Fencing Fiona

I realize I’ve not yet introduced you, dear blog readers, to my mostly companion: Fiona.  I have been babysitting Fiona ofor the last three years, which is to say, nearly half of her lifetime.  We began hanging out when she was three years old, almost four, and at the end of this month she will be seven.  

Our relationship has changed over the years, and one thing I’m getting used to this year is that Fiona does not need to hold my hand all the time.  She never wanders more than three or four feet away from me, but this still makes me nervous.  She has explained to me that her mom and dad let her walk down the street without holding their hands all the time, and I’ve explained to her that I don’t care.  I am not her mom or her dad and as a result, I have to be more careful with her.  

I told her that babysitting her is like checking a book out from the library--with my own books, I won’t hesitiate to write in the margins or dog-ear pages, or break in the binding.  It’s my book, I can do what I like with it  but Fiona is not my book, she belongs to someone else, and they want her to come back exactly as I left her, and if she doesn’t I’m going to end up with a big ol’ fine.  

Maybe I am overly protective... I will admit that any time a remotely sketchy character gets within a seven-foot radius of Fiona, I have visions of them trying to snatch her and then I go all ninja and cartwheel over turnstyles to kick the guy in the throat and steal her back...

I wanted to find a picture of me looking all ninja... 

but this was the closest I could find

--shaking my fist of fury

Sidebar: Last week I injured my arm in rehearsal and went to a doctor who informed me I strained my left bicep tendon.  He was instructing me as to a physical therapy method I could use to strengthen the arm..

Doctor: Okay, please flex your right bicep.

(Jacey does so.)

Relax.  Flex again.

(Jacey complies.)

Okay... so your right arm isn’t your dominant arm, is it?

Jacey:  No.  It is.  I’m right-handed.

Doctor: Okay.  Wow.  So you have exceptionally weak biceps.  I mean, I don’t mean that... I just mean most people have way stronger biceps than you do... which is probably why you injured your arm.

(Ouch.)

So, you should do some arm curls with maybe...

Jacey: Oh, like with a weight?

Doctor: No.  No.  I’m not sure you’re ready for a weight, maybe just like, I dunno, a can of soup?

(Jacey sees her dreams of ninja-ing die before her very eyes, and tries to remember if she ate that Cream of Brocolli last week...Should she ask the doctor if she could substitute a can of chick peas or would that be too taxing...?)

Thankfully, Fiona informed me she has taken up a new afterschool activity.

Fiona: So, on Mondays I do cooking and on Wednesdays I do fencing.

Jacey: Fencing?  Really?  What do you fence with?

Fiona: Just foils for now.  But Jacey, oh my God, you can’t believe what the girls wear when they fence.  Like, you wear a mask, but the boys do that too and then on your chest you wear well, this thing and Jacey it... well.. it makes me look like I have breasts, like real breasts.

Jacey:  Yes, that’s to protect your chest.  In fact, I would guess it’s called a breast plate, and it’s shaped that way because grown up girls like me wear them too.

Fiona:  Well it could never fit over your breasts.

(Good to know)

Fiona: Do you want to know why I chose fencing?

Jacey: Yes.  

Fiona:  Well, I went to this birthday party where we were taught the basic principles of fencing.  They taught it very fast, because they wanted us to be able to actually fence at a fencing brithday party, so now I know a lot of things we haven’t gotten to yet in afterschool fencing, where they are trying to be more thorough.  But, Jacey the place where we went for the fencing birthday party is where the real Olympic fencing team trains. So, if I want to be an Olympian, I don’t even have to move all the way to Ohio like Gaby Richards, I can just walk five blocks.  I mean not by myself, but with my mom... I could just walk five blocks.

Jacey: And then you’ll be an Olympian.

Fiona: Well... yeah.  You never know!

So, if you’re looking for Fiona, it seems she will be an Olympian, meanwhile I will be in Aisle Three pumping Campbell’s.  

When Nana Met Pop-Pop

In 1946, Laura Meyers had two sons who had survived the war and thankfully returned home.  Her older son, Otto, had been engaged to a young woman prior to enlisting,  but he returned home quite changed (as is bound to happen when you’ve been through... you know... a war) and he called off his engagement to his wartime sweetheart. This was typical Otto behavior in the opinion of his mother, who had always preferred her younger son, Dale.

Sidebar: My great grandmother Laura was one of six children.  Her siblings were named Axel, Ethel, Francis, Elmer and Hazel. Although she clearly won her family’s naming olympics, she was not a benevolent victor and bestowed the names: Otto, Constance, and Dale on her three children. Harsh.

If your name is Hazel or Elmer... you probably look like these kids.

