station and almost ruining the day completely with this stench-filled car snack, I’d say my first Mets game was a great success. Even though they lost, they held their own against a top MLB pitcher and I got to see what Mrs. Met is twerkin’ with when they brought in the trumpets for Diaz. Also GREAT game day dawg. WAY better than Windmill’s trash wiener. Next up to round out the Northeast: Citizens Bank Park in Philly.

Nascar at the Wall Speedway. Never even knew what the Wall Speedway was until I switched up my route to work and passed a sign that said Nascar was coming soon. As a born and bred people watcher, I knew this was a can’t miss and just needed to rope someone else into it. Luckily, I made a new friend from the South who was itching to watch cars spin around a track and we got ‘er done. Before I even entered the stadium I saw a gentleman wearing jean cargo shorts and I knew I was about to be in for a real visual treat. Follow that up with a kickoff prayer over the loudspeaker (because, and I quote: we put God before country) and 5 hours of cars driving in circles and spinning out, it was surely a sight to see…one time and one time only. Unfortunately I didn’t do my research and learned when I got there and looked to buy a beer that the speedway is BYOB, so I had to raw dog this night on pure exhaust fumes with no alcoholic lubricant. Fear not, I channeled my inner Ricky Bobby and got through it. SHAKE N BAKE, BABY! I saw a wife lap her husband in a race (who run the world? GIRLS) and this guy pictured below in a wheelchair yelled at my friend and I for standing too close to him. A true Jersey night.

Oh, did you think this marathon blog was done? YA RIGHT. Those were my formal lists so that I could get that orgasmic satisfaction of physically checking a box every time I accomplished something. But OBV I haven’t lived exclusively by a list for the past year. So here’s noteworthy things I did that didn’t come from a list! Honestly if you’re still reading at this point, God Bless.

See a show at Starland Ballroom. This venue has no historical significance and it’s on an old country road across from a VFW (I’m not sure if that’s true or if that was just one of the many jokes my sister and I made when she asked me where the F I was taking her because it looked like deliverance out there.) We caught Breland and Russell Dickerson on a cold wintery night and it was without a doubt the most fun, high energy concert I’ve ever been to. If you ever have the chance to see Russell throw it down onstage, GO. There’s a reason he calls his shows the RD Party. Also FWIW, this venue was way better than Stone Pony–ample parking, space to stand, and multiple bars for booze refueling.

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Do a Jersey Shore Vacation fit for a 5 year old. The last time my family and I did a beach vacation was the summer before I went to college where I was fresh off of my wisdoms being pulled (still swollen) and we all wanted to murder each other on day 3 of sharing a rental. So it’s been a minute since I’ve seen the magic of a beach vacay, which I got to do when my niece came to visit. It was her first vacation and pretty much first time doing every single thing we did. We quickly learned that she’s a woo girl in training by all of her excited outbursts for each and every activity. It’s cool when you get to do childish things but no one gives you dirty looks because you’re with a child. From finding treasure in the Metedeconk River (not worth the $25 ticket price if you’re over the age of 5) to almost ralphing on the Himalayan and learning that I’ve finally aged out of theme park rides, this viz was easily the most jam-packed 3 days of activities since I moved here. If you want to see pure baby’s first vacay joy, check out the home video I made like it’s 1993 and I’m Uncle Joey carrying around a camcorder to document everything my nieces and nephews do. Honestly there’s never been a better description of me, so whatevs. Everyone will thank me someday, probably not after wasting 14 hours getting through this blog, but SOMEDAY.

PS save yourself from Jenks Aquarium…I’m not sure we can officially call this place an aquarium as it was giving basement apartment of a guy who lives with his mom and keeps a bunch of snakes vibe. I should’ve known from the second I walked in when they had a guard at the stingray tank and told everyone they could only go wrist deep and only touch the rays that come to the surface. BRO. What stingrays are coming to the surface at a crowded boardwalk aquarium? Ya gotta get your grabbers down there and rassle em up. Amateur hour.

Beach it up at least once a week…even in the dead of winter. Look, you can’t talk a big game about how you’d be infinitely happier if you could just live near the beach and then get here and not take full advantage of that. I specifically chose to live 45 mins away from work so I could be as close to the beach as my bank account would allow and even that hasn’t been satisfying. That 15 minute drive is a real boner kill when there’s people who can just walk outside their home and hit sand. I couldn’t manifest living at the beach harder if I tried. Anywho, I walked, biked, lounged, swam, peeped many sunrises and photographed the beach like nobody’s biz this year and if you don’t believe me, here’s proof of my love affair with all things sandy and salty. (For the elite few who received a Christmas card from me, I wasn’t kidding, I basically lived on the beach like a crab this year.)

