MY PROM DATE 1978 and 1979 RESPONDS

O.K. a couple of comments (tongue firmly in cheek)

1) I’m probably wearing that hip blue tux ‘cause it was hip back then. You know me….fashionista kind of guy. Or, maybe Moe Dobbie from Dobbie’s Mens Wear convinced me to wear it. He had me and about 3-4 other guys wear a tux to school about 3-4 different days & we were rewarded with a free tux because we sent him business. He was fond of saying (and I’m not joking)…’I’m Moe Dobbie & I’ll make you clean as a jelly bean, put pep in your step & pride in your stride!” Anecdotally, I hear (at least at BHS in Barrington) the free tux is now a goner. In lieu of that you hand out the cards for the various tux shops (of which there are many) & your name is on the card. If a certain # of your friends return to the shop with the card you get dollars for your tux. That kind of sucks. Does everything have to be a contest? Can’t you just give the kid a free tux for shamelessly plugging your business?

2) Tuxes (despite your great post) are NOT like bygone days. EVERYTHING is an up charge & like buying carpet, and mattresses; two things I hate to purchase in as much as comparison shopping is, well, impossible…well, let’s just place tuxes in the same category. You can’t call around to price shop on the phone, I learned that a few weeks ago. I spent $92 for John’s tux. I really wanted him to wear mine, the same one I was married in (’87…which by the way, still fits, although admittedly the pants are getting a little tight in the crotch…..but I kinda of like that look as it makes me feel young & like I belong in some club downtown. And it’s better than wearing pants that hang ½ way down your ass & show off your butt crack….a trend that no kid seems to realize started in prison where guys were auditioning off their backside but somehow the youth of America thinks that it is cool to walk around with pants to their knees. I’ll bet if they ended up at 26^th & California one night they’d hike their pants up right quick…but I digress somehow). Anyway, my coat is a 44L & John we quickly discovered is a 38 so off to Mr. Tux. By the way, my quip when we walked in about, ‘where’s Mrs.Tux?’ was not funny evidently. I guess they hear that daily, & I thought it was SO original. Bottom line, the type of coat (3 styles,) vest (striped, solid or reverse striped, oh & color) as well as tie (solid, striped & what color, long tie or bow tie) all get baked into the price & of course you feel like an idiot asking the gal (Mrs. Tux?) what the price difference is between a one, two or three button coat so you shut up & just hand over your credit card, which is what I feel like I do a lot with my kids so why should prom be any different? I got even though….evidently they danced so much & it was SO hot that his date said he sweats more than her Greek father. The mom who hosted his sleep over had the girls march upstairs to change and the boys were herded to the basement whereby they were each given a garbage bag to label & deposit said tux. The next day that bag came home quite ripe & I’d be less than honest if I didn’t tell you I took some solace in seeing it returned to the Mr. Tux in that condition.

Oh, and as far as your question….I have no idea what we did the day after the prom. Judy, I have a tough time telling you what I did last Friday night let alone May 26^th 1979. I don’t think though we would have had a band car wash on a Sunday though. Weren’t Sundays back then still a day of rest?

I remember your prom was at Botsford Inn, small room, opening to a courtyard. The theme was Nights in White Satin. My mom commented on the theme & I probably smirked under my breath like Smutley in the Whacky Racers cartoon. Ours was in A Squared at Campus Inn which I thought was a great call as no class ever seemed to migrate out that way. Our theme, picked by the class VP was ‘We May Never Walk this way Again.’ I remember two or maybe three ambulances…Someone dislocated his knee which might have had something to do with the “pre-game” he & his friends had. I don’t remember why the other two came…I think the other was someone was pretty drunk. Some had rooms at Campus Inn I think to get ready in (at least that’s how they sold it to mom/dad) so there was a lot of back/forth to the rooms/party. As your daughter can attest, it’s different these days. Once you’re in, you’re in & there’s no leaving the event.

And just to keep the spirit of ’79 alive at our 30^th "Jimmy Smith" dropped like a rock at the bar at Genetti’s & there was much consternation as to whether or not an ambulance should be called. You’d think in our late 40’s we’d know better. I guess it was blood sugar related as Jimmie’s a diabetic.

Greg

PROM 2011

Beautiful Prom 2011
Prom 1978 Nice dress. I appear to be carrying a mini bridal bouquet. Nice blue tux, Greg.

Perhaps you haven't been to a prom since the BeeGees had a top-ten hit. Or maybe you are so old you wore something called a Gunne Sax to your prom (which is almost as ugly as a real gunny sack by the way). Or maybe you are a bit younger-- a member of the Footloose generation and your kids are not yet going to proms. At any rate, I am here to tell you what a prom looks like these days, at least from a mom's perspective

As Grace is dating a Senior, she went to the Senior Prom last weekend and here's how things look these days, at least in our little corner of the world. Some of this is the same across the country I'm sure.

How he asks: It is no longer acceptable to sit next to a girl on the radiators (that's where we hung out at my high school) and say , "So, has anyone asked you to prom yet?" and then if the girl says "no" to say, "Want to go to prom with me?"

No no no my friend. Those days are over. Now, one must ask a girl to prom in a very creative and fun way. Skywriting is good. Texting is bad. An ad on a billboard is good. Calling on the phone? No way. Even sane girls (like my own) will insist a boy jump through this hoop. When her nice boyfriend Billy said, "So how do you want me to ask you to prom" (a ridiculously moot point as she had already bought the dress and isn't asking that question asking to prom?) she said, "You have to come up with something."

Yes, this is weird and kind of appalling to those of us who grew up in a simpler and more egalitarian age. But there it is. And that is why Billy was in our back yard on Easter morning laying out plastic eggs to spell something. He paused to consult the graph paper in his hand and Jeff looking out the window said, "What the hell? Doesn't the kid know how to spell prom?" Turns out Billy does know how to spell prom but having the heart of an engineer he had plotted the word out on graph paper to make sure he had enough eggs. Awwww. And in the golden egg he had written on a scrap of paper, "Will you go to prom with me?" so sweet. Of course she said yes.

The Dress: Well you know of course the girl must hunt for the perfect dress. That much has not changed. And you must have a dress that is unique--that has also not changed--and I was reminded of the subterfuge I was once a part of involving a dress shop that would not sell the same dress to girls from the same school and my going to buy a dress for a friend under an assumed name and I was not proud of that memory and I apologize to Karen Anderson. But anyhoo, today the girls have a more sophisticated technological way to deal with this problem. They set up a Facebook site called, "Don't steal my dress, slut" and they each post their dresses on there so no one will wear the same dress. Now it turns out that in this case, the term "slut" is an affectionate one. I guess this is like black people using the "n" word--because much to my surprise this is a kind and gentle site in which the other girls say things like, "Oh, that will look so good on you!" and "I was going to get that but since you already have it I will buy a different one!" Don't believe everything you read about mean girls.

The dresses are still long. Some are quite umm, sophisticated. Some look like something Edyta from Dancing with the Stars might wear. No one wears lace collars and sleeves that cover every square inch of skin like we did. Thankfully.

The Tux: You will be shocked, shocked to learn boys no longer wear colored tuxes with ruffles that have been "tipped" to match their date's dress. About the wildest thing you'll see is a white tux. Thankfully.

The Venue: They still have proms at cheezy hotel ballrooms with mediocre food. This much has not changed.

The Groups: This is different. You NEVER go with just your date to prom. You must organize a large and unruly group of friends and acquaintances, many of whom do not like each other or hold grudges against each other. There will be angry texts and maybe even tears and lots of drama. And the girls are worse. In this way, you can actually find yourself rejected by a group even when you have managed to procure a date and asked her in a clever way. Whew! It's tough to be a guy these days. When Grace told me about some of the current drama I suggested she just go to the prom with Billy. She looked at me as if I had suggested that I go to the prom with her. So you see, the group is a must.