Anyway, Laura had noticed the girl who lived across the street, a senior in high school, Marceline Burke, who she thought would be a perfect choice for her favored son, Dale.  However, Marceline’s company was in high demand.  She was already attending the Prom with a man a few years older than her (twenty-five, the same age as Otto), Johnny Morper.  Johnny convinced his buddy Otto, to take Marceline’s friend Beverly Blue to the Prom.  

Not the real Otto and Beverly, but how much would it hurt if that
chick just wigged out and ended up falling on the floor?

Otto, compliant and easy going his entire life, was willing to go with Beverly who was pretty, though not a decent dance partner.  This was a distinct liability to Otto who was a fantastic swing dancer, and was ready to bust a move at the Prom.  Beverly, not wanting to disappoint, oversold her dance skills, and while attempting a fancy lift, poor Beverly flailed in the air and came crashing down to the dance floor and broke her arm.  Otto of course felt really guilty...  even if it was her fault, because she should have been clearer that she didn’t dance... that really burned him up.

Even with all of the dramatics, Otto had a great time at the Prom and proudly returned home to his mother and said, “That’s it.  I’m gonna marry that girl.”

She was stunned, but encouraging,  “Well... she’s very young...she couldn’t be more than 18... you really liked Beverly?”

“Nope.  I’m gonna marry Johnny’s date.  That Marceline across the street, and she’s 17, she skipped a year.  She’s gonna be my wife.”

And a year later she was, and they were married for 45 years, until she passed away.  Fourteen years later,  when he passed away he was entombed beside her, still wearing the wedding ring he had put on every morning for nearly 60 years.

This is the real Nana and Pop-Pop.  Aren't they cute?

This kind of story makes me believe that when you meet the right person, however unlikely or unexpected, you just know.  Immediately.  BAM!  Otto thought, “She’s the one.  Sure, she’s with some other dude, but ultimately, that lady is my wfie.  No doubts. 45 years.  Done and done.”

But,  I wonder if my 17 year old grandmother was as certain in an instant.  Did she spend the whole night staring at Otto, unable to focus on poor Johnny Morper...  Or... did she not notice him at all?  Would she have been stunned to know what he said to his mother?  If she’d known would she have been excited?  Confused? Alarmed?

I have always hoped to find someone as wonderful as my grandfather:  kind, dutiful, fun-loving, loyal, someone without ego, or much of a temper, not prone to stress, willing to go with the flow, generous, non-judgemental--he is maybe the best person I’ve ever known.  But, did my grandmother know that immediately?  Or did it take her time to appreciate these things?

I have never believed in love at first sight.  Attraction--yes, but knowing that you are meant to spend eternity together, no.  And yet, even with long held belief, somewhere in the back of my mind, I think I’ve been believing that love has to be like it is in movies... like it was for my grandparents in order to be real or lasting.  It can take me days to decide to buy a dress, hours to write an edit an e-mail, shit it took me eight days just to write this blog post--why is there a part of me or anyone that thinks it should take a second to decide who you’re going to spend the rest of your life with? 

This looks like everlasting love to me,
but it couldn't this be love at first sight, they don't even have eyes....

Fuck Mii

I was recently told (by a bunch of fancy comedy ladies on a panel in Brooklyn) that you should write the moments you don’t want to write about... you know... that thing that happened that you are sensitive about or you felt humiliated living through, figure out how to write about that in a survivable way.  

So. Here it goes.

I started this blog with the idea that I would be more committed to living healthy if I had to remain accountable to an audience of readers.  Truth: I wanted to lose a couple pounds.  Thus, I started running and writing.  The writing lasted through January.  Th running until mid-March, because my life got busy. So, I stopped running.   

This was a mistake.

My mother came to visit a month ago, at which time it became clear to me that most of my lovely size 0 clothing no longer fit.  This became especially apparent during a costume fitting last week when I put on a pair of size 4 jeans, and broke down into tears.  Size Four?!??! What the fuck?!??! How is that my size?!?!?

Now, I can hear all of you saying, “Wah, wah, wah--Jacey has to wear a size four--her life is sooo hard! I have SOOOO much pity for her.”  Followed by  a tremendous eye roll and look of disgust.  

Hear me out, 'cuz there's more.

I have this Wii Fit.  If you do not know what a Wii Fit is... here ya go:

It’s a whole video game fitness thingy.  That thing in the picture is the “balance board.” You stand on it and exercise, but before you begin exercising, it weighs you.  Yup.   It shows you on a thermometey type guy where your weight falls: “underweight” “normal” “overweight” and “obese”

For as long as I’ve been Wii-ing my Mii (aka avatar), has been in the “normal” range. I must say, my Mii is super cute with blond curly hair, tiny perky lips and big brown eyes.  She always looks happy, with a full face of make-up as I control her  in various workouts from running, to boxing, to aerobic hula hooping.  

