This is me.
In three days, I will do this:
With this guy:
I’m going to see SO MANY PEOPLE I never get to see, like
I.
Cannot.
WAIT.
(In the meantime, I’m not putting Jac & Elsie on vacation mode. Instead, I’m making it VERY CLEAR that nothing will be sent between now and May 20. Since I heart you, you get an even better deal than the one advertised in the shop: Use coupon code 14fbhoneymoon23 to get 20 percent off any order $10 or more.
Last night, Jeff sat on the couch holding a set of tickets in his hand. He said, “I never though I would have Barry Manilow tickets as a souvenir.”
A legitimate thought. What nonfan expects to see the Justin Bieber of the’70s (Barry’s words, not mine) in person?
It began as an idea to help my parents celebrate their 35th wedding anniversary. They are the epitome of the impossible-to-buy-for couple. They don’t go out or on trips a because of my brother, and when they want anything, they buy it. I can give Mom gifts, but Dad is especially difficult, as he doesn’t really do trinkets and baubles and jewelry like Mom.
And Mom LOVES Barry. I grew up with him because of her. One of our many songs — we are a family that loves music — is “Can’t Smile Without You.” It’s a cheese factory, but what a sweet ditty.
But if they came to visit, I could watch Joey. They could leave him at our house and go see one of my mom’s favorite artists ever. She’s always wanted to see him, and I through it would be a wonderful surprise.
The problem: She hates surprises. And traveling is hard with Joey. And they were just in town a few weeks ago for a shower my almost- mother- and sister-in-law threw for me.
When I found out I wouldn’t be babysitting, I toyed with going myself. So when Travelzoo sent me an email that it was selling tickets for $9.99, I cleared it with Jeff that he would let me drag him, and I bought the crap out of two tickets.
The day of the concert, we wondered what the average age of the crowd would be. I guessed my mom’s age, 55.
I was off by about a decade — most of the audience was likely between 60 and 65 — and was met with another surprising crowd stat: Lesbians love Manilow. I had absolutely no idea.
When the ticket-taker scanned our tickets, the scanner beeped; we were being upgraded! Our cheapo seats would have assured that Barry was hardly larger than a tick, but our newfound upgrades made it possible to actually see the man, who had bronchitis and admittedly seemed as though he wouldn’t make it to the end of the concert. But he stuck it out. He may not have hit any of those legendary last notes, but the man sounded better than 75 percent of today’s radio-play. Yes, the man’s still got it.
He shared that he had a birthday this month.
“I’m going to be 35 … HA! Times two!”
This man in the glitter blue smoking jacket is 70 this month?? Unbelievable. He showed his age only a few times. In the background of some songs, a video played of a television performance. Once announced the date as 1975, and an impossibly young Clive Davis told the viewing audience that the man he was introducing would surely take America by storm. Cut to a baby Barry at a piano, belting out “Mandy.” The Barry on the state sang a duet with his thirtysomething self, a truly amazing thing to behold.
By the end of the show, Barry was limping, showing some pain from his recent hip surgery. He congratulated himself on making it through the whole concert, admitting that he had wondered if he’d cut it short because of his illness.
I bought a concert tee, because when you go to a Barry Manilow concert, you indulge in the kitsch. Isn’t it awesome?
When we got home, Jeff — who, admittedly, had never been much of a Barry fan — got on iTunes and listened to a ton of his music.
Don’t like, you know you can boogie to some Barry. What’s your fav song by him? Aside from “Can’t Smile Without You,” I heard “Brooklyn Blues” for the first time at the concert, and I dug the jazzy feel. And don’t even talk to me about “Copacabana.” If that’s your favorite Barry song, it’s time to listen to more, my friend.
Also? This.
Today, I’m welcoming in my 30th birthday in style: I’m probably waking up with makeup smeared all over my face, while friends are scattered throughout the house, coming-to in various states of disarray.
Ah, the morning after a bachelorette party.
On Facebook this month, I’ve been devoting my statuses to one thing I learned in my 20s per day. It’s an interesting little list, if I do say so myself, that I thought I’d chronicle here:
1. Good whiskey should never be mixed with anything, not even ice cubes.
2. I enjoy cooking, especially a recipe with ingredients I’ve never used before.
3. Jealousy is the ugliest thing you can wear. This lesson certainly started in my teens, but my 20s were for realizing how truly toxic it is.
4. As much as I adore my “new” living situation (I moved in with Jeff last summer), living alone was wonderful. There is no better way to get to know oneself than to occupy one’s own space, alone. I feel like it made me a better partner, and a better person, to appreciate my own company.