Limos and drivers and buses oh my: Because you are traveling in a pack of 20 or so kids, you can no longer go to the prom in you date's Pinto with the faux wood panels nor can you borrow his dad's Ford Fairlane. No silly, this will not do. You need a large vehicle that you and 18 of your closest friends will fit in. The kid in charge will wait til the last minute to book the vehicle and you will end up paying an exorbitant amount of money for a round-trip to the prom in a limo that looks like it has not been cleaned since the weekend before when it was used for a bachelor party that resembled The Hangover. If you are really lucky, you will get a surly, resentful limo driver who is not happy to be carting suburban children around town and he will take you to a dark part of the city and demand more money if you ever want to get home. This is called "a life lesson" and will make a great story for years to come. As a parent, you don't really mind any of this if it means you are not stuck driving the after after after prom party shift.

After Prom Activities: Prom never ends when it is over. It really lasts a whole weekend and there are trips to Great America or the Dells (Wisconsin's family version of Las Vegas) and jaunts to someone's lakehouse. A good friend who has an older daughter warned me about this. Her advice was to decide well in advance how much of this you can stomach and lay down the rules before all the planning begins. Which I did. No overnight trips I said, you are not even a senior. Then when your kid comes to you with a well-thought out plan and complex schedule involving responsible chaperones you can cave and let her go anyway. Which I did.

So there you have it. Prom 2011 is not a whole lot different from Prom 1978 as I see it. You still have a lot of young people dressing up like grownups for one night and lurching around on the dance floor to a DJ. Moms still ooh and ahh over their babies all dressed up for the night and take way too many pictures of their babies squiniting into the sun.

And prom is still a night you never forget.

Everyone's name in this story has been changed except Arnold, me, and Maria)

Okay, okay now that he's all over the news again I think it is time to reveal my own Arnold story (for the few of you who have not already heard it). Yes, I have met the man--had dinner with him in fact--but I did not have an affair with him.

The year was 1981, the place Madrid. I was there for my junior year abroad. He was there filming Conan the Barbarian (a movie I still have never seen). His cast and crew were living at the Villa Magna, a fancy high-rise near the University and my ex-roommate "Wilma", a fancy girl from Louisville had moved out of our boarding house and into the Villa Magna over the Christmas break. Being blonde and American the Conan Crowd quickly found Wilma and she became friends with a lot of them and had parties with them that we were all invited to or sometimes we just all hung out in the Villa Magna bar.

My friend "Mary" (no that's really her name, she doesn't care if I tell this story) started dating one of the stuntmen, a nice dumb kid from LA whose name I still see in movie credits from time to time. He's the guy in the cowboy hat on the left. The guy on the right is also a stuntman, Tony something. The girls are classmates.

One night that winter, Wilma called me with a last-minute dinner party invitation. She was hosting Arnold and his buddy Franco and Wilma's roommate, "Catherine" (the fabulously wealthy Belgian girl who had been sent to Spain to get over the death of her Grand Prix race-car driver boyfriend who'd been killed in a race....you can't make this stuff up), had to cancel at the last minute. Did I want to come? Heck yes I wanted to come. It was free food and I was always a starving student in those days. It was a low-key night. The guys were exhausted from a tough day of shooting on horseback and I don't remember much about it except that I ate more than either of them which was kind of funny.

The parties were more fun-- an eclectic mix of American actors, crew-members from all over, and the students at our Spanish school who were mostly American and European, and our Spanish friends. At one party, I remember, Arnold grabbed Mary's ass as she was introduced to him. This was just his way of being friendly apparently. He also would work out in the apartment gym with my friend Wilma and give her fitness tips that also included a butt-grab--purely technical of course--to demonstrate what she should be working on.

I'm a little sad to say that he never tried to grab my behind. It may be because I was with my Spanish boyfriend when I met him the first time or it may be, as Mary says, he sensed I would deck him if he tried. Of course it can't be because my ass is not grab-worthy--it still is and it surely was in 1981.

Anyhoo, even then there were rumors that he was cheating on Maria (they were not married yet, still dating) with one of the European girls from my school and rumors about his co-star. I've been thinking about all this as the tawdry news unfolds. I remember thinking back then that surely even Maria, a cosmopolitan member of the Kennedy family would not be okay with this. Maybe I should have sent Maria an anonymous letter then. Maybe she could have avoided this.

Who know? She probably has received a lot of anonymous letters over the years and chose to ignore them.

Which is too bad. I feel badly for her, and her children, and the housekeeper, and I feel even worse for the 14-year-old "love child" who surely is the most innocent victim of all in this mess.

But I sure don't feel bad for Arnold. I don't suppose anyone feels bad for him.

Except maybe Tiger.

THE ZOO

"When you write a book about us I want my name to be 'Elizabeth'," my former roommate said at our recent annual reunion. She brings this idea up every year, but I'm not sure what the book might be about. I mean, how much does everyone want to hear about how great my college roommates are and how lucky I am that the eight of us are all still in touch?

Well, maybe you'd like to hear a little, so I'll blog about them.

First, I have to tell you that we all met (for the most part) our freshman year at the University of Michigan. We all had come to Ann Arbor knowing next to no one. We lived on the fifth floor of Williams house in West Quad and soon found out everyone referred to our hall as "the zoo" as it had until recently been where the football players lived and since they acted like animals --well they got the nickname. People would say, "Oh you live up in the zoo" and after awhile we just started calling ourselves that. We even had sweatshirts made to look like a sorority sweatshirts with the Zeta Omicron Omicron letters on the front. We were well-known for having parties with way too many men and too few women. It was a formula that worked for us.

We have been getting together nearly every year for the past 25 years. We are all in long-term marriages (mine is the longest I think at 27) and we all have kids. Between us we have 20 children (four of whom are named Nicholas) and 3 step-children and too many college degrees to keep track of including one MD, two RNs, three MBAs, one MA in landscape architecture, and a degree in international finance (there are more as some of us have multiples but you get the idea).

When we get together we do pretty much the same thing every year, as follows:

1. Tell the same stories: most of the stories are about boys in our past. Who went out with whom, who moved where to follow a boy, who was found in a closet with whom at which party etc. Sometimes, since we mix stuff up over time we need to untangle entire sagas. Three of the guys we knew in college are now husbands. There is some overlap.

2. Laugh until we pee: usually this happens when one of us says something ridiculously funny (unintentionally). This year that award went to the following exchange: "Has anyone gone through the change yet?" "I sure went through the change on that toll-road."

3. Cry: We don't always cry but we do when someone has had a tough year or a toufh loss such as a parent, a sibling, or a pet. This year someone had a sad story about a life-threatening illness she's been battling. So we cried.

4. Discuss who we would like to have sex with if we were gay: Ever since one of us came out of the closet years ago, we feel, for some reason, compelled to have this discussion. This year, I have to say almost everyone agreed on Kalinda from "The Good Wife" and Gwyneth Paltrow.

So there you have it. A brief discussion, if not a full novel on my awesome college friends. Some day I may write that novel. I could start with the story of a beautiful blonde with dazzling blue eyes from Traverse City named "Elizabeth" who grew up to marry the dashing international financier "John" with even bluer eyes and they had three children, one of whom got mixed up in a banana caper.... well you'll have to wait for the novel to see how that goes.

THAT DRAWER and BAND POLOS

Now that we are hip deep in the electronic age pretty much every house has "That drawer". You know the one. The one where old (and current) chargers go to die. If you have a few cell phones, laptops, and digital cameras in your house you have a bunch of these cords in a tangle somewhere. Add to the mess that the teens in your house upgrade their phones every few years so you have the old ones in there too. Add a husband who has just moved from a Blackberry to an iPhone and now you have even more.

This drawer makes you crazy. Every time you go to look for your own phone charger (for the oldest phone in the house--somehow you always have the oldest phone in the house) you paw through the mess and think, "Can't someone come up with a better way to store these?"

You might even try a charging station but this will not work at all. Why? Because even if you make a nice little spot to charge things your children will still insist on charging their phones all over the house. So you will give up and go back to the drawer.