I’d been avoiding the Wii scale,  because I knew it was going to put the phrase, “I-can’t-zip-up-my-jeans” into a quantifiable entity, a number that would tell me exactly how far I was from wearing pants sans muffin top.  But ultimately, I overcame my fear and allowed the Wii to assign me a number.

I am not telling you the number. It’s too scary.  

But, I will tell you this: I got on my Wii last week and the little needle shifted ever so slightly from “normal” to “overweight,” and AND what’s worse is that the Wii CHANGED MY MII.  It shifted my avatar from cute, lean, and perky to balloon girl.  My Mii now looks way chubbier than the real me and it makes me want to punt my Mii right off the fucking screen.

This is an example of a Mii that has made the transition from "normal" to "overweight"
More depressing than  dead puppies.  True Story.

Clearly, this is a device manufactured by malnourished Japanese children in sweatshops, and I refuse to believe that my current weight and my new temporary dress size qualify me as a fatty, and frankly I feel like everyone in Japan can suck it and that all the people at Nintendo corporation should be ashamed.  That said,  seeing my chubby Mii up there every day was enough to convince me to enroll in some yoga classes and walk home from work every day.

So, due to my fat fucking Mii, chubby fucking Me is back to living healthy.  Do I still occasionally eat nutella straight off the spoon for breakfast?  Umm... yes sir, I do.  But now I do some aerobic hula hooping afterward.

Happy New Year!

Fall always feels like a new year to me--I mean, school always started in the fall, so that’s probably part of it... but symbolically it should be springtime when everything is blooming and getting sexy that feels like a new start, as opposed to fall where the world seems to be hunkering down.  But maybe the hunkering down is part of it, the crispness in the air always seems to say, “Okay Lady, playtime is over.  It’s time to get down to business.”  As soon as we pass Labor Day, I know it’s time to get serious.  

This last Labor Day weekend, I went to my first Jewish wedding. It was not a serious wedding.  But, it was an awesome wedding.  The Bride has been my friend since we were 8 years old and there is a closeness between us that is different from many of my other friends, because the things that happen at 3rd Grade slumber parties or during second period acting calss create inseverable bonds. 

When I asked The Bride, a girl with a flare for the dramatic and sexy and quirky, 
“What part of your wedding are you most looking forward to?” She said,

The Invitation, drawn by the Groom.

“The part where it’s over.”  

She kept her wedding very utilitarian, yet very personal--it was a small group of guests--around 80--mostly family. We bridesmaids chose our own dresses, there was no rehearsal... so we were all basically winging it. The invitation (which I believe was hand drawn by her husband and copied), read “The ceremony will be followed by dinner and awkward, but enthusiastic dancing.”  

And boy was it--you’ve not lived my friends until you’ve spent an hour Greek Dancing (her father is Greek), and Jewish Dancing with a crew of tipsy people ranging in age from 4 to 64 (let me tell you, those four year olds cannot hold their booze.)  It was an incredible day... I mean... there may have been a flash mob at her reception.... No Joke.

Less Awkward.  More Enthusiastic.

The more Jewish elements were my favorite.  I love tradition, and I loved the aspects of the Jewish faith she brought into her ceremony: the chupah (a tent under which the bride and groom are wed, which fell no fewer than four times), the veiling ceremony, the seven blessings, but I especially loved the ketubah.  The ketubah is a marriage contract drawn up between the bride and groom which is read at the ceremony.  Her Groom drew theirs and put it in a frame which was resting on the altar--a breeze caught it as I was walking down the aisle and actually blew it out of its frame, so I grabbed it off the grass and held it the rest of the ceremony. 

It’s a powerful thing holding a piece of paper like that, a promise, inspired by the promises made by thousands, millions of other couples from dozens of generations ago.  I was proud to stand by a couple so committed to one another and to the idea that it is their job to be the best possible versions of themselves not only for themselves, but for each other, and for a second I couldn’t help  but glance at my Boyfriend Guy out among  the guests, dripping with sweat in the sun of early September and wonder if one day we would write up such a contract.

Oh yeah!  I have this Boyfriend Guy!  That’s one of a million things I haven’t told you because I fell off the blogging bandwagon like nine months ago (because shit got real, yo); and I haven’t been able to get back on.  I feel as though I have broken an unwritten promise that I made to you loyal readers of my first few posts and I am sorry.

But, as the lady rabbi at my Bride’s wedding told us, in the Jewish calendar, we just ended the month of Elul: a special time, because it is the month leading up to Rosh Hoshanah (which was last weekend):  the Jewish NEW YEAR!  It is a time to reflect on all that has passed over the year and celebrate the year to come.  

And some honey... for Rosh Hoshanah!

Checking out some apples...

