StacyCelia.com

If I could tell you how much fun I had in NYC last weekend, I would…but I just can’t. Bach parties are supposedly once in a lifetime weekends and mine certainly was. I knew that any weekend spent with my best friends in one city celebrating my upcoming wedding would be special, but I had no idea it would way exceed my dreams. It was amazzzzzzzzzzing…! I could write about the limos, the Suite at the W or the endless glasses of champagne, but that is not what made it one of the best weekends of my life. It was the funny moments that can make me laugh in an instant. I leave my friends the following memories from last weekend: Gate B7 - are you sure it’s not A15? I need your inhaler, “is that a compass you drew,” Like a virgin (I don’t believe it!), (there’s no ‘e’ in her name!) S-T-A-C-C-C-C-C-Y, “Jonathan is coming!,” “Jonathan,” “Stacy, you’ll love it. I did, but then I read that batteries were not included and I never put any in!,” Cupcakes! “Would you like the black ones bigger than the white? Would you like ejaculate?,” 23 year old little boy!!, “Jamie, do you have a key? I think I am going to stay at my apartment in Lincoln Park,” “This is the best turkey sandwich I’ve ever had,” Red light - NOT final stop, I thought you were Erika!!!, where’s the Marc Jacob’s bag??, uncooked pizza, cleaning out fridge, the Australian, make sure you take pics of the red theme! for Sherry, video promises about eating, Time Square’s free show, sprd egl, and many more…Thank you everyone for making it a weekend I will never, ever remember or forget. I gained A LOT of weight, but it was all worth it. (Thank god it’s once in a lifetime!)

Is that the saying? I hope so because these do and I have no time to write…

In an hour I will go to Midway to pick up my mom for a fabulous weekend. Meredith is coming in too. She’s never even seen our place, so I am SO excited to have her here. Jason will stay at his friend’s place so that we have enough space. We’re going with to some people to Billy and Elton at Wrigley tonight. I have a shower this weekend at Jamie’s mother’s condo. Next weekend, Jamie, Monique and I are off to NYC for the bach party. The weekend after, Jason, Jamie and I will head to Cleveland where I’ll meet Erika, Laurel and some East Coast relatives. I can’t believe I am getting married in less than TWO MONTHS!!!

I feel so lucky right now. I feel nervous and excited and humbled and overwhelmed by good fortune. I usually do, but today is different. There’s nothing like waking up to Jason hugging me like it’s the last time he will ever get the chance.

Who says you can’t have it all?

We both grew up in Beachwood. We met in Kindergarten and became friends in Mrs. Johnson’s first grade class. We would use our “privacy folders” to block out the rest of the world…we were in our own.

Our mothers shared the name Sherry. Her mom’s with an i, mine with a y. My parents witnessed her mom’s conversion to Judaism. I always thought that was special.

She went on a lot of vacations. I always went to NJ. Her grandma spoke with a wonderful accent. Her mom let her eat tater tots.

I had Rocky, she had Buster and Whitney.

She had the first boy/girl party, I had the first bat mitzvah.

Our Dads became close, closer and now closest.

We drifted apart, but found each other again.

She had a cool car, I had a cool car to get driven around in. I owe her a lot of rides.

I applied early decision to American University. Laurel went there.

She was there for me when it seemed very few really were. Loyal, passionate and strong Laurel. I was thankful. Still am.

She makes me feel normal when I am acting crazy. We’re both a little nuts…but in totally different ways.

We just get each other.

She will stand up in my wedding and I had better stand up in hers.

She will live in the east, while I will live in the midwest.

But so long as we both have Verizon, we have all the time together that we need.

Michael Jackson’s death proved that people loved his music, respected his life and will miss him. His lyrics leave his ideals and view of the world forever documented for future generations to enjoy. Despite accusations that he was a monster and a criminal, I believe his legacy will be his music and the joy it brought to the world. Even I, someone who hates violence and believes you’re guilty until you’re proven innocent, cannot help but appreciate his genius talent. His music is his legacy. Even my children will appreciate his music. They will not think about his alleged behavior. It blows my mind how quickly the media changes their tune and loves the King of Pop once again.

My friend Donna retired last year. She was a talented high school counselor who changed the lives of many students. The impact that she had on her students will last forever, as she helped to sculpt them into who they became as adults. Donna took control over her legacy today. She is creating a college scholarship fund for students who have overcome major obstacles, need financial assistance and who are NOT in the top 25% of their class. Needless to say, one day far, far away, Donna’s legacy will last beyond her wildest imagination. Students from her days at work and students generations later will both think of Donna with fondness and appreciation. Her legacy is certain.