One day, you will have had enough and in a rare moment when all the kids are home at once, you pull out the mess of cords and hold each one up saying, "How about this? Does this belong to any of you?" and they will clutch their own chargers to their breasts and say , "No. It's not mine," and you, who have just set aside your own phone and camera chargers and your husband's new phone charger, will with great confidence and a feeling of accomplishment, toss the old stuff in the garbage. You have a tiny twinge of guilt because you are pretty sure you are supposed to recycle old chargers but really, sometimes you just say "screw it" and throw things away willy-nilly and irresponsibly (the latest earth infraction you have been committing without even knowing it is batteries--who knew you were supposed to 'dispose of them responsibly'? and how would one do that?) But I digress...

Now you have a clean and orderly drawer and you actually know what device belongs to each and every cord in the house and you are proud and feel clean and good and righteous.

Until.

Until that morning when you are all rushing around to get out the door and your husband who is not usually part of this mix but is today because he has to fly to Nashville to make a presentation, says to the room at large, "Has anyone seen my laptop charger?"

You look up from putting your flip-flops on in preparation of driving the second shift of kids to school and gauge the crowd. Should you confess at once or play dumb and pray the teens who are stuffing their backpacks and slipping into their hoodies do not give you up. After a moment you see they are not taking the bait. They are good children and would not shout out "Mom threw a bunch of those away." No. They know this will result in a scene and a scene could make them late for school. So they stay loyally mum for mum, so to speak.

Out of sheer desperation you go upstairs and rummage through some silly bag of parts you once bought called an "iGo" and you try to plug nibs into your husband's laptop and though you find one that fits you cannot find the other end that should plug into the wall. Still, you try to sell this device to your husband. "Here is something that fits! Perhaps you could get the rest of this at the airport!" But by now he is in no mood and as he approaches a melt-down you make your escape shouting, "Gotta take the kids to school!"

As you drive the kids to school, leaving him to search through the house for his charger that you are fairly certain you threw away, you come up with a dozen reasons why this is not your fault. It's not like you went into his laptop bag and took the charger and threw it away. No. He must have left it out for weeks for it to have ended up in "the drawer." This is what he gets for being so careless. As you drive back from school you hope desperately that the cab will have come and taken this problem, I mean , your husband to the airport.

But alas, the cab is just arriving when you pull in the driveway and you steel yourself to go in and confess and try to help the man you love, the man who supports you all, find his stupid laptop charger because really, without it he cannot make a presentation to new clients in Nashville, and he will not get paid, and you will all starve and it will be your fault because you just had to clean "the drawer."

However, much to your surprise, when you go in the house your husband is smiling. He found his charger and in fact is rather sheepish about it because he found it under a pile of crap on his own dresser and you are too relieved to give him a hard time about it. And you don't have to because he laughs and says, "My god, I'm as bad as the kids when they wait until about 10 minutes before the band concert to realize they don't have black pants that fit and their band polo is in the laundry," and you resist the temptation to say, "Yes, exactly," because you know this could have turned out very badly for you like the unfortunate knife-drawer purge of 2008 which still comes up from time to time.

And as you kiss him goodbye and send him on his way, you wonder what the moral of this story is--is it that you should not throw away old electronic stuff? is it that no matter what happens at home it is mom's fault? or could it just be that the other people in your house need to keep track of their shit a little better?

Nah, now that's just crazy talk.

ROYAL WEDDING: THEN AND NOW

Ever since it was announced that Prince William will be marrying this spring, those of us of a certain age cannot help but reminisce about when our Princess Di got married. We can't help it, it was such a wonderful, beautiful fairy-tale wedding. And we can't help but compare that wedding to this wedding. Here are some of my observations:

That Princess: I loved Diana. She was so sweet, so charming, so my age. She worked for a living even though she came from some distant royally connected family. She was shy and kept her chin down. She had short, sassy hair.

This Princess: I don't know why and it is not fair to say this, but I don't love Kate. I think it's because she is (like most girls in the media these days) just a little too slick. She would never be caught wearing a see-through floral skirt with the sun behind her. Her teeth are perfect. Her makeup is too. She is a party girl and I just cannot imagine our Princess Di throwing back tequila shots (well, not in her twenties...she did that later). Kate was working, sort of, for her family's business --a party supply company--which is just not as noble as taking care of little children. And, (now this is just catty), she has no upper lip. She has predictable hair.

That Prince: Charles was a douche. Even then we were pretty sure he did not really love Diana. He married her because his mum told him it was time to marry someone and Di happened to be the virgin standing in front of him when the music stopped in the game of musical-chairs-date-a-prince game. In his defence he was never parented very well. But still, he should have manned up and told his mum he'd get married when he fell in love.

This Prince: I like the boy. He is darling and was so brave when his mum died. He was loved by his mom and that goes a long way toward making a man who can love properly. He does stuff that shows he understands the gravity of his inherited role and also the importance of appearing a little less ostentatious--for example his choice to maintain a home without servants. It's cute. Not the smartest thing but cute.

The virgin thing then: Doctors had to examine Princess Diana to verify that she was a virgin before she could marry Charles (who was notoriously not a virgin). WTF? No one knew why really--I mean it wasn't a hundred years ago, just 30, and everyone was having a lot of sex. But for some reason, poor Diana was expected not to have and was subjected to this humiliation. It was implied that it was just a rule and there was nothing anyone could do about it.

The virgin thing now: Apparently it is no longer a requirement which means someone could have done something about this requirement 30 years ago. This is irritating --not because I think Kate should be a virgin but for the implied fact that someone (the Queen?) could have dropped this qualification back in 1981 and saved us all a lot of trouble (not to mention Diana's life). Old Chuck could have married the icky love of his life and Diana would have been free to marry a commoner and live a nice long life with a man who actually loved her. Now that would have been a fairy-tale ending.

The ride to the church then: Was that not the best part of the whole damn day? Watching our bee-yoo-tiful princess in the glass-covered horse-drawn carriage as she rode to Westminster Abbey? I loved that part.

The ride to the church now: Kate is taking a car. Not sure why. According to the Huffington Post, William wanted to save money but the Queen pointed out that the whole Royal Guard will be on hand that day anyway so there's no savings. Then someone said maybe security but no, the bride and groom will be going in an open horse and carriage after the wedding. So who knows. All I know is that I agree with Grace who said, "Not going in the glass-covered coach!!! That's the whole reason you marry a prince!" Exactly.

And finally:

The marriage then: Well, unfortunately it was a sham. A farce and a myth. We kind of knew that going into it (as did Diana) but we really, really hoped for the best(as did Diana). But it was not to be.

The marriage now: It looks like the real deal. Kate and Will are good friends and have known each other for years. No one pushed them into this. It would be lovely if we could get a royal who could stay happily married. It's been a while since that's happened. So I wish those two crazy kids all the luck in the world.

And I know our Princess will be smiling down on their special day, wishing the same thing for her little boy.

GARBANZO BEANS AND TABLECLOTHS

To be a parent is to find yourself saying things you just never thought you'd say like, "You know you can't iron the tablecloth when it's already on the dining room table, right?" and to have one of your children look at you with that "duh" look but then say with not much conviction "Of course I know that!" only to later remove the tablecloth and find the very distinct imprint of an iron seared into the fine wood of your only piece of Ethan Allen furniture in the house.

It is also to come home from a nice dinner out with your husband to find strange things around the house like the above picture. You won't really know why that is there but you are pretty sure that one of your offspring constructed it for what seemed to be a very good reason at the time, not that it is a random piece of modern art. And perhaps when you go looking for your clipboard the next day you will find it inexplicably covered in aluminum foil.