P.S. When I went in January and the only other soul on the sand with me was a seagull that was keeping pace with me on a walk, I legitimately questioned my sanity. I also may or may not have cried because that was the terrible day that I got my mugshot NJ license photo and Roz from Monsters Inc wouldn’t let me smile or switch my registration over and my only companion was a damn sky rat on a deserted beach. Real talk though, this was easily the loneliest year of my life so big ups to that salty bitch the sea for being there for me on good days and a whole lot of bad days too. Yup, sure did just personify ocean water like a total looney toon but there’s a reason waves crashing is auto-programmed onto every sound machine…it’s soothing as hell. It’s also super loud and great for drowning out the sounds of an ugly cry, jus sayin. All in all the beach is my favorite place on this earth and is probably the main reason why I’ll be sticking around here for years to come.

Champagne spray on the beach. Seems fitting to address this activity after yapping about how I pretended to own beachfront property all year rather than shoving a beach cruiser into my car and driving into the land of the rich from sketchy Neppy. I paid off my student loans this year which means ya girl is 100% debt free and ooh baby is it sexy to be financially stable for the first time in my life. So I celebrated by tossing on a tutu, buying a bottle of champs & hitting the beach to give myself a little extra in a rap video booze-soaked dance. Best part about the beach in the winter? No one else is there. So I got to take a bunch of champagne spraying videos and sashay around like an idiot without any witnesses. It was a good time until my hands were sticky and frozen so I scampered back to my heated vehicle to regain blood circ.

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See the Twin Towers Lights on the 20th Anniversary. As someone who grew up 6 hours away from NYC, I had a very distant perspective of 9/11. I was 10 years old and I couldn’t quite grasp the magnitude of what had happened and instead of observing and shutting my yapper, I decided to ask my parents to take me out to dinner that night to celebrate. Before you can compare me to a terrorist, I quickly backpedaled when I saw the look of horror on their faces and added “you know, to celebrate the people that survived.” I’m not gonna try and dig deeper on what was banging around that middle school brain of mine but it was obviously nothing profound. Regardless, I was able to go to a park in South Amboy that overlooks the NYC skyline and see the lights of the twin towers and talk to someone who had a much different perspective of that day, which really opened my eyes to how people were affected far beyond the site of the attack. It was a very cool night and although my pictures are absolute dogshit, and it wasn’t the clearest of views, it was nice to step outside of my idiot child brain and see the bigger picture. I’d still love to go to ground zero and walk through the museum, so maybe that’ll be on my list for this upcoming year.

Drink out of a stein at Oktoberfest. I always wanted to go to the real Oktoberfest but also didn’t have any friends that could be trusted to control themselves and not die of alcohol poisoning, so I’ll settle for a local version at a biergarten. Mostly, I’ve just always wanted to drink out of a honkin stein while wearing a trendy Euro hat and I feel like the extra I paid to get said stein of a beer that I didn’t even like was well worth it for the photo opp. PROST!

Get solicited for feet pics on Facebook marketplace. This one is really a reward (happy ending, so to speak) for the few, possibly none, that read this entire blog which pretty much turned into a scrapbook of my entire year. It doesn’t surprise me that it wasn’t until I moved to New Jersey that an innocent posting of brand new Sperry wedges catapulted me into the seedy underbelly of foot fetish internet.

And since I’m me and I live for content, rather than immediately blocking my podiatry perv, I played it through.

I’d like to say I’m a comedian who’s committed to a bit, but realistically, if I can snap a well-lit photo of my tootsies in a pair of trendy wedges and cash in on $50 without even leaving my couch, I’mma do just that. As it turns out, my man Tito decided after looking at my profile picture, why buy the cow when you can get the milk for free. What I thought was a tasteful sneak peek (the first one’s always free, it’s the next one that’ll cost ya) apparently was enough to get the job done without exchange of currency.