5. Just because a person is an adult does not mean he or she doesn’t have the capacity to revert to being a immature junior high snob. And man, I hated junior high. I used to think, “God, I can’t wait to be adults and people will be OVER this.” Yeah, doesn’t always happen.
6. Karaoke is awesome.
On my “blush” lesson, a friend lamented that she still hasn’t mastered this, due in part to years of stage makeup. Now every time I think of her going out, she will look like this in my mind.
7. My 20s taught me the true worth, the true importance, of a woman’s girl friends.
8. No matter how good of friends you were, no matter how much you may miss this person, when it comes to staying friends with an ex (the real kind, where you visit with one another and chat regularly on the phone), Just Say No.
9. I’m an introvert. Not wildly so, but enough that I’ve noticed. I’m happy solo and prefer the company of one or two people to a large group.
10. The best way to stop yourself from crying so hard you’re hyperventilating is to go in the shower and let the water hit you on the face. It forces you to concentrate on your breathing and not whatever it is you’re upset about. Not an awesome lesson, but a good thing to know.
11. I can officially put on blush without looking like a clown. (This lesson, embarrassingly, came closer to birthday No. 30 than No. 20.)
12. This kind of reiterates something I assumed in my teens, and that is, when it’s time to make a change in your life, it’s important to have the bravery to do whatever is necessary to make that change.
13. It’s my bachelorette party day, and I’m out of state. Do you really think I signed on Facebook just for a nugget of wisdom? I think not.
14. See above.
Today is my last day at my job.
Next week, I will start a new job in an entirely different field, trading a job in a dying industry (journalism) to one that will never go away (marketing). I have many, many, thoughts about this.
This is not the post for them. (It’s coming.)
Instead, this is the post where I try to figure out what the hell happened since new year.
If I may reiterate, between the first of the year and today, I’ve had two bridal showers, three dress fittings, a handful of trips to my parents’ and three interviews for a new job.
Today, after I leave the desk that has been MY desk for nearly five years, I’m driving to Cincinnati, for my bachelorette party, which has guests traveling from Phoenix, Indianapolis, northeast Ohio and Louisville, in addition to those who already live in southwest Ohio.
Saturday, we will party like it’s my last single-girl hurrah.
Sunday, I will turn 30.
Tuesday, I will start my new job.
Two and a half weeks after that, I will get married.
Two days later, I will leave the country for a week and a half.
Then, when it is mid-May, my life will get boring again (she says in a hopeful manner).
I turn 30 on Sunday, which means my license expires Sunday. I finally made it to the DMV yesterday for a renewal.
First, the man checked my eyes. No contacts here, still a-OK. Then, he took my photo. Had I thought about it that morning, I wouldn’t have had my hair in a French braid, but whatever, who cares what you look like on a 1-inch square piece of plastic.
I paid for my new license, which the cashier said would be mailed to me in 10 days. In the meantime, she gave me a temporary license, printed out on a piece of computer paper.
I paid it absolutely no attention until this morning. This morning, I looked at it.
And holy shit, my head is a perfect circle. Perfect. Damn. Circle.
Now, I come from a family of circle-heads. My mom, a beautiful women, has a large face. My dad, who resembles George Clooney to me in his eyes, has a large face. They both contributed to the giant, proud nose on my face. My brother, an absolute stud, could be mistaken for a bowling ball. He’s put on a shocking amount of weight over the last year or two because of some new meds affecting his appetite and his metabolism (but they keep the autism tantrums down, so we deal with it), and his always full face has ballooned a touch. Now, he’s built like a line-backer.
Me? I’ve always had a round head. I proudly display my chipmunk cheeks and think nothing of it. But I also have cheekbones under there. And while my face is full, I’ve never quite been to Joey-proportions.
In this photo, I resemble my brother to a shocking degree. My cheekbones are naught. I look a good 20 pounds heavier than I am.
At 155 and 5-foot-6, I’m by no means a skinny minnie, but I’ve always felt comfortable in my skin. Sure, I’d like my thighs to loose an inch or two and that pudge in my middle to go away, and I’ve perfected that way of standing in photos so my upper arm isn’t pressed against my side, doubling its size. But this is something all women do, right?
Ugh. I know it’s true, and that disgusts me. I’m healthy. I eat what I want, but I’m not a pig. I understand portion sizes, and I severely limit my Coca-cola intake (my biggest vice). I loathe exercise and know “endorphins” are a thing made up by the exercise industry in an effort to get us excited about sweating and one-handed push-ups when really, I’d rather be on the couch with Stephen King.