Some how these things always crack me up although I know they are not always funny to everyone. My own mother would have had a heart-attack if she'd caught me ironing on the dining room table. For some reason, ruining wood (by spilling milk or not using a coaster or taping something to it) was about the most egregious act you could commit upon our house when I was a kid. I don't know why that was. Was wood more scarce then? Were people judged by the quality of their wood furniture? I don't know. I just know it was a crime in my home just shy of dripping candle wax on the bee-yoo-tiful red shag rug in the basement, the one that matched the Early American Bi-Centennial couch and lead to the now legendary story of my mother finding the said wax and pointing to it in horror saying in a tone of voice usually reserved for pedophiles, "CANDLE WAX!"

But I digress. I was talking about funny things you find around your house or find yourself saying like:

Me: Hey, who put an open can of garbanzo beans back in the pantry!
Child 1: What are garbanzo beans?
Child 2: I hate garbanzo beans.
Child 3: I don't even know how to use a can opener. You probably did it old lady!

All of which are salient points. Notice not one of them just said, "I didn't do that" (future lawyers?) and then you vaguely remember making a bean salad a few weeks before and deciding at the last minute to leave the garbanzo beans out of the recipe as Child 2 does indeed hate them and that quite possibly Child 3 is right and it was YOU who put an open can of garbanzo beans back in the pantry but you are also quite sure that before you had children you never did such things-- so really, it IS their fault.

The morning after you have discovered the nail file taped to the desk and your aluminum-foil-clad clipboard one of your children will show you the fabulous video she made of herself playing the piano and you will be pleased and proud but most of all you will be happy to figure out that the nail file contraption was built to prop the iPhone up while it filmed her (though you still to this day don't know why your clipboard was covered in aluminum foil).

And that is why it is fun to be a parent because even when they are teenagers they will still be doing wacky things that confound you and amuse you --if you are not overly fond of your wood furniture and you don't really need your clipboard.

TALENTED FRIENDS AND FAMILY

I want to tell you about two new creative ventures launched this month. One is from my niece Layne who started a house-staging business (Chicago area) and has mastered the art of the total room transformation for well under $500. She also seeks and finds fun vintage housewares and sells them, like that cool glass bottle collection above.

Layne blogs about design here:

The Jones Fix

and sells stuff here

Jones Style Etsy

The other new amazing business is from my friend Coop (we've called her that since college because her maiden name is Cooper...isn't that incredibly creative of us?)She has launced a website showing her many talents as a water-color artist (sample above) and YES she can do a fabulous job of painting a picture of your house or your parents' house (think anniversary gift).


Check her out here:

Picture to Picture
Good luck to both you gals because the world can always use some more creative beauty in it!

MARY AND MARTHA AND TAKEOUT

(sorry, the first time I published this the end got cut off--here it is in it's entirety)

A week or so ago I was having martinis with my church group, the Mary Circle. We named ourselves after Mary in the bible story--not that Mary but the one whose sister is Martha. And it's such a great story I thought I'd tell it again for those of you who may have forgotten it or never heard it.

Here's how it goes:

Jesus was invited to a meet-and-greet at Mary and Martha's house to talk about his ideas and maybe do a little fund-raising. A bunch of neighbors had heard about this guy and his crazy ideas of loving everyone so they figured, what the hell, they'd stop by and see what it was about and everyone knew that Martha and Mary threw a great cocktail party so why not.

As the house filled up, Martha and Mary got a little nervous about entertaining so many people and they ran around the kitchen trying to make little appetizers for everyone. Martha especially liked those cubes of cream cheese wrapped in corned beef but Mary had forgotten to get toothpicks so she was having trouble with it. Finally, Mary got annoyed with the whole thing and figuring she would miss the party if she stayed there trying to help Matha make everything "perfect" she just left the kitchen and joined the crowd in the living room. She tried to get her sister to join her, "Hey Martha, ditch this and let's go see what this Jesus guy has to say." Martha was annoyed with her younger sister and said in a very sarcastic, martyr way, "Go right ahead, I can do this by myself." But she was pretty ticked about it.

Mary went into the living room and sat right down and Jesus's feet. She was fascinated by him. She loved every word he had to say and she stared up at him like he was George Clooney himself. She forgot all about the appetizers she was supposed to be passing and the cosmos she was supposed to be mixing and just listened to him talk about loving everyone.

After a while, Martha came in with the appetizers and finding Mary at Jesus's feet, just sitting there (she hadn't even passed out the cocktail napkins) she had had enough. Jesus could see she was agitated and said, "Martha, what's wrong, dear?" (he was like that, always calling people dear even though he was much younger ) and Martha blurted out in her best tattle-tale voice, "I have been in the kitchen for the past hour trying to make nice food for you and Mary is just sitting there listening to you and not even helping!" She was a little sorry she'd tattled but felt a little happy knowing she would soon be vindicated when Jesus told Mary to help her sister.

Much to her surprise (and that of Mary) Jesus did not chastise Mary. Instead he said, "Martha, come sit down with Mary. That's where you belong, here with your guests, not in the kitchen! Mary gets it."

I love that story and I love my Mary Circle friends and I love that we try to be more like Mary but mostly we are like Martha (hey someone has to make the food) and I love that even Jesus wants you to get out of the kitchen and just order takeout for dinner sometimes.

MOMS IN PAJAMAS

This is a rerun. I am posting it since it is mentioned in an article in my local paper today:

Winter 2008
On Wednesday I drove Grace to school because the bus never showed up after a night of snow. As I came back down our street I saw Coffee Friend 1 out shoveling her driveway. I stopped the van and rolled the window down.

"Can you believe the wife?" I said referring to the drama that has been unfolding all week about our incredibly inept/corrupt governor Rod Blagojevich.

"I haven't heard the details about her, what?"

"I skimmed the complaint. I'll forward it to you. They have her on tape yelling over her husband's shoulder 'You tell that F***er he can forget his deal on the F***ing Cubs if he won't fire that editorial staff!'"

"Holy shit, I knew she was a bitch," Coffee Friend 1 said as she leaned on the handle of her shovel.

"Yeah, but really, who does that? Who stands over their husband's shoulder while he's on a business call telling him what to say?"

We both shook our heads, trying to imagine the scenario. It was really one of the most shocking revelations in a shocking week of revelations. We talked a few minutes more about the scandal, the possiblity that Rahm Emmanuel dropped the dime and the prospect of hearing him on a tape cursing like Ari from "Entourage" the character based on his real-life brother, and then I drove on.

As I pulled into the driveway it occurred to me that the entire conversation had taken place while we were both in our pajamas. Both of us had been wearing winter coats and boots over our pajamas, bed-head hair, and not a stitch of makeup (by the way, that expression makes no sense, makeup does not come in stitches).

This is not that shocking for me. I can often be found in my pajamas until 10:00 or so (I am right now actually, polar bear flannel, thank you) and even on my wedding day I don't think I wore anything more than mascara. But for Coffee Friend 1...well she was a model in her youth. I'm sure there was a time in her life she wouldn't have been caught dead outside un-showered and in p.j.'s.

I thought about this the next day when I drove another child to school for band and I saw a mom in the pajamas/boots/winter ensemble as she helped her special needs child on to the bus and I realized, consciously for the first time, that I LOVE seeing my peers like this.

To be sure, I usually see them fully dressed, coiffed, and made-up, and many of them could audition for a part in "Desperate Housewives" but I like them best this way--when they've just rolled out of bed. They look more vulnerable, more approachable, more human, and much younger. Like a sleeping child, an un-groomed mom is the sweetest mom of all.

This made me feel better about the time I went out to get the paper wearing the shorts of one summer pajama set and the top to another, my sad post-breast-feeding boobs hanging low in their natural braless state only to look up after scooping up the paper to see my children's principal as he jogged by our house. I played it cool, "Good morning, Mark," I said. "Good morning, Judy," he said as he continued on. He never spoke of it. What happens in the driveway stays in the driveway.

I wonder if Patti Blagojevich is ever caught in her jammies. Probably not. She is the daughter of a prominent Illinois politician who bought the governor job for her husband when she was only 35 so she's probably been the picture of an entitled brat her whole life. She probably hasn't taken out the trash or shoveled a driveway in her entire life or, God forbid, been caught in her jammies. And therein lies much of the problem I suspect.