I’ve changed my profile picture to one with closed toed shoes and going forward, I’ll drive a harder bargain. YOU WANT A SHOT OF THESE POINTED PEDICURED TOES? WIRE ME $100 OR KEEP IT MOVIN, FREAK. DON’T PUSSYFOOT AROUND THE DEAL. So whatdya think? Am I a Jersey Girl yet?

If this ratchet flip phone shot circa 2011 of me in my authentic Seaside Heights Shore Store pinny (personalized with my last name on the back) tells you anything, then yeah I’m JERSEY, bitch.

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, I’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 we’re being real honest I physically haven’t come up for air between cheese dips and wine in the past week. Now that I’ve finally detoxed, it’s time for y’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 thing’s first, let’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. I’m forever on a budget and I’ve lived with this man before…he is well-versed in my digestive system from hell–which only gets worse when I travel. He’s seen some shit. Literally. He ain’t gonna disown me for stinking up the hotel room when my In-N-Out comes in and goes right back out…whereas I can’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. We’re renegades. Sue us. So now that we’ve settled that, let’s point out our obvious differences. Eric is a fly by the seat of your pants guy, I’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 didn’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 didn’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, I’m a PHENOMENAL travel buddy. My fanny pack was chock full of tissues and gum too.

I wish there were Oscars for best assortment of plane snacks and nips because I’d be G-D Meryl Streep. pic.twitter.com/4vJ80bvljO
— Julia Giantomasi (@TheSaltyJu) November 17, 2021

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 didn’t care if I ripped too many farts, he needed a flightmate who paid attention and had a bomb ass itinerary. I’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) (Taylor’s Version) (From The Vault) where I pretended my cell phone was a microphone and hadn’t quite learned all the lyrics yet so I made noises through the ones I wasn’t confident in. Wanna test your ex’s patience? Scream-sing a breakup song into their grillpiece while they’re driving through the mountains in the dark in a rental car in a state they don’t live in. It’s a G-D miracle I wasn’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. It’s all fun and games until you get to the end of the trip and realize you’d rather saw your arms off with a butter knife than spend an entire day traveling back home. Especially when you’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 just…didn’t leave today. Mr. ‘I’ll just board a bus to anywhere without looking’ replied, “Ok. Sure.” 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 you’re unwilling to make travel changes, they incentivize you with a voucher, but if you’re a couple of NY idiots who just want another day of warm weather…you 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 didn’t have to pay a dime for it. This piece of the puzzle isn’t super integral to the story but it’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 “should we just never leave?” (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-on’s, something I wholeheartedly do not recommend for a formal event. My bridesmaids dress alone filled the suitcase and since I’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. It’s an airport, not a McDonald’s…since 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 I’ve ever met and told us they had no chicken tenders either. That was going to be my next order (yes, I’m five.) Finally I settled on a burger and fries—she asked how I wanted said burger cooked and when I said Medium Rare, she fired back, “we can only cook it medium.” Then why even ask? Hangry Ju’s patience was already wearing thin. Eric ordered a chicken caesar salad to which she replied, “we don’t have any chicken at all.” LEAD WITH THAT, HOMEGIRL. “Welcome to Rolling Stone Cafe: Breakfast is over and there’s a chicken shortage so the only thing you can order on this menu is our burger, hockey puck style.” How hard was that?! I’m not saying I should have her job but I’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. McD’s would’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 BALLZ 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 we’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 I’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 ‘roos if I’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 couldn’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 commentary—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 wasn’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 we’re a couple of Tom Petty’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 I’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 wouldn’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 didn’t know any better, I’d say that is JUST like first class. The plane rocked diagonally on the landing, I almost puked directly in Eric’s face and also crapped my bathing suit bottoms (probably would’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 Matthews’ 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 I’ve ever seen in California. #WorthIt.

BRAVO BRAVO BRAVO this Queen is married!!! 🙌🏼😍♥️ https://t.co/NdATdqzVUf
— Julia Giantomasi (@TheSaltyJu) November 22, 2021

Salty Stories

Aloha, Bus Driver From My Nightmares!

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

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

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

Nazi bus driver.

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

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

Salty Stories

Flying is for the Birds

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

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

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

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

The Salty Ju

#NoFilter

Tag Archives: Travel

WELP, I Tried. – Part One

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

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

Three Cheers for The Jersey Ju!

Year Two as The Jersey Ju

One Year as The Jersey Ju

Stay Grounded

Aloha, Bus Driver From My Nightmares!

Flying is for the Birds