The last six months have been crazy and exciting and I feel like I am at a new beginning--new job, new roommates, new-ish Boyfriend Guy... and a new beginning to my blogging.

So, as a wedding gift to my Bride (a loyal reader of the blog), and my dear friend Lacy (a loyal reader getting married in a small ceremony in October), I am making a vow that I will be writing at least once (maybe even TWICE) a week, and I will not abandon you darling readers.  I will be the best blogger I can be... I’ve got some good stories worked up... you do NOT want to miss them.

L’chaim!

How To Get D*mped

There’s really no good way. 

Done and done.  Fastest post ever written. 

Although I do think there are ways to make a shitty situation less shitty.  I guess I could tell you how I think that might happen, by imparting some unofficial/official break-up guidelines I have devised for myself.  Starting with:

You Were Not D*mped…Even If You Were

When forced to discuss the end of a relationship/tryst/whatever, I always go with the non-specific, “Orlando and I broke up.”  Or “Things with Van and I are over.”  Now, I am no less d*mped by utilizing these euphemisms, but at least I don’t feel more d*mped. The word “d*mped” makes you feel more d*mped, right?  It’s just a shitty word—literally, it is frequently used as a synonym for shit.  Gross.  Break-ups are complicated, people on both sides are hurt and feel guilt and pain and angst.  “D*mped” reduces it all to an image of some guy dropping a girl on the curb.  Don’t say it. You weren’t dumped. It was complicated.  It didn’t happen like that.  Even if it did.

Call Sam

After Van and I had been dating a year he said the following:

“If we ever do break up I think it can go one of two ways.”

“How’s that?”

“Either we’ll just drift apart and slowly stop speaking to each other or we’ll have a huge, blow-out train-wreck fight with like punches being thrown and doors being slammed.” 

“Yeah, well, we both know it’s not gonna be the first thing.”

We were on the street when we broke up so we couldn’t slam any doors, but the rest was pretty much true.  When I got home that night sobbing, incredibly drunk, having just ended a two-year relationship and additionally having verbally accosted my friend, Josie I knew there was only one person to call. 

Sam left a party he had been at with his girlfriend, to come to my apartment at 2 am.  When I opened the door, mascara dripping down my face, wearing an outfit he helped me pick out his first words were, “Oh no!  But you still look super hot.”

He then put in a DVD of Fraggle Rock and stayed with me until I fell asleep.  Clearly, Sam is a great friend; but it’s not just that he’s a great friend, who makes me laugh and puts everything into it’s appropriate perspective, it’s that he is a non-threatening straight man who tells me I’m pretty and validates my awesomeness.  You should have a Sam for when you break up with someone.  It’s very important.  If you are short one, you can call mine.  Here’s his number: 212.647. 9218…………

…… Yeah. That’s so not his number—Sam’s not even his real name.  But that number will lead you to great Thai delivery, which may come in handy on your One Day.

You Get One Day

After someone breaks up with you, you are allowed One Day completely off.   Completely. You don’t have to leave your couch. I’ll even write you a doctor’s note excusing you from everything—all professional and social interactions may be suspended during this 24 hours.

During this time, I recommend TV Marathons.  I personally enjoy House.  Jane says House is too predictable to marathon satisfactorily, but I prefer to think of it as reliable—it feels comforting after someone has d*mped me to know that I can always count on House being an asshole to Cuddy and Wilson prompting an epiphany 45 minutes into the episode.  My sister likes marathons of Law and Order: SVU, which I’m normally okay with, but post-break-up I don’t feel like watching a bunch of dudes fuck chicks against their will.  You know?  I think How I Met Your Mother can be good times—Ted falls in love with a lot of women, and the relationships fail, but we know in spite of all the times his heart gets broken that eventually he meets the girl he’s been waiting for…that’s encouraging… we hope…unless the series has a LOST-esque ending and it turns out the couch in the den is actually purgatory and those kids are visions of what might have been...

Also on your One Day, you are allowed to eat anything you desire and you don’t have to feel bad about it.  You can totally binge on the aforementioned Thai food, or eat nothing at all, if you so choose.  The One Day of my last break-up I ate a candy necklace.  That’s all.  Most days I would be like, “Jacey, you should eat something of more substance.”  But it was my One Day, so I said, “Fuck that!  If all you want to eat is a candy necklace.  Go to town, girl.  It’s your day.  After all, you only get one.”

Actually, You Get Two Days

You don’t get two days to sit on your couch, but you get two days to eat whatever you want.  I mean, if all you ate on your One Day was a candy necklace, you may have to ease your way back into foods that are made of more than sugar and red dye #7.  But that’s it!  Two days.  Then you need to look in the mirror and remind yourself…

You Are Still Hot

You get two days to quit life.  You can take many more than two days to be sad, but you can only take two days to cry on your couch in your sweatpants.  Then you must rejoin the world of the living.