So here's to all my mom friends today. If I see you in the 'hood with your hair rumpled and your snowflake patterned jammies peaking out from under your coat as you run kids to school or fetch the paper, rest assured you've never been more beautiful to me.

READING LOGS: CIVIL DISOBEDIENCE

So there's this new movie called Race to Nowhere which is about how some of us have been pressuring our children to be high achievers at school and participate in many activities and that maybe this is something that seems like a good idea but has gotten out of control and our kids are buckling under the pressure and falling apart.



The movie is causing quite a stir among those who have been uncomfortable with this all along (me) and those who want to keep pushing the kids to further greatness (Tiger-Mom.) Here's an excerpt about the movie from NPR :


The film is becoming something of a rallying point for frustrated parents, who are now pushing for change from the bottom up. "Just last week we had a parent get up and say, 'You know, at some point it comes down to civil disobedience. If a bunch of us just say, 'We're not having our young kids, who are in elementary school, do the homework,' or, 'We're going to keep them home on the test day,' " Abeles [the film's producer] says. "I think that you're seeing parents and educators feeling much more empowered."



Yeah, baby, civil disobedience! I'm a fan. Sometimes I purposely keep a DVD past the due date and just say the heck with late fees I may never see the end of The Kids Are Alright if I turn it in on time! And more than once I have even gone through the red light at the high school parking lot on Lake at midnight when there is no traffic and I have practiced saying, "Yes, officer, I know I did that. It was a conscious act of civil disobedience because that stoplight is too damned long and besides it is just a sign of oppression from the man."


But much braver than those trivial acts, I have allowed my kids, nay encouraged my kids, to make up stuff for their reading logs!! Oh yeah. It's true. Come and get me DCFS!


That's right, I NEVER made my kids fill out the reading log truthfully. (In case you are not familiar with the reading log, it is required from K-8 that kids in our district read X number of pages each month and log it. Then parents have to sign off on the log) They would take those cursed things at the end of the month, look around their rooms and write down a few titles of the several books they would have been reading anyway and make up stats about pages read. Then I would sign it.


The reason I do this is NOT because I am opposed to reading. Quite the contrary. The reason I do this is because I think it is ridiculous to require kids do something they should just be doing anyway like eating, breathing, and reading. And I am thoroughly convinced that if you require kids to do something that is inherently fun you will immediately take the fun out of it and I will not be a party to anything that takes the fun out of reading. A reading log is the biggest buzz killer ever invented and only serves to make kids think reading is just another school chore in their lives. It so effectively takes the fun out of whatever you have to log that I bet if you made your kids eat 20 M&Ms a day AND keep a log of it by the end of a month they'd never eat another M&M again.


Now, as I said, I do NOT underestimate the value of reading--quite the opposite. I'm aware that how much a kid reads is the number one predictor of school success-- which is why the academic world wants our kids to read and thus hit upon the diabolical reading log.


I suspect I am not the only one out there who has fudged a reading log but perhaps you are concerned that your kids won't read enough without it. So here, for those of you with kids young enough to still screw up, is what I did that seems to have worked pretty well :


-Read to them every day: I read to Atticus every day from the day he was a week old. Not kidding. I did this selfishly because I liked it. I'd waited years to have a kid of my own on my lap to read to. When Grace came along, I read to one kid and Jeff read to the other. Every night. When Lilly came along, we got Atticus in on the act and he started reading to the girls. Now of course they just read to themselves but the fact is they do read. A lot.


-Never say no to reading: I also had a rule as they grew--no matter what, if they asked me to read to them, I would stop whatever I was doing and read. I would stop folding clothes to read "Good Night Moon" or I would turn the stove off to read "Noisy Nora" It did not matter what I was doing, it was the one request that was always honored.


-Never say no to books: I never gave in when my kids begged for toys and candy (my standard answer was, "is it your birthday --do you have money?" this works by the way, they hardly ever asked for stuff), but I WOULD buy them a book if they asked. (If you cannot afford this luxury, subsitute a trip to the library.)


All three of my kids are avid readers--but it is not because of the stupid reading logs. It is in spite of them.


So I encourage you to fight the system a little and say no to some of the nonsense. Who knows, if we band together maybe we could get rid of the word searches and the map coloring. A girl can dream.

MAKE SOME MUSIC

I want to let you all know about my Dutch friend Laurent's new website. He's offering his guitar playing musical talents online. Check out his new site and maybe some day when you need a guitar line for your song you'll remember him! You can even hear some of his music on this site. So check it out!

http://iplayguitaronline.com/

DOOZY

Hey gang, check this out from my dear friend Christie Mellor who is the author of the fabulous "Three Martini Playdate" and a friend I made by stalking on the internet. This talented author is also a wonderful performer AND one of the best moms I know. So check out her video and if you live in the LA area, get your butt over to one of her Thursday night performances at the Culver Hotel (details below).

Tell her I sent you.

All I Really Saw

An original Doozy tune from our upcoming CD, "Heavy Sugar."

If you like it, do pass it along to a hundred of your closest pals, won't you?

See you at the Culver Hotel!

Every Thursday Night

7:30 - 11:00

9400 Culver Boulevard

Culver City, CA

And become a "fan" on Facebook, where you can find out about all upcoming Doozy events!

http://www.facebook.com/pages/Doozy/78616562932

DARK DAYS OF WINTER

A while back Lilly was complaining that I repeat myself a lot. I do. I repeat myself a lot. So I said, "Look, tell me the top three things I repeat the most and I'll try not to say them too much."

She cocked her head and thought a minute. "Make me a Cosmo. I'm going to take a nap. Can't you get a ride?"

In my defense, I never say, "Make me a Cosmo," to the kids. Not one of my kids can handle a martini shaker properly. No, I say that to Jeff. Or more accurately, I say "Cosmo me." But I do announce I'm taking a nap a lot and for sure I ask, "Can't you get a ride?"

That's because here in Glenview, the kids need a ride ALL THE FLIPPING TIME and even though they are all going to the same three places--The Glen (our shopping area); the High School; or back to our neighborhood--and even though they all have cell phones with the number programmed in of every kid they have met since pre-school, not one of them, no not one single one will use said cell phone to text a friend and say, "Hey, can I catch a ride with you?"

Which is why all of us moms are driving the same two miles to and from and saying "Can't you get a ride?" and waving to each other. Of course, we're almost as bad because at nearly every cocktail party and school event, we talk about the absurdity and wastefulness of this practice and say, "Call me if you need me to get the kids," but we never really do it and I don't know why except no one wants to be the mom of the kid who is constantly bumming rides.

This little scenario gets worse this time of year because it gets dark at 4:30. And it turns out that even though electricity has been around a long time and we all stay up much past 4:30 in the winter, our bodies don't really like it. We don't care to go out in the freezing cold and wipe large amounts of snow off our cars and drive around on roads like ice-rinks in the wintry darkness. We have no problem in the summer when it is light until 9:30 dropping kids and picking kids up but this time of year we rather hate this part of the job.

Recently I learned that a lot of my mom friends hate the winter for just this reason. I learned I am not the only one who counts the trips off in her head during the winter, "One trip to middle school, one round trip to piano, then one last trip to the high school," and then when that last trip is done, after counting heads and making sure all the kids are home, I lock the door so none will escape and race upstairs to throw my pajamas on.

So today, if you are wishing it were summer or light out or that your children weren't quite so active as you shuttle them around, please know you aren't the only one that feels that way this time of year. And also know that tonight, if all goes well, I'll be in my pajamas by around 6:30.

THAT Mom

Just produced my first movie!

Check it out and pass it on.

Judy

iPad myPad

If there's one thing I can do well it's pontificate and pronounce. No, wait, that's two things. Well, I do them a lot. I think of a brilliant idea, or notion, or theory and I turn it around in my head and then I pronounce. Prompted by a mere nod of your head I will go on (and on just a bit). I will polish the hypothesis then tell it afresh to someone else and someone else and someone else and unfortunately to you again (oops sorry). I'm especially insightful and eloquent if I've had a martini or two (and prone to tell an old theory again).