And damn society for ever making me question that. Damn society for allowing me to feel bad this morning because of a stupid photo of myself on a piece of computer paper.
I’m a confident woman. I look good in a dress. I can’t wear flats with a skirt because I’m slightly bowlegged (thanks, Dad). I have acne scars. I have awesome hair. My hands are huge and lovely. I have big feet I like to put in heels. “Baby Got Back” was written for me. My rack is tiny. I am not fat, I just have fat. Everyone should.
I have a completely realistic view of my body. I see the good. I accept the bad. This is Jaclyn. Take it or leave it.
But if this stupid photo, one that I swear has to be squished, can make me feel like crap, I’m clearly a little delusional.
I have been happy lately. Ridiculously, wonderfully, immeasurably happy. There are multiple reasons for this (which will be shared at a later date), but for now, let’s just say that I’m so happy, I’m dressing better. I’m doing my makeup. I’m doing my hair. (Does anyone else do this? Find yourself primping more when you’re in a good mood?)
I spoke with a friend last night who is decidedly unhappy, for a variety of personal reasons. Today on her Facebook page, she asked for some positive thoughts. So I did a search for happiness quotes on Goodreads and shared with her,
“Happiness is a warm puppy.” ~ Charles M. Schulz
In reading through the Goodreads quotes, I was struck by how much of happiness — at least in quoteland — is dependent on risk-taking. On accepting the bad as well as the good. On being open to whatever life hands you, not just the happy stuff.
Which I find very, very true. A few weeks ago, someone asked me what the best advice I ever got was. I thought for a while and said, it wasn’t advice that could be summed up in a neat little quote, like Schulz’ warm puppy, but an example-by-doing.
When I was in fifth grade, my dad accepted an out-of-state job, because it was the best thing for him and for the family. So we picked up and moved away from all extended family, two states away. When it came time to go to college, neither of my parents pushed one of the universities that was just around the corner — because they knew none of those schools was the best option for me.
My dad moved to this country when he was 13. His parents put him on a plane, and he left Iran, Chicago-bound, where an aunt and an uncle awaited him, and much, much better opportunities than his home-country could offer.
Moving for the betterment of oneself is just a given in my family. It’s what we do. And by that example, I learned that when something in my life makes me unhappy, I need to do anything I can to change that.
And that means being open to change and to risk. It means putting yourself out there, and failing, and being OK with it.
“You cannot protect yourself from sadness without protecting yourself from happiness.” ~ Jonathan Safran Foer
“The only way to find true happiness is to risk being completely cut open.” ~ Chuck Palahniuk, “Invisible Monsters”
“Of all forms of caution, caution in love is perhaps the most fatal to true happiness.” ~ Bertrand Russell, “The Conquest of Happiness”
“Happiness is not something ready made. It comes from your own actions.” ~ Dalai Lama XIV
“People are just as happy as they make up their minds to be.” ~ Abraham Lincoln
Today, I had a column run in my newspaper about changing my name. When I get married in a month, I will be taking my husband’s last name.
The decision is one of the hardest I have ever made. (I’m careful not to share my last name in social media land. If you want to read the column and not post it anywhere, just shoot me an email.)
Gibbs
As I discussed the topic with a friend of mine, Dana, she said to me, “I really liked what Nancy Gibbs said about it … how is keeping the last name of our fathers any less patriarchal than taking on the last name of our husbands? At least one of those last names was a choice we made.”
Gibbs is an editor at Time magazine and one of the most amazing writers I’ve ever encountered. A friend of mine (not Dana) and I in college used to get issues of the magazine and read Gibbs’ words aloud to one another. They’re so poetic and perfectly chosen. She’s the kind of writer that makes a writer say, “I should stop doing what I’m doing, because I will never, ever be this good.”
I told Dana, I wish I could swap brains with her for a day, just to see what it’s like.
“Wouldn’t that be grand if we could do that?” she asked. “You’d have to have like a backup hard drive of your own brain so that you could have awareness of what you were perceiving … but this should definitely be a thing.”
If this were a thing, I’d swap with Gibbs, obviously. I’d swap with Stephen King, naturally. And I’d swap with Joey. I’ve always wondered how my baby brother (who has autism) views the world.
Who’s brain would you want to wear for a day?
Me and Joey, from this past Thanksgiving.
This past Christmas, I bought my brother a T-shirt from Old Navy. It was one of those shirts with a tuxedo printed on it, a novelty at best, but perhaps something more for Joey.