So for the love of God, take a shower. You may not want to.  You may not feel like putting forth the effort to be desirable in any way.  But, you must.

Ladies:  Do not cut your hair because you are sad, and need a change.  This almost never works out. 

Fellas: Do not grow “the break-up beard” as a way to ward off women. This NEVER works out.  Ever.  In fact, let’s all just keep shaving things as we normally would: faces, legs, other things…

Put on make-up (if that’s your thing), wear clothes you like, make your hair look pretty.  No one feels good about themselves when they haven’t showered in a week and are on Day Three with their hair in a ponytail, rockin’ the same sports bra they’ve had on since they were d*mped. 

This is the advice I’m most genuine about.  Truly.  You just broke up with someone.  You probably have more time than you used to.  Invest that time back into your self.  Look wonderful—smile maybe—your insides feel better when your outsides feel better.  I promise.

Hugs Not Drugs… Actually, Maybe Not Hugs Either

You know what doesn’t make your insides feel better—copious amounts of booze and lots of pot. Ooh!  Or cigarettes.  I have more than one friend who decided becoming a smoker was the way to get over their ex.  Don’t do that.  You will feel better for like a second, and then you’ll be like, “Shit, I’m a grown ass man pumping crap into my body to get over some bitch.  How sad is that?”   I use dudes in this example, because my dude friends seem to do this more than my lady friends.

Sam once quoted his Mama to me, and she was quoting George Herbert who said: “The best revenge is living well.”  So live well!  Truly, just as many of my dude friends have picked up horrible habits like banging every girl they see or chain smoking after their break-ups I have friends whose break-ups have inspired them to work up enough money to pay off all their student debt or write amazing songs about heartbreak, or in one case actually finish a novel.  Be that guy.  That guy is awesome.  And FYI: George Herbert was a priest in the 1500’s so he probably didn’t think “living well” meant getting wasted and screwing strippers to enact revenge upon your exes.  I’m just saying.

This leads me to my next point: a lot of people will tell you that the best way to get over someone is to get under someone else.  But, a lot of people wear Crocs too, so what does that tell you?

I have gotten under someone to get over someone.  I’m not proud, but it’s happened once…maybe twice.  It has never made me feel better.  In fact, it has always made me feel worse, because invariably I would be under some dude thinking about the dude I was trying to get over.  It’s a bad situation.  Don’t do it.  Focus on friends, not on fuck-buddies.

Facebook Is Not Your Friend

Put a 48 Hour hold on all facebooking/tweeting/foursquaring post break-up. 

When you post a status like, “There’s a light in my eyes that’s too bright to see.  There’s a pain in my heart where you used to be.” you are not helping your cause.  No one has ever thought, “You know what I miss most about my ex?  They were so needy and emo!  I loved that!” 

If you post something like, “It’s not fair to deny me of the cross I bear that you gave to me” you are not helping your cause.  No one has ever thought, “You know what I miss most about my ex? They were so angry and demanding!  I loved that!”

If you post something like, “All the single ladies: put your hands up!”  you are not helping your cause.  No one has ever thought, “You know what I miss most about my ex?  They used to cover their pain with stupid song lyrics then run out and get drunk with their friends and bitch about me.  I loved that!”

It’s never happened.  Don’t do it.  Wait two days.  And when you absolutely must post something about yourself: keep it positive and keep it brief. 

Also: you are allowed to check your exes facebook/twitter/foursquare/whatever the fuck no more than once a day.  I already know you’re going to break this rule.  We all break this rule.  I’ve broken this rule at least twice since I started writing this post.  But breaking this rule will not make you feel better.  Trust me—I just broke it.  Do I feel better?  No.

JaNelle Says You Have Three Balls

JaNelle is my mom.  She says you have three balls.  Congratulations.

JaNelle says that in your life, you should always have three balls in the air, because you can pretty much guarantee that at any given moment at least one of those balls is going to fall to shit (she mixes metaphors when she’s trying to make a point.)  The point in this case is that any relationship you are in can only constitute one ball in your juggling act.  If that balls drops—you still have two other balls to play with (I’m worried I may be mixing metaphors now.)

In my life, I have my career as one ball that sort of bounces in and out of play.  I would say my writing is a separate ball. I always have 2-3 day jobs I’m juggling, so that’s one ball; and then beyond that I have my family,  that’s an important ball. I think a lot of people would put their faith as a ball (I’m not sure I juggle that ball, but I think it is important for many people), and then I have my home, which is always an easy ball to focus on when the other balls are shaky, and of course I have my friends—a lot of amazing friends.  Friends are important, because my family is unconditionally supportive of me, but they are far away.  When I drop a ball, it’s nice that I have lots of friends close by to play with instead.