I have lots of theories that I hold on to tightly some times for years. Most of you have heard them. Many times. I hold on tight right until I don't. And then I've been known to drop the theory, take the opposite side and argue for it just as vehemently.

But I can't think of any of these golden nuggets I have ever dropped as quickly as I did on Christmas day.

So here's my original gem (as if you haven't heard it): On newspapers in print vs. electronic form: Ahem. I know it makes more sense to get your morning news on a computer and I see that my kids are pretty comfortable with that. And I know that the day is fast approaching when papers will not be printed. But electronic news is not for me. No sirree. I LOVE having my New York Times at the end of the driveway. I LOVE hearing it hit the driveway with a thump then go out in my bathrobe (no coat, year round, that is my rule, no matter how cold) and then come back to the counter and unsheathe it and dive in, coffee cup in hand. That's right. That's how I've always done it and that's how I'll always do it. Go ahead younger folk, kids, and early adapters--feel free to get your news on your silly Smart Phone or you goofy iPhone or your little laptop or whatever. But I will be sticking to the old newsprint. That's just the way I roll. I'm old school and proud of it. I love my print paper and I am so grateful for those who print it and deliver it to me every day.

Then on Christmas morning Jeff gave me an iPad. An iPad! I never even dreamed of having one. I mean it's cool but I'm the last one in the house to get anything electronically cool. I have a cell phone that's two-kids old (moms will know what that means) and I can't even figure out how to text properly on it. But there it was, under the tree--an iPad! In about ten minutes I had that puppy up and running and sliding my hand across it in that satisfying way they show on the commercial, making stuff bigger then smaller with magic spider fingers. Soon I was surfing Facebook from the couch (oh, THAT's how you get addicted to Facebook)

After a while we moved the post-unwrapping party into the kitchen for coffee and newspaper time. Jeff volunteered to shovel out to get the paper for me. While he was gone I leaned over, hit about three different buttons on my iPad and downloaded the free New York Times app. By the time he brought that stupid, enormous, environmentally unsound hunk of tree-pulp covered in snow behemoth to the counter I was already reading the front page in vivid color, in print big enough for my aging eyes, with that nice back light, on my nice little lightweight iPad.

I sipped my coffee and looked up at Jeff, as if I were surprised he'd bothered to get that relic from last century at all--"Thanks for getting that but I probably don' t need it now." In less than five minutes I'd converted. And the only thing it took for me to do this was to --wait for it--actually TRY it.

I then went on to enjoy my Sunday Times in a whole new way. I read entire articles because I wasn't flipping through pages, getting distracted and forgetting what page the story was continued on (whoever started that stupid custom?). I downloaded the crossword puzzle app and discovered the beauty of that (oh yeah, crossworders--you want to do this, believe me).

And there you have it. I don't want to cancel my print subscription just yet. I'd feel bad for Wayne, my paper deliveryman who I just tipped for the holidays. And the nice thing about the print version is you can share the paper. The kids do still look it over from time to time. Right after they check the news on the internet. I probably will keep getting the print version until I can figure out how my iPad can make a nice satisfying thump on the driveway. Maybe Jeff could set it out there for me and I could go get it in my bathrobe.

Whatever I decide at least you no longer have to hear me go on about why I prefer print to electronic newspapers.

Unfortunately, you're going to have to hear about how great my new iPad is.

CHRISTMAS PAGEANT

Yesterday was the annual children's Christmas pageant at church and I can think of no other event that so clearly marks the passage of time. One minute your kids are among the preschoolers wearing sheep heads and donkey ears then you blink and they're an angel or a shepherd and after a few more weeks pass they're playing the big parts of Mary and the Wisemen. This year only Lilly was in the pageant and her big teenaged siblings sat in the audience-- a real sign that my kids are growing up fast.

Yesterday's event had it all: we had the cow who succumbed to a fierce bout of stage fright and burst into tears upon seeing the audience. The donkey next to him looked annoyed and tried to soothe him but it was no use. One of the adult wranglers had to go up to the altar and lead him to safety; we had the bossy angel (daughter of the children's choir director) who was exasperated to find a mic missing just before Mary's solo and stomped off the altar in search of a replacement saving the song just in time; and we had the perfect, tear-inducing solo, sung sweetly by Mary (oh, did I mention Lilly was Mary?)

When I went to pick her up from rehearsal on Saturday the pageant director shared with me that Joseph (an eighth grader) had suggested he put his arm around his wife when she comes to the manger. You can't blame a guy for trying. I mean here he has gone to the trouble to bring Mary safely to the warm stable and not only does he not get any credit for the birth thing but he has not one line in the Christmas play. Surely he had something to say that night like, "Can I get you some ice-chips?" During the rehearsal this Joseph tried to slip his arm around Lilly/Mary but she just shrugged it off without looking up from her script. I assume the first Mary was much more kind to Joseph.

I have seen many Christmas pageants over the years from the very modest to the slickly produced but I always prefer the slightly messy ones where angel's wings get tangled (one year one got set on fire) and sheep heads slip askew and Wisemen get a fit of giggles--the show that is far from perfect, kid-friendly, and full of hope and promise--just like the first Christmas at the manger.

Whatever kind of pageant you get to enjoy this year I hope it moves you to smile and be thankful for all the children, Sunday school teachers, church-lady seamstresses, and choir directors who bring us this little piece of magic every year.

D-BAG

Once when I was in college I got a prank phone call in the dorm from a guy asking if I had ordered a pizza with a douche bag. Now, I knew what a douche bag was (it was the 80s and we had all grown up with douche bags lurking in our bathroom cabinets) but it was such a ridiculous question –sort of like asking if I had ordered a pizza with an Ace bandage on it --that all I could say was, “I know you’re trying to be obnoxious but I don’t understand it. Hey,” I said to the room at large, “why is it funny to ask if I ordered a pizza with a douche bag?” By now the guy had hung up.

I know calling someone a douche bag has been an infrequently used insult for some time but more recently the high school-aged kids have co-opted it and use it as a common insult meaning “jerk” or “asshole”. Sometimes they shorten it to “D-bag” or “douche”. I’m quite sure they have NO idea what a douche bag is. In fact when I asked my kids none of the three had any idea.

On one of the sitcoms recently the kid called someone a D-bag. The father said, “Do you even know what that means?” the kid answered, “Yes!” to which the father said, “Well I wish you’d tell me.”

Has there ever been an insult flung around so frequently when no one has any idea what it means? Calling someone a “douche” quite literally just means “shower” in French. Are French kids saying “Tu es un shower Americaine!”

It’s not the worst thing to call someone but for those of us who actually know what it is, it isn’t so much offensive as odd and arcane, like calling someone a chamber pot. So if your kids are throwing this term around and you don’t care for it—try the direct approach like my best friend LFR in Michigan. Here, in an excerpt from a letter I got from her, is some fine parenting at work:

B. called F. a douche bag today. I asked him do you know what that means? He said, “Animal poop?” I told him it was an apparatus used in the 50s to clean women’s vaginas. He almost got sick. Then I told him we now know women’s vaginas clean themselves naturally with the bacteria produced by our bodies so women no longer use douche bags. So…do you think you want to call people a douche bag anymore? He apologized to his sister and told me he learned it at school. Ahhh, the important facts we remember from the day at school…math equations, poems, science formulas….no, that would be douche bag.

DRUGS

As a yogini who pops an aspirin reluctantly it is rather jarring to find I suddenly have a counter-top full of drugs. Most of them are to fight side-effects of the most toxic drug of all--chemo--so a little bit of this and that shouldn't bother me but it takes some getting used to.