I’m getting married next month, a day my mother has worried about since I was 18 years old. Because what would she do with my brother? Joey, now 23, has autism, and crowds can be a bit tricky for him. Oh, he could be fine. He could be an angel. But even on his best behavior, after two hours, three hours max, he is “done,” and it’s time to go. (And he never, ever, dresses up. So I got the shirt as a gag/idea for Mom if she can’t even get him in Polo shirt.)
Naturally, Mom and Dad aren’t going to want to leave my wedding, so my mom has had high hopes of finding an aid who can care for Joey: Someone who can sit with him at dinner and stay with him at home when he’s had enough so my parents can remain at the rest of their daughter’s wedding.
Mom thinks, maybe, she has found someone — through Easter Seals, a program Joey has been attending for a few months now. The program is designed for adults with disabilities, and one of their specialties is autism. They know how to recognize different abilities and provide activities suited to each level, something that’s not too boring for the higher functioning kids, like Joey, or not too challenging for those who are less able. They know how to recognize tantrums, how to avoid them, how to deal with them when they’re an inevitability.
In short, Easter Seals has been a Godsend for my family, and just maybe, Mom has found an aid who can help with Joey the day of my wedding so my parents can BOTH stay at it through the reception.
April is Autism Awareness Month. What you should be aware of is that autism affects 1 in 88 people. That number is too insane for my brain to fully comprehend it. It’s so high; it’s too high. This April, to help those who have autism, to help Joey, I am donating 10 percent of all Jac & Elsie proceeds to Easter Seals. Any purchase you make will be met with a big, fat grateful heart.
If you’d like to help out a little more, Jac & Elsie has some autism-specific buys — 20 percent of those to to Easter Seals, and not just in April, but all year long.
From the very bottom of my puzzle-shaped heart, I thank you.
Today was a low-key Easter, and it was so nice. My next few weekends are definitely going to be busy (bridal shower No. 2 and a bachelorette party, eep!), and the lounging around lazy bit was delicious.
Naturally, I’ve been thinking about previous Easters and some of my favorites. Two details come to mind.
My birthday is two weeks from today, and often, Easter falls the day after it. Growing up. my family usually had the holiday at our house in conjunction with my birthday. I have a memory (and who knows if it’s from my actual mind or simply because the moment was caught on homevideo and I’ve been able to rewatch it), of sitting on my aunt Jo’s lap. It was time to cut the cake, and she was going to help me. The knife had just come from the dishwasher, and it was HOT. So I grabbed it … and promptly dropped it.
It landed on the table, but this was step one where I swear, it looked like I was trying to kill my poor aunt. My mom wrapped the knife in a towel, and Aunt Jo and I both picked it up — when I proceeded to straighten my arm and wave it around like a lunatic to get her to let go.
Small child waving around big knife like a windmill.
Today, it is my cousin’s birthday. He is 28. We are the two oldest cousins on my father’s side of the family. And yet I have very vivid memories of being a high school senior — Mike was a sophomore, and the others were in junior high, grade school — going on Eater egg hunts in my grandparents’ back yard.
This was taken this past Thanksgiving and includes six cousins, five of whom would participate in the Knock Down Drag Out Easter egg hunts (Joey always had better things to do, like drink pop). The other three are boyfriends and the fiance.
Yes, my aunts would hide eggs for their children and nieces and nephews — until we were old enough to by lotto tickets and porn. And we would go on those Easter egg hunts like pros. There was tackling and racing and shouting and fist-pumps of glee. I swear, I enjoyed the hunt more as a near-adult than I ever did as a legitimate kid.
What are your favorite Easter memories?
Follow my blog with Bloglovin.
See that? It’s a link so I can claim my blog on Bloglovin, my new home for reading blogs. I love the simplicity of Google Reader, and I hate having to get used to a new format (you wouldn’t know it, but I quite like change — apparently just not with readers. Weird).
I see a lot of folks swear by Bloglovin, so I figured I’d give it a go.
Here’s wishing everyone a glorious weekend. I’m going to Jeff’s niece’s … no … I need to get this right … I’m going to MY niece’s fifth birthday party out-of-town tomorrow. It’s a few hours away, and we’ll crash there for some game night’ing after. She has two sisters, so it’s always a bustle of crazy when we visit.
My favorite photo of the birthday girl. My sister-in-law had a Jac & Elsie party at their house last year, and Kate, who is a jewelry lover to the nth degree, couldn’t stop looking at all the sparklies. So I decked her out. Isn’t my mascot adorbs? That sassy little hand on the hip cracks me up.