It makes me consider what my legacy will be. Do people remember the good, the bad or somewhere in between? I guess it depends on who you ask. I have made mistakes along the way, but most of which were years ago. Aside from Presidents, legends and Donna, how many people actually go to great lengths to secure a legacy of their choice? Maybe we all should. We should think about how we treat others, respect our elders, treat our parents, grandparents, siblings, lovers and friends. I guess if we did that, our legacy would effortlessly be left for us. Perhaps if we consider how we would like others to remember us, we will see the whole picture and act the way that we should. And that way, we’ll be old and grey with no regrets.

We only have one chance on this earth, and for better or worse, we all give people something to talk about.

I just hope they talk about my great hair.

Jason and I walked up to Wrigley Field in search for decent tickets and seats. I really did not care to go into the ball park, but I was along for the ride.  Typically by mid-season, Jason has attended a minimum of ten games. This season, he is following the Cubs with half of a heart - half disappointment and the other half hope.

We ended up eating outside and then parking ourselves at the new Captain Morgan’s bar attached to Wrigley for hours. We found the only vacant table, right next to an overweight Cubs fan who draped herself in Cubs buttons, stuffed animals and memories. I asked the very odd woman if the table beside her was available. She smiled and nodded as she showed off her missing teeth.

Jason and I drank beer and chatted while he watched the television over my shoulder. I don’t think I saw one play, but I did not care so long as he was happy. And he was. The woman next to us asked when our wedding is. When I asked her how she knew we were getting married, she said that she saw my beautiful ring. I told her the headlines and continued talking to Jason.

Jason sat with his arms crossed and stared down a group of former frat boys. I asked Jason what was wrong and he told me to hang on. He was upset because our nameless company was being teased by drunk kids. I felt sad for her, I wasn’t sure she knew what was happening. She did. Throughout the day she slowly exposed her sickly and sad life to me…one chapter of her life every other inning. Divorced, widowed, divorced, grandchildren, poor, “first comes health and then wealth and the rest follows, I have neither,” and finally cynicism. She told me that I am full of hope like she was at my age. But it does not last, she insisted.

Her grandchildren never have time for her; their mother doesn’t approve of her. I told her that people change. People grow up. My relationship with my grandma did not blossom until my college years, but that it was well worth the wait.

She told me that she is in a bad place and very depressed. I told her that I was once very depressed and now I am happier than I have ever been.

She told me that her son hates her. She does not know why. I told her that people mend broken relationships all the time. I explained that my parents have found peace after a decade of battles.

She said that most couples get divorced.

“We are not most couples,” I told her. I explained that we will be married forever. I told her that I am sure of it. And then I told her that she is depressing me, that I did not want to hear anymore.

Three silent innings later, she told me that Jason seems like a nice man and that we both seem “down to earth.” She said that I am glowing. I told her it is because I know my hope will make all of my dreams come true. I insisted that she find some of her own.

After “Go Cubs Go” finished, she slowly emerged with her cane and six inch plumber butt.

And hopefully a glimmer of new-found hope.

I grew up on Maidstone Lane in Beachwood, Ohio. I can still remember the shadows that stretched over the green lawn in the front yard, the navy painted milk shoot by the front door and the carpeted kitchen that overlooked the family room (or is it living room, I never get them straight). Every inch of that home is tattooed in my memory.

During my younger years, we had a live-in babysitter named, Kristen. She was my buddy. Mamie, too, who was the cleaning lady twice a week. I can still remember the way she transported her lunches in a narrow orange newspaper bag, closed by a knot at the top. Anyway, while Kristen lived with the Bogarts, I shared a room with my older and more mature sister, Jamie. My only sister. Four bedrooms, six residents, one dog and one blue, white and silver bathroom that had no windows and saved me during thunder storms - all on one floor. The house never seemed crowded to me, but maybe that was because I loved the company.

Jamie would offer me three strikes before kicking me out of our room at night. The poor girl wanted to sleep, while I only wanted to talk. And talk. And talk. I wanted to know what made her so cool, which boy she liked, why she had so much homework from Mrs. Lewis and most importantly…who her favorite bus driver was. (While we went to different schools, we had the same bus drivers…I loved that we had this in common.) Jamie was not interested in anything but sleep.

One, two, three strikes…I was out.

Fast forward twenty years. Now I share a bedroom (and bed) with Jason. The poor man wants to sleep, while I only want to talk. And talk. And talk. And talk some more. I want to know when we can play the mummy game, what he is most excited for on the honeymoon, which toe is his favorite and most importantly…I want to pretend we’re in a movie (act out first kisses, pretend we just woke up from a one night stand, whatever improvisational skit unfolds). He is interested for about ten-fifteen minutes each night, but ultimately apologizes profusely and begs to go to bed.