I'm learning a lot about these drugs. One is that it's pretty damn easy to mix them up. On Sunday I woke up a little nauseous and asked Jeff to bring me a Zofran (anti nausea). He did and I fell back to sleep for two hours. When I woke up and told him I was still nauseous he admitted had misunderstood and brought me a Xanax (anti-anxiety) instead (they do both start with a Z sound). Which explained why I was still nauseous but curiously not worried about it.

Last night I learned not to mix Benadryl (for the itchy rash the chemo gave me) with Xanax because it makes me jittery and have strange dreams in which I am in Los Angeles and unemployed actors are used to help street vendors sell fruit and tacos through elaborate song and dance sequences that are like a cross between Glee and that market scene in Oliver. Wait, they don't really do that do they?

And that's just a snapshot of the legal drugs. Do you know how many people tell you they can score medical marijuana for you when they learn you have this disease? My nieces and nephews I expect. Some of my hardier partying friends I expect. But my aunt and uncle? Well, they do live in California. But the funniest was the offer that came from a certain nonogenarian family member who shall remain nameless. Now that is generous.

Okay, I'm off to enjoy a dose of a slightly less toxic but legal drug--caffeine.

TO SLEEP PERCHANCE TO DREAM

One of the worst symptoms so far of this new illness I have is that it causes insomnia. Not just for me but for all my loved ones too. I don't think Jeff, my parents, my sister, or Coffee Friend 2 have had a good night's sleep in several weeks. Coffee Friend 1 does but that's because she takes Ambien. Although, even that didn't work for her those first few days after my surgery.

We compare notes and ask each other what time we woke up, trying to figure out if we should just get together every night at 3:00. Poor Coffee Friend 2--when she wakes up she never goes back to sleep--just lays there "waiting for the f***-ing sun to come up" as she said. My parents told me they wake up at 3:00 and ask the other one if he/she is asleep. My sister-in-law in LA said, "I went to sleep worrying about Judy, dreamed about her all night, and woke up thinking of her."

I myself seem to wake up at exactly 1:30 and 4:30 every night.

I am normally blessed with the ability to fall asleep and stay asleep. It's a gift really. As I have often said, I respect sleep and it respects me. But even I wake up a couple of times a night and play "what if" in my mind. I find if I talk to my Grandma Zimmerman at those times it helps. I can fall back asleep. Grandma Z. died in 1990 by the way but we still chat when I'm worried about things. She's very reassuring.

When we found out about Lilly's illness on vacation in Florida we tried to go to sleep that first night and I don't think I slept a minute. When we got up I told Jeff that was the worst night's sleep I never had. My mom said she had slept like a baby--she woke up every two hours and cried.

I hate that I am keeping people up at night. But what can you do? That's what happens when people love you.

Last night Jeff slept well for the first time since my surgery because we finally had a good day with some good news. I still found I had to have a chat with Grandma but I'm hopeful that this symptom will go away soon.

For anyone else out there who has had trouble sleeping, I apologize. I hope your insomnia is gone now, but if you still have trouble you can always talk to my Grandma about it.

OKAY ENOUGH OF THAT

As most of you know I have been struggling with a new cancer diagnosis and subsequent information from the medical establishment that seemed to be getting worse and worse by the week. This has had the understandable and normal effect of scaring the crap out of me (and my family) and making me feel very sad, even depressed despite all the wonderful support and prayers from you all.

Today it changes. I am taking back my life. I am tired of worrying about the worst that could happen. I am ready to expect only the best and then some.

I am ready to heal.

I believe in the incredible power of the human body. I believe in the power of mind over matter. I believe in the power of prayer. I believe in my own body's ability to heal. I believe in the power of being loved and cared for by a multitude of family and friends.

The only thing any of us has is today and today I feel damn good. I am strong and have no pain. I look damn good. The sun is shining and it is a gorgeous fall day.

I am ready to heal.

CARINGBRIDGE AND A COOLER

Oh crap. The surgery I wrote about below did not go as expected. When they opened me up they found out the benign tumor was not. Miraculously, the gynocological oncologist who is only in the hospital once a week was there. They found her to finish the surgery. After five hours of emergency surgery and two pints of blood they sewed me back up.

It appears I have a rare form of uterine cancer. Something called Leiomyosarcoma. It means (roughly translated) "benign fibroid that decides to turn into cancer". One in a million or something.

Having gotten Lilly through this with her rare cancer eight years ago we are beyond devastated. How on earth do two people from one family have rare cancers? I eat blueberries. I do yoga. I don't use pesticides. I don't even use weed killer for God's sake. But there you have it.

I am only going to write about this once here on this blog and then I want to return to writing about other things. If you would like to follow my medical progress, you are free to do so at my Caringbridge website http://www.caringbridge.org/visit/judyzimmerman

In my neighborhood when someone is in trouble the women rally like an army with meals. The afflicted family puts a cooler at the back door which is filled on a regular basis. The cooler is there so no one has to greet the food giver and try to make small talk which can be exhausting.

No one wants to be the one with the cooler at the back door.

Jeff and I will be traveling to Boston in a week or so to see the specialists for this thing I have. I'll let you know by Caringbridge what we find out. Though they caught this early, treatment is likely as it is aggressive.

This thing is aggressive and rare. Just like me.

THAT'S DONE: PERIOD

Warning: if you don't know the difference between an ovary or a fallopian tube, or if TV commercials for feminine hygiene products make you run from the room--you should stop reading now.

So here's the deal. Tomorrow I have to have my uterus removed. It's because I have a "benign" tumor (uterine fibroid). I put the word benign in quotes because although it is true that it is not life-threatening (and I am exceedingly thankful for that) I would hardly call something that has caused two years of pain and six months of hemorrhaging "benign". But there you have it. And the only way to get rid of this sucker (it is embedded in the uterine wall, size of a golfball) is to take the whole dang uterus out.

It is really strange to think that after tomorrow I will never have a period again. Most people don't get to know this in advance--things just drift on until one day they realize they haven't had a period in a long time. Which got me thinking of a piece I wrote some time ago.

So in honor of my "procedure", I give you a recycled essay. To my uterus I say farewell, you served me well. To my little red-headed friend I say, good riddance, you were always a terrible friend.

This first appeared in The Chicago Tribune under the title of “ Chronicling the strangest of relationships: Period" on April 21, 2004

I was talking to a good friend the other day and she told me that her daughter had just gotten her first period. My friend had been prepared for this momentous occasion and she got out the necessary products and helped her daughter with them. About an hour later her daughter came in the kitchen and said, “OK, Mom, can I take this off? Am I done yet?”

Oh honey, if you only knew. Her daughter is embarking on a very long relationship that lasts from puberty to menopause with her new “friend”. If I were to tell her what I’ve learned about this relationship (which I wouldn’t, there’s no reason to send her screaming back to her childhood) here’s what I’d say.

It will be a strange and dysfunctional relationship but it will follow a fairly predictable chronology. First, you will start out hating and loathing your new friend. No filmstrip or book or talk from mom can convince you that this is “beautiful”. It’s uncomfortable, painful, messy, and embarrassing. It requires the use of mysterious, unwieldy products you have never even seen let alone know how to use. With the help of a best friend shouting directions through the door you will finally figure out how to use the more challenging but effective products. Eventually, say in 5 to 10 years, you will even master said products so that you are not totally uncomfortable with your new friend. But then you will do something to mess up this relationship. You will become sexually active.

Now, instead of loathing her, you look forward to seeing your friend every month. She is a reassuring and visible sign that you have not made the biggest blunder of your life. Even if you are exceedingly careful, you will not know real relief until you see concrete evidence of her return. Cramps are not enough. You need proof of your freedom.There are times you are less cautious than others. On these occasions you will not be just glad to see her, you will fall on your knees and thank God she has returned. You will reassure her that next time you will take every precaution necessary to ensure her timely return. The relationship will continue along like this for some time.

Then one day you will hear the unmistakable ticking of your biological time clock. Now you will find yourself in an upside-down world in which you will try, very, very hard to achieve a physical state that you have tried very, very hard to avoid for a very, very long time. This will seem very, very strange.