So those are my guidelines.  I think I’ve been helped by attempting to follow them—they give me a sense of control in a world of chaos.  Although as I review them, it occurs to me that I have a lot of balls in the air…More than three.  My focus is pulled a lot different directions.  It sort of begs the question, “Am I the one dropping the ball in my relationships?”  Hmmm… To Be Continued J

WARNING: Don’t Go Breakin’ My Heart

This could get awkward, because I might go breakin’ your heart.  I could if I tried.

Last fall, a close friend of mine got divorced.  Shortly thereafter two of my close guy friends ended long-term relationships—one of whom had been with his lady for four years. Since the beginning of this year, two of my lady friends have begun the process of moving away from their live-in boyfriends, my sister and her boyfriend of over a year broke up just this past week, and even I, Jacey I’m-Never-In-A-Relationship-Long-Enough-To-Require-A-Break-Up Powers, went through a break up on New Year’s Day (and yes, for anyone keeping track, that was the same day I came across Van’s wedding announcement).

So, I’ve been thinking a lot about Break-Ups (don’t know why I capitalized that—it just seemed right), mostly my own from the recent and distant past.  These thoughts have been reinforced by my friends’ situations, which are much more intense and serious than my own, as their relationships were, on the whole, much more intense and serious than my own.  

It seems like 2012 is shaping up to be a year of my friends and I taking risks and moving forward on our own terms.  My friend Josie has proclaimed it, “The year of us taking care of us.” I think that sounds delightful.  But, as previously stated, 2012 and I did not start off on the right foot. I need to have a few words with 2012 if we’re going to make this relationship work.  What I’m saying is: “2012, we need to talk.”  I can’t dump 2012, but I do need to tell 2012 what’s on my mind—so, this is your warning dear blog readers:  I think my next couple posts are going to be about break ups. 

It ain’t gonna be pretty.

Maybe these posts will be funny, maybe it will be funny how sad they are, maybe it will be sad how funny they are—I don’t know.  But, I do know the following:

2012, it’s not you.  It’s me.  I don’t want to say anything I’m going to regret later, but I’ve gotta speak my mind.  And more than that, I’ve gotta speak my heart. Word.

Here we go.

Hootie Hoo

On Christmas Eve, my sister and I were at the Kohl’s in Kenosha—why we were at the Kenosha Kohl’s is actually sort of a long story that involved Best Buy, iPhones, White Castle, speeding down Highway 50 at 90 miles an hour, and ultimately crippling disappointment and defeat.  But it’s okay, because at least we were full of White Castle.

Anyway, while at the Kenosha Kohl’s we came across these knit animal hats.  Joy (my sister), loved them immediately, but couldn’t decide if she preferred the panda hat or the owl hat. I told her to buy them both and that I would take whichever one she decided she didn’t want.  I ended up with the owl hat, and wore it out for the first time ten days ago.

I must admit that I was nervous about breaking out the owl hat.  I mean, it’s a knitted owl.  On your head.  It has two black buttons for eyes and actual ears (even though real owls don’t have ears… some breeds do have tufts of feathers that look like ears, such as the great horned owl…yes I googled this).  Bottom line: the hat was clearly designed to be worn by a six-year-old.  In fact, Fiona has a polar bear hat that is eerily similar, except that well…it’s a polar bear (it also has black button eyes, but its ears are SMALLER than my owl’s.  What is that?)

Before the owl’s maiden voyage, I asked my roommate her opinion of the hat.  She was not so rude as to tell me it looked stupid, but not so subtle as to hide her true feelings.  I wore it out anyway.  I was pretty sure she was right and that I would never wear the hat again, but it was very cold and I figured the hat would be warmer than my ear muffs.

I got into the elevator of my building wearing the owl hat.  An elderly Indian woman was already there when the doors opened.  She looked at me and smiled.  Then she spoke with a beautiful and delicate Indian accent:

“What a charming hat you have.”

“Thank you.”

“My goodness, a hat so delightful, it must just brighten up your whole day.”

“We’ll see—I’ve never worn it before.”

“Oh.  I am certain you will just feel happy wearing that hat.  You will certainly have a cheery day.”

I felt like my day was already off to a better start than usual. Seldom do I receive so many compliments and good tidings before 8 am.  Frankly, seldom am I awake before 8 am.  Well, sure enough, the wise old Indian woman was totally correct.  Everywhere I went all day, people noticed and loved my hat: old people with their groceries gave me compliments, babies in strollers stared at me transfixed, even construction workers catcalled “Great hat!” instead of “Nice ass.” It was amazing.

I am still pretty sure I look incredibly stupid in the hat.  My friend Josie assures me that I look adorable and am in fact, the only person she knows who could pull it off… I think she’s a liar but I’ll let you be the judge:

This is a picture of me and two friends.    I am the one in the owl hat.

