And I don’t mean this Mr. T!






Boiled peanuts.

Have y’all ever heard of such a thing?

I saw them with my own eyes.

Boiled fucking peanuts.

In a vat.

I just stood there, staring at them. The peanuts, that is…

Not in a jar, or a cup..or a bowl. But in an iron vat. In this gas station, in a huge black pot, with a ladle. And I shit you not, there were two flavors. Not one, but two. Two flavors of these weird, steaming…boiled peanuts. Hmmm. Well, Jennifer. You’re not in Charlotte anymore. You are in flipping Knoxville. And you are further south than you’ve ever been, I think. Although, at this point, I’m not really sure. Is Tennessee actually further south than North Carolina? Omg. I have no idea. All I know is no one understands a damn thing I’m saying. And all of Mr. Tennessee’s friends own weapons. And are proud of it. And I am in a gazzzz station, with an attached McDonalds, that is selling boiled peanuts…and dill pickles in single serve packages. Oh, and Mexican Fiesta blankets. You know, the kind you get in Mexico? Well, now apparently you can also get them in Knoxville. Save a trip across the border, people. Knoxville is the place for Mexican blankets.

Have you ever been to Knoxville, Tennessee? It’s so beautiful. And where I was staying, I got to wake up to the prettiest view of the Smoky Mountains. Seriously…waking up everyday to that view, nothing like it. And rolling over to Mr. T wasn’t so bad either! If you didn’t catch the backstory, hurry up. I move fast. No reason to waste any time crying over ex’s. Gotta just move it along, bitches. And anyhoo, this Southern gentleman, is an oldie-but-goodie! Well, not old…but most definitely GOOD. Shit, great. I have known him forever. Well, 2 years. And we totally reconnected. So, it’s not like I just jumped into bed with a complete stranger. Jeez. It’s all about timing. He was dating, I was dating…we both became single. And WHAAAAALAA! Bam. Next thing I knew, his chocolate ended up in my peanut butter. Or was it my peanut butter that ended up on his chocolate? Whatever. I ended up in Knoxville, Tennessee…drinking wine by a fire, and eating Prime Rib on Easter Sunday with a wonderful group of new peeps. Peeps. haha. Like the marshmallow bunnies.

Can I get an Amen?

Darn tootin’! Now, who wants to call the Rabbi? Yikes. Maybe not just yet. He does have a little growing up to do. Mr. T is just a little fella. Thirty-four and all. And it’s me that is hung up on his age, not him. I know, I need to get over it, and move on…but I can’t. Everywhere we go, I feel like people are looking at us, wondering if I’m his mama. I need more filler. Or a face lift. He is just SO damn young! He still plays beer pong for the love of Goddess! And he stays up past my bedtime.

We are so different.

He’s a total hick. And I’m a total princess. He likes country. And I’m a city girl. He takes his time, and moves slowly…with a sweet southern style. And I’m fast, and quick…and there is not a thing slow about me. But there was nothing more comfortable than when we were together. We laughed. We got mani-pedis (I told him there was alcohol involved). We cooked lots of good meals, and drank good wine. And told stories. Good and bad. And we realized that even though we are so different, we have one thing in common. We honestly care about each other. Oh, and we both love our kids. That’s two things. He is the greatest father. Super-sexy, right?

So, long distance sucks. And sure, Mr.T owns some kinda 45. And dips. Oh, and he shoots animals, for fun. (I can’t even believe I just wrote that) But, so what? I adore him. And look, he thinks I am a crazy person. He can’t believe how fast I talk. And when he saw my reaction when he told me to “calm down” I thought he was a goner. But we all know that “calm down” actually means “shut the fuck up“. I mean, everyone knows that! We were in the hotel in Augusta, and I was simply trying to make something clear to the asshole at the front desk, when Mr. T looked at me and said it. You know. “Calm down.” Oh hell to the no. What I heard him say was, “Shut the fuck up.” Our very first fight. And we all know how that went down! Chill out, calm down, relax, easy…take a breath. All no-no’s. They are all basically like telling me to “shut the fuck up”. Bad, very bad.

But look, he’s still here! So this might actually be ok! Ok, and fun. And good. And just what the doctor ordered. Life is short. And crazier things have happened. No expectations, no pressure. No meeting my kids yet, or getting nuts…no rushing.

Just enjoying each other, and our time together.

Mr.T and Me. ;)

xo j



So my legs were in the stirrups…


I’ve always wanted to start a blog like this.

So, my legs were in the stirrups…

I am dying.

My legs were in the stirrups, and…

my ass was at the bottom of the table.