“I love you, Stace. I’m sorry, but I gotta get some sleep.”

“I love you, too.”

“But what does Google know anyway,” I ask, referring to the evidence he found stating that one year anniversaries involve paper (WHAT?) and not diamonds.

“Four seconds,” Jason says. He counted how long I could go without speaking. Then he laughs and suggests that I blog since it has been “too long.” And here I am…while I hear him snoozing.

One, two, three strikes…I’m out.

I wondered on Maidstone Lane, just as I do here on Pine Grove Avenue, who in the world wants to sleep when your best friend is right next to you?

The more things change, the more they stay the same.

Good night.

Really, it was.

I have a handful of incredible friends. Some live in Chicago, most don’t. I talk to some daily, some weekly and one monthly. Without them, life would be dull, confusing and way less entertaining. My mom always said that a person can only have one best friend. I disagree. I’ve got more. One that sets me straight (”Stacy - are you kidding? You sound ridiculous!”), one that is completely herself (no matter what the situation is), one that has my back at all times (it runs in the family, even her brother stood up for me years ago), one that is most honest (”that outfit makes you look prego”), one that always understands (”should we just drive around screaming Alanis?”), one that reminds me of the “old days” (belzabub), one that is family (aside from blood relation, you tell me how we’re different), and one that makes me always feel at home, even when we’re out (she even lets me move in to hers when I need to). Truth be told, most do most and are most to me.

I’ll never tell which is which.

I am very different than many of them, yet so much of the same.

One thing that I know for sure is that my life would be worse off without these women. There’s nothing like them. They understand (usually), make me smile (almost always) and keep me entertained at all times. If only you knew the stories…When I can’t fall asleep, I just think of a certain friend and laugh…drama! (In a good way.)

My lips are sealed. My heart is full. So lucky.

Later.

PS - Mom, you are my bestEST friend. And you are the only one with that title.

I have always wanted a traditional Jewish wedding. I am hoping that not only do I take Jason’s breath away, but that my father loses his too. It is important to me that we follow religious rituals and customs because I would only want to begin my life with Jason through symbols of our shared roots. But…must I give up my last name?! I am all about tradition, but this one is a lot to swallow!

I love the name Bogart. Growing up it was Bogart, as in “don’t Bogart that joint.” Now it’s, “This is Stacy Bogart…as in Humphrey.” Everyone understands immediately. In 96 days, it will be Bohrer. Not as in the animal and not as in boring. Bohrer as in TWO syllables with no obvious association to it (or spelling of it). For the last nine months I have joked that he will become a Bogart, that I will not give up my name. I pretend that it is offensive as a woman that my dad would give me to Jason like an object. (While I do understand that perspective, it is not mine.) As the wedding inches closer and closer, this joke is surfacing as a monumental gulp in my throat - it is not Bogart that I am sad to lose, however, but instead it is what the last name represents that has my mind running a marathon. It just seems impossible to move into this next chapter without recognizing what I am leaving behind. My childhood identity is made up of mere memories now. It is a strange feeling when you leave key parts and people of the past, well, in the past. It is as if I am beginning a part two of my life, not just another chapter. (I even get a new confusing last name.) While the first half was almost predictable, this half does not feel that way. I have been blessed with a typical sequence of events thus far and I hold my breath hoping that this next half gives me the same fortunate circumstances. Lots of love, few losses and tons of fun.

It has recently dawned on me that my new last name is not forcing this reality, but instead time is. With or without Jason, I realize, I am simply growing up and fast. Suddenly what feels like yesterday, was actually a decade ago; what felt like a decade ago was actually a lifetime ago. I am lucky to love my past enough to miss it.

Nearly everything is imperfectly perfect right now and I just wish I could stop the clock and keep it exactly as it…daily romance, two parents, high spirits and a rich life. But I cannot freeze time, so instead I will just appreciate it. Stacy Bogart did not always count her blessings. So…

Bohrer, it is…as in my best friend and husband, Jason.

I can just hear myself now…”B as in babies, O as in outstanding, H as in Happy, R as in Rich, E as in eternal, R as in ready for anything.” Everyone should be so lucky.

Yesterday I had a horrible pounding headache. Ugh, I couldn’t stand it. I climbed into bed around 2PM in an attempt to save my sanity. I closed my eyes and shortly thereafter heard my cell. It was my Dad, so I picked up. I told him that I was not feeling well, so he offered to sing me a song.

“Name a group.”

“The Beatles, please.”

And so he began singing “Can’t Buy Me Love” in its entirety. After that I requested a “Beach Boys” number. He sang and sang well. With enthusiasm. Finally, he wrapped up the call with a tune from the current play he’s in. I loved it.

I swear the headache alleviated.