I look like an asshole, right? But the whole point of this blog post is that I don’t even care!  That’s the magic of the owl hat!

Today when I left my apartment, I had just discovered my dishwasher is still infested with cockroaches, it was raining and I was carrying a massive box full of my old busted printer, which quit working after only three months.  When I finally got to my callback in Chelsea, I was not asked to stay and dance, which could have broken my poor little NYC actress heart, except that as I was leaving I was again stopped in the elevator, this time by an attractive gentleman who said, “That’s a great hat.”

I know that may not seem like much, and I’m pretty sure that the owl hat is never going to get me laid or get me a job, but it still achieves so much.  It brings joy to others and not only that, it brings a little extra bliss to my day, and gives me the confidence to be happy in spite of the city's occassional douche-baggery.  The owl hat forces me to walk down the street with a smile thinking, “What’s up New York?  You looking at me mother fucker?  That’s right, I got an owl on my head. You can try to bring me down NYC with your bugs and slush and that dead rat I almost stepped on exiting the F Train an hour ago, but I am full of goddamn whimsy.  Yeah, I said it: whimsy.  And I don’t give a hoot.” 

The Internet Is Always Telling Me Things That I Don't Want To Know

Once Upon a Time...I was in love with this dude named Van.  Actually, his name wasn't Van, but it seems rude to use his real name, and my friend Jane (who never actually met Van during the two years we dated), took this picture at the Met of a statue of Rip Van Winkle.  This was her best guess as to what Van (who was a bit older than I) looked like in real life.  She was pretty dead on.

Artist's Approximation of Van

Anyway, Van was not my boyfriend, but we dated consistently for over two years; and although I continued to see other people it didn't keep me from falling in love with Van.  Which sucked.  But more than being in love with Van, I knew him really, really well.  So, I saw Steisha coming a mile away.  

Van had been spotty in communicating with me all week, and then while I'm meandering through a Duane Reade on 23rd Street, my cell rings.  I knew it was him.  I knew as we covered the mundane topics of the past week we were really killing time, just making small talk so he could ease into:  


                    "I went on a date this week."

I knew it was coming, but I still stopped breathing.

                    "That's nice."

                    "Yeah."

                    "We don't have to be weird about this.  You're allowed to date other                     girls.  How did you meet?"

                    "Amy Ryan introduced us."

Amy Ryan was a sweet elderly lady and mutual acquaintance of Van's and mine. She couldn't be nicer. I wanted to punch her in the face.

Artist's Approximation of Amy Ryan.
I do feel  a little bad  about wanting to punch her.  But only a little

                    "Great.  What's her name?"

                    "Steisha."

Whenever Van was crazy about someone he would sigh their name: 
STEEEI-sha. He practically sang it.  Broke my heart. 

                    "That's a nice name."

                    "I know, right?  It's an incredible name."

It's actually the stupidest name in the world, in case you were wondering.  


Now, you may not know this, but one name can be all you need to fulfill all your deepest, darkest, most masochistic desires, using your old friend: The Internet.  I went home and typed into my google browser: "Steisha and Amy Ryan".  And the internet started telling me all the things I didn't want to know. 

Steisha is a pretty uncommon name, and my google search revealed that there was a Steisha who had worked with our friend Amy.  She even had a website. With pictures.  And her resume.  I knew no good could come from clicking on that link, but there it was.  It was one-click away... How could I not click it? Really?

As I pored over her website, I quickly discovered she was not beautiful.  It was much worse.  She was accomplished.  She was... quirky.  She was like me, but better--she went to NYU for her undergrad, but she had a graduate degree.  From Yale.  She was a writer and an actress and freakin' OBIE winner.  And I could deal with all of that. But then, under the special skills section on her resume it said, "Speaks conversational French."  That was too much.  I burst into tears.  I didn't need to know that.  It was at that moment that I discovered I had always wanted to speak conversational French.

Artist's Approximation of Steisha.
 Not beautiful, but totally conversational in French.  Bitch.

So, Van and I went our separate ways.  He ran off and I don't know, had baguettes with Steisha.  Oh, they probably had sex too, and fell in love and shit, but imagining them having baguettes is graphic enough for me.


However, I had an issue bigger than baguettes.  It turned out that everyone I knew was friends with Steisha and suddenly she was everywhere--all over the Facebook walls of our dozens of mutual friends, and gracing every cast list on playbill.com.  Damn you internet!  Must you constantly bombard me with information that just makes me want to throw my computer out the window and decry all technology and sit by candlelight and cry?!


