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.

Running

While I was home for Christmas, I had lunch with a friend of mine who stated she was intending on running the Lake Geneva half-marathon in May.  She asked me and my friend Rosie (the one with the baby), if we would like to run with her. Rosie declined as a) She has a baby and b) She is having a second baby in March and c) I’m pretty sure she hates running.  I also hate running, but told her I would think about it.

The thing is I like the idea of running—there’s something awe-inspiring about people who have the endurance to run a marathon.  It’s romantic as in “ that which is marked by the imaginative or emotional appeal of what is heroic, remote, mysterious or idealized” (thank you Merriam-Webster.com). I would love to run a marathon sometime before I die, and I recently realized that between now and the time I die I will probably not get any younger.  It seems that time only moves in the forward direction, and I keep getting older, so if I really want to do this marathon thing, I should get on it.

Do not even pretend running isn't romantic.  Look at those bitches!  All athletic, showing their abs in forests and mountain ranges.  That is romance: sunsets and finish lines.

Thus, I’ve decided to train for this marathon. I know this goal is not only lofty, but perhaps verges into the crazy and/or impossible.  However, the Lake Geneva Marathon is excellent, because you can register the day of, and on the same day they offer a 5K, a 10K, a half-marathon, and a full-marathon.  If I am able to run 26.2 miles by mid-May, that would be amazing, and that’s my goal; but if I can run 13 miles by then or even 6, I would be fine with that.

Now the marathon training plan I started last week began with the assumption that I—prospective marathon runner-am able to run three miles.

Jacey’s Hypothesis Last Week: I can TOTALLY run three miles.

Jacey’s Reality: I cannot run three miles. 

As I thought back over my running career, I realized I had never in my life run even one mile.  During high school, when we were supposed to run the mile I would whip around the track twice ahead of every other girl in class (because I sprint like a motherfucker), but by the third time around I was walking, and panting, and cursing God.  My gym teacher told me to pace myself or something, but I quickly got impatient and quit listening to her… my gym teacher, I mean.  Where was I? 

Right!  I had never run a mile, in fact, the only thing I run with any consistency is late (and actually, I run late really, really well), I had never run a mile until today.  And in fact, today I ran TWO.  Two miles.  Now, I know all you runner-types are not terribly impressed, but I am proud.  Two whole miles…only twenty-four point two to go.  Oof. 

Nutella & Sprinkles

I am starting a blog!  This is my first blog post!  You are reading it!  Right now!

This blog is called "Nutella and Sprinkles."  The name comes from junior year of college when my friend Jane told me that in the year she had known me, she had only ever seen me eat foods that were essentially condiments.  The day she had met me, I was eating Nutella and sprinkles...and that was pretty much all I'd eaten all year.  College was a crazy time.

This is a picture of me during college. I am holdingsugar cookie dough and chocolate syrup.  I would eat the cookie dough then pour the syrup into my mouth.I usually use peanut butter instead of cookie dough.It is just as gross/delicious as it sounds.  Quit judging    

Now, I am not in college...and as Fiona (the little girl I babysit for) has told me many times.  I am an adult.  Side noteL I hate it when Fiona calls me an adult.  It makes me want to push her and say, "Am not!" Then run away.  But, alas... she seems to be right.  And as an adult, I feel like I should eat like an adult and recognize that I only have one body and I should feed it things that are not condiments.

That is part of what this blog is going to be about: my new goals of being healthier and moving away from sprinkles and Nutella.

"But Jacey!" you cry, "I don't give a shit about your health.  I care only about your crazy stories about Fiona, or Wisconsin, or Matthew Broderick, or sexytimes!"

Don't worry my chicks!  This blog will be full of delightful, zany, heartbreaking anecdotes for your reading pleasure.  I know my audience and I will try not to disappoint.  Stay tuned!