I mean isn’t that just the best start? It just makes you want to know what the hell I’m going to say next! I have grabbed your attention, and reeled ya in…omg. I am dying, and my father is hiding. I feel badly for my parents sometimes. I know this is so not what they signed up for, but they have been so good about it. Truly, they get stopped all the time at home in Detroit. At Sunny’s, or at Plum Market. People just asking them the same damn thing, “Do you read what Jennifer writes?” I love it. And my Mom, just laughs, and says how funny the whole thing is. Trish, that little bunny. I adore her. And my Dad, he just shakes his head, and says, “I don’t read it.”.  And he smiles. Art, you are the best. And I know you’re secretly pretty damn proud of me. But I also know, it’s been a tough 18 months on all of us…not just me. So, thanks Mom and Dad, for putting up with all of this, and the divorce. And all my mishegas. (craziness, for all the non-jews in the houzze).

So, my legs were in the stirrups…

And my gyno who could be not only the greatest doctor in all the land, but the dang cutest, too…was all positioned to get to work. Between my legs. And yes, I shave to go to the GYNO. Don’t you? Duh. I was getting an IUD. Are all y’all familiar with this little contraption? It’s a form of birth control. And I was only getting it because I was in a SERIOUS relationship with Mr. Big-ish. What the fuck. I mean, the little Vaginal Contraceptive Films would be just fine, if I was out dating. But I made the appointment before we broke up. So I kept it. And as Dr. Awesome was about to give me a shot the size of Kentucky, into my vag…I told him I broke up with my boyfriend from DC. I love it. Here I am, legs up in the stirrups, Dr. Awesome holding a hugeungus needle…and he starts to give me relationship advice. I told him we broke up, and I really didn’t think the IUD was all that necessary.

Dr. Awesome and I start chatting…

I’m all like, he wanted kids. And he’s like, he missed the boat! And I’m like, no shit. And he’s like, let him go. And I’m like, right? And he’s like, “Jennifer, do not let him be your “only” one at this point.”  And I’m like, Dr. Awesome, you are totally AWESOME! And then he sticks that fucking needle into my cervix, and says, “You’re going to feel a little burning.” And I say, “Hey, Dr. Awesome, you are not so awesome anymore.” lol. Now I’m good to go. Thanks, Mr. Big-ish. I am totally set for my next relationship. My next man is going to love you for talking me into this IUD thingy. Well, after he goes through his round of STD testing, and shots. And I screen him for everything under the sun. My next guy. Hmmmm. My next guy? Yeesh.

My next relationship is going to be different.

It’s going to be easy. And fun. It’s the summer for the love of Goddess! Life is good. But, I’m going to be picky. I’m back on JDate, and I hate it already. The 30 year-olds won’t leave me alone. They need a momma. And the 60-somethings are sweet. If you like men who are really 70, with saggy balls. Because you know they are lying. So, guys…if you are not in your 40s or 50s, don’t message me with your bullshit. Unless you are 35-ish. With a kid. And you live in…like Tennessee. And happen to look like Bradley Cooper. Then, hit me up.

Oh, by the way. I eventually got out of the stirrups. And my OBGYN was thrilled to know that our entire appointment would probably be blog-worthy. I mean, come on, Dr. Awesome…how lucky am I to have a great doctor, and a shrink all in one place? One-stop-shopping. Kinda. With my legs spread, and the man talking to my vagina. But you get the point. ha. ;)


xo j





Hey guys!

Have y’all heard of The Café D?


Well, it’s only the coolest spot on the web. I mean isn’t getting divorced hard enough? Now you don’t have to do it alone. My girl, Vicky Townsend and her amazing website is here to help! If you are feeling confused, or vulnerable…The Café D is just the spot for you. Designed to feel like your friendly corner coffee shop, where you can find a friend, or do your research. Or get support from industry experts. Just know you are not alone. And guess what? I am going to get the chance to hang to there next week! How cool is that? I am so honored to be invited in. So, please…grab a a comfy spot at home, and a cup of your fave joe…and join us! It’s really as simple as clicking on the link below, and registering!

Oh, and save the date!

And what a perfect one it is for a little laugh, huh? April 1st, at 9:30 on the dot. It’s a Wednesday, and we are going to be yapping it up about all things divorce, and life. And living HAPPILY, EVER AFTER…DIVORCE, that is. Ha.


So, hope to see you all there. Well, I won’t see you. But you will most definitely see me, and Vicky Townsend. I am so excited. Jeez. Better get my roots done. How embarrassing to show up with my hair all nasty.

xo j






So I’m sad.

::::blows nose::::

And I want to die.