Eventually, I began seeing Steisha off-line, in real-life. We would attend the same parties, plays, concerts, etc.  I mostly avoided her as I had no desire to know any more about her than the internet had already told me. I wasn't 100% certain she even knew who I was when we would pass each other at these various events, except that I got the sense she was avoiding me as much as I was avoiding her. 


Then, after two years of dodging her, she broke up with a Van, and a few short weeks later we were at the same concert together.  Even though she was no longer Van's girlfriend, I continued  playing my usual game of "don't-make-eye-contact-with-Steisha-or-she'll-probably-come-over-and-tell-you-how-her-incredible-life-is-full-of-OBIE's-and-amazing-orgasms-with-my-ex-...- and-she'll-probably-do-it-in-French."  The name makes the game seem more complicated than it was.   And yet, simple though it was to play, I lost a round when Steisha caught me off guard and our eyes met from across the room.  And then, she waved at me.  Eagerly.  She smiled and waved at me.......and I waved back.  Then, she crossed the room to come and speak to me.  
                    "I was looking over here and thought that you were someone I know.                      How are you?"
It was like we were old friends.  Not in a weird way, even.  We just knew enough to know that the other person knew.  You know?
                    "I'm...fine.  I'm not sure we've actually officially met."
                    "That could be, but obviously we both..."
                    "Yes.  That's... true."
                    "I"m Steisha."
                    "Jacey."


And suddenly we were having an actual conversation.  We talked about the concert, our mutual friends, everything except Van, including The Facebook.
                    "I mean, Facebook is great, in that you're able to keep up with                      people you never would have otherwise kept in touch with and there                      are people who have gotten like organ donations from Facebook                      friends who saw their statuses; but even with all of that--Facebook                      is a little bit evil"
                    "Ummm... actually, Facebook is entirely evil.  It's always there                      during your darkest moments to tell you which bitch got that job                      you were up for or that your ex-such-and-such is off dating                      so-and-so."


She was silent for a second.  And went on very seriously.
                    "Yes.  Well.  That's definitely true."


I came to find out that shortly after Steisha and Van ended their very serious, boyfriend/girlfriend, probably going to get married relationship, Steisha discovered Van had started dating someone else.  She discovered this when he un-tagged every picture they were in together on the Facebook, and posted a profile picture of he and Maria.


The internet was able to tell her that it took her boyfriend two weeks to move on to someone new after they had spent two years together.  Fuck the internet.  


When next I was in front of my computer, I couldn't help but give Maria's Facebook profile a cursory glance.  For once, the internet was on my side. Twelve of Maria's past profile pictures were photographs of her cat. 


I immediately emailed Steisha with this information.  I mean, if he had told us upfront: "I'm sorry, but I'm really looking for cat lady," we both could have saved years of our lives.

Artist's Approximation of Maria

After I heard what Van had done to Steisha, I spoke to him less and less.  Allowing her to find out about Maria that was seemed really cold and thoughtless.  It seemed a little...lacking in humanity. 


That's the thing about the internet--we forget that, much like Soylent Green--the internet is people.  We all do it.  We say things online we would never say to someone's face.  We look for things we shouldn't.  We share more than we should.


In beginning to blog, it's something I've been thinking about a lot.  What if someone from my past is hurt by something that I write?  Or worse, what if someone from my future finds something I wrote on-line and is offended in some way?


I can just imagine Future Jacey's Boyfriend (Hey Babe!) looking for things he doesn't want to know and discovering that I once did a thorough cyber-stalk of my ex's new girl.  Of course, he would have uncovered this blog while cyber-stalking me...We're just peas in a pod, me and future boyfriend...

Artist's Approximation of Future Boyfriend.
He's sexy, but he has glasses.  That means he's totally attainable.

Anyway, I hadn't spoken to Van in more than six months when he called me last September.  I had long since fallen out of love with him, but I still knew him really well.  So, I saw it coming a mile away.  Before he said a word I knew what he was going to say.  And I have to give him props for learning from past mistakes and pre-empting the internet.


Yet somehow, despite all Van's best attempts, on New Years Day the motherfucking internet still managed to blindside me.  Clicking through the wedding section of the New York Times, I came across the announcement.  Complete with a picture of the happy couple:

Artist's Approximation of the couple.
The announcement is pretty close to the original.
Seriously.

Maria Katz & Van Winkle were married Friday in a beautiful ceremony in Wisconsin.  The bride, 35 will continue to use her name professionally.  She went to college and now has a lovely job.  She's the daughter of Mr. & Mrs. Katz, they're lovely too.  The bridegroom, 39 has a super fancy job (thus his wedding is being announced in the Times).  He's the daughter of Mr. & Mrs. Winkle.  They're really glad their son is finally taking the plunge. Everyone thinks they're a Purr-fect couple.

Yeah.  The Internet is always telling me things I don't want to know.