:::::loud ugly cry:::::

And I had this vision of how my life was going to be…

::::pulls covers over her head:::::

I’m in my bed, I stink like feet. My whole body stinks like feet. I haven’t brushed my teeth in like 24 hours, which for me is like 3 weeks, cause I brush my teeth every five minutes. I actually brush my teeth if I wake up to pee in the middle of the night. I do. I shit you not. There are snot-rags all over the bed, and on the floor…and I don’t flipping care. I am in my Tamakwa hoodie, and my Roots sweats, and it’s 90 degrees outside…and I haven’t eaten anything in Goddess knows how long, but so what. I drank a bottle of wine last night, and that will sustain me for all of eternity. I’m not answering my phone, or my texts and I don’t want to talk to anyone. I can’t stop crying. His picture is next to my bed, and everything is reminding me of him. I’m such a loser. Make it stop.

I am heartbroken.

Ok, maybe that’s a slight exaggeration. I’m a little melodramatic? I’m not heartbroken. Maybe I’m not dying of a broken heart. But I’m hurt. And mad. And I want to get over this, and fast. How do guys do it? How do men just turn it all off…you know, all of the emotions? All of the feelings they said they had for us. How can he not text me all day? He is over me already? OMG! I am fucking dying over here! How can I survive this breakup, without losing my mind? I think, this time…I’m just going to have to do it like they do it! Yes. I am going to get over this guy, like a guy! Hell to the YES! I need to think like a MAN.

WWHD What Would Hurvitz Do? (if I had a penis, or not)  

1) Eat. That’s right. Let’s eat. And I don’t mean gorge on strawberries and pine nut salad. I mean, pull out every carb you can find, and let’s inhale. My best friend called me up, and got my fat-ass out of my bed. She dragged me to my fave restaurant, and fed me. Made me order fries, and a Toll House Cookie with Ice Cream…and I was on the road to healing. My blood sugar went up, and so did my happiness. Fuck working out. That’s the last thing I needed. Namaste, my ass. This chick needed cheesy nachos, and wings.

2) Drink. Pour me a stiff one. That didn’t really come out the way I intended. But nothing says, “get over it” like a vodka tonic with two limes. And let me tell you, it’s 5’oclock somewhere. Yesterday, at 10:45am, it was 5:00 in Australia, I am sure of it. And after a couple white wine Sangrias, I thought I was in Australia. And I didn’t even remember why Mr. Big-ish and I broke up. Waiter, another round! And keep ’em coming. I think. What time is it in Rome?

3) Basketball. Nothing better to take your mind of a breakup than sports. Men in shorts, jumping around, sweating…and acting like morons. All for the love of the game. Perfect. And more men, in the bar, jumping around…acting like morons, watching the game. Damn. Does it get more perfect? As I was sitting there with Tammy, we were noticing it was quite the cock-fest. Just us, and a bunch of guys. Now if that doesn’t help get me over Mr. Big-ish, nothing will. Yo! Down in front, I’m trying to see the game! And get your attention, wanna buy me a drink? Thank you to Tammy, for taking one for the team. She is such a good sport. And the best wingman ever. Or is it wing-woman? Or wing person. Whatever, she is the best friend. How does she put up with me? Everyone should have a Tammy.

4) The Little Black iPhone Book. Not just for men anymore. I like to call it The Little Black iPhone Book. Or more frequently called, the “Contacts” on your phone. And it’s always so good to scroll through after a break up, isn’t it? Roll, roll…roll to see who might be fun to chat with. Or talk to. Maybe drop them a little text to say, “hi”. Keep your mind off of the ex guy, and keep your fingers busy. Ya know, just let them know you’re back on the market. Nothing makes the ego feel better after being dumped, than reaching out and touching someone. Pun intended. “Hi. Mr. Face Licker. It’s Jen. Remember me? I’m single! Wanna lick my face?” Fuck. I ain’t that desperate. Yet.

So, I’m out of bed. I’m eating, and drinking. Clearly hydrated. I pee all the time. My skin is looking good. I’m smiling, and laughing…and I went to the MSU game today. Wicked. And I flirted. Lots. Which made me happy. It felt really good, to smile. I didn’t think about Mr.B at all. Well, for a while. Don’t worry about me all y’all, I’m going to be just fine. No one died, I just broke up with a guy. But thank you, for worrying. I love your messages. My heart hurts, but it is what it is…the hardest part of all this is telling the kids. Which I have to do next week. Divorce sucks. It’s not easy. But it’s not the worst thing either…

I could have actually drunk-texted The Face Licker. Now that would have sucked the big one. ;) 

xo j