Most of us will be in this phase for what seems like an eternity even if it is in fact only a few months. Each month you will not only hate the mere hint of your friend’s return, you may actually be moved to tears of bitter disappointment at the sight of her. You will resent that the pregnancy tests are placed so closely to the sanitary products at the drugstore.The longer this phase goes on, the more you will come to hate her. Sadly, because of the vagaries of life, some women will find themselves in this phase for many years without a happy resolution.If you are fortunate enough to reproduce more or less when you want to, you will finally rejoice at your friend’s absence. If she is even a day late you will run out to the drugstore and purchase your EPT kit and wave that magic wand around in glee.

For the next several months your friend will be replaced by a myriad of bodily changes that are absurdly taxing, but you will not wish for the return of your friend’s relatively gentle presence. One day, quite suddenly, you will remember her for a few nostalgic moments as your labor begins. But your friend is to labor as a chimp is to King Kong and you will soon forget her again.Nursing will keep her away for a few more months and then one day, she will return and you will be happy to see her again. She will remind you that your body no longer belongs to another tiny being but is in fact returning to you.Now you will be back to the days of welcoming her every month, glad to know that at least for now your body is your own. Until you decide your child needs a sibling, then you can revert to the days of dreading the sight of her again.And so it goes. Until one day your house is full of children and you realize you are done.

But strangely, your body does not. Though you are mentally and physically past the optimal age to reproduce, your body keeps trying to. You do not want to be like someone in the Old Testament and you return to the days of fearing her presence. Even if your husband has been “fixed” you know that mistakes can happen.These days stretch into months and years and your old friend will visit with less and less regularity. Sometimes she’ll stop by for a brief unexpected visit and other times she will hunker down for an extended stay. And then one day, without any word of warning, she will disappear for good. Like all old friends, you will not realize that her last visit is her last.

As my friend’s daughter begins this relationship I am fast approaching the end of my relationship. I don’t know how I’ll feel when I realize my friend has left for good but I suppose I’ll be as conflicted about her departure as I’ve always been about her arrival. I’ll be relieved she’s finally gone but no doubt a little regretful to see her leave forever.

I SPY

I was recently with some mom-friends when one of them mentioned her adolescent son was starting to get text messages from girls. "Oh, it was harmless though. I went back later and read them all and it was just silly talk."

This casual admission of invading her son's privacy made me, umm, queasy. I know, I know, everyone does this. Now that we can peek into our children's lives via electronic media it's easy to do but I'm not sure that makes it right.

I grew up in a house where personal privacy was highly regarded. I could have left my diary (had I kept one) open on my bed-stand and my mother would have walked by and gently closed it without looking. I extend the same courtesy to my own children.

I have wrestled with this thing since I see so many of my peers peering and see that some even consider cyber-spying to be good parenting. I'm not so sure.

So in an effort to help myself understand this a little better, I offer the following points of consideration:

1. First, ask yourself why you are spying. Do you have some reason to be generally concerned for your child's safety (drugs, abusive relationship, bullying) or are you simply spying because you can--or because it is entertaining or because it makes you feel like you have a little control as they grow up and more out of your control. That's not nice. Would you like your spouse or your children to hack into your email just for fun or just to see what you are up to? Probably not.

2. Try to think of the cyber-communication in terms of something you already understand and have established boundaries for--for example, texting is a little like a phone call--it's direct communication from one person to another, not intended for anyone else to see/hear. Would you ever pick up the receiver in the other room and listen in? E-mail is similar and is like a letter --would you ever open your child's mail? I hope not as that is a federal offense.

3. If you do decide to spy, alert your kids first. It's only fair to give your kids a head's up. Simply declare that going forward you reserve the right to peek in on their Facebook account (or whatever) from time to time. Facebook is a little more like a public space and therefore it is not as invasive as spying on emails or texts. It is said Facebook is like the mall--although that said, would you go to the mall and follow your kid around eavesdropping on his conversations?

So there you have it. Some food for thought as we navigate these new high-tech media-crazy times. To quote The Onion, "Now the only thing keeping you from spying on your kid is having a life of your own!"

HAND ME DOWNS

One of the great things about having kids who are too close together in age is that they can hand text books down to each other in high school. Why, you might ask, would that matter? Because, despite the fact that my kids attend a public high school with amenities such as a sushi bar and a rock-climbing wall, for some reason, I have to pay for their books to the tune of about $600 each kid each year.

So when the book list comes out I like to go through it and see which books we already have in the house. Of course, this is not as simple as one might hope. For one thing, the school likes to "update editions" rather frequently (how much can the World History book change in a year?) and apparently the teachers are sticklers about having the correct edition (are they getting a kick-back from Scott Foresman which happens to have its headquarters here in town?).

Sometimes, when I get real lucky I can reuse books we already had in the house even before we had kids. For Atticus, since he is a flexible kid, this works pretty well.

Me: Oh, Great Gatsby, I have that book!

Atticus: Okay.

Me: Hmm, but it says you need the 2007, hard-cover, annotated version . I think I have the 1977 totally dog-eared version.

Atticus: Who cares? It's not like anyone has re-written the story.

Unfortunately, Grace is not so flexible. Instead we have conversations like this.

Me: Catcher in the Rye! We have three copies of that. (and I go fetch them all)

Grace:(inspects them all and declares) I need a new one.

Me: WHAT?

Grace: It has to be the newest, rack-size version and this one has the wrong cover, this one is the wrong size, and this one is right but Atticus has already written notes in it and I have to turn it in so the teacher can check our notes.

Me: They should not be encouraging you to write in books.

Grace: I need to buy a new one.

Me: Forget it. Your choices are to use the wrong size or the pre-noted version.

Grace: I can't use the wrong size! When she says we have to read pages 23-47 it won't line up!!!

Me: And you can't figure that out? Fine, if you need a fourth copy of Catcher in the Rye, you can buy it yourself.

That was the end of it it I thought until driving to school the other day when Grace said, "Atticus, I cannot figure out why you circled this sentence and I had to make up a reason for my teacher."

"What sentence?" he asked. She read it aloud.

Thus ensued a spirited discussion on Holden Caufield and his propensity to label everything as phony and what exactly phony means anyway and I thought of the law of unintended consequences and decided that while reading a book and trying to explain why your brother circled certain passages is not exactly the assignment the teacher had in mind, it isn't the worse way in the world to discover a piece of classic literature.

And most of all I was glad to know we didn't need a fourth copy of Catcher in the Rye though it will be interesting to watch Lilly try to explain all the passages both her brother and sister circled.

DON'T ASK DON'T TELL

I'm on my way to Baltimore to celebrate the marriage of my dear friends Anna and Julie. I post this in their honor. Long after many a hetero marriage has disintegrated, they will still be together, exemplifying what a wonderful, strong, God-filled marriage looks like. Bless you both.


Apparently, this topic of gay marriage is rather controversial. I am told. Often I hear otherwise sane people say "Well I don't have a problem with them being gay, I just don't want to know about it. I don't want to know about anyone's sex life! It makes me uncomfortable."

And we wouldn't want that would we? We don't want anyone to be uncomfortable. So for all of you with delicate sensibilities, I suggest a Don't Ask Don't Tell policy that applies to us all equally.
From this day forward, none of us, gay, straight, lesbian, whatever, will discuss our "sex life" as you put it.

Beginning immediately, you must:

1. Stop talking about your spouse in any way that might let us know you are more than friends. please don't mention he snores or that he sometimes walks around in his underwear. If we know that then our minds might wander to the fact that you are intimate and that makes us uncomfortable. For some of you, it even grosses us out, frankly. Refer to your spouse as "your friend" so you don't offend anyone.

2. No longer attend weddings or celebrate anniversaries. These events acknowledges that you are a couple and probably share a bed and we all know what that means and we don't want to think about it.

3. Take down the pictures of your spouse you have at work. No one wants to know that he is more than just a friend to you. Also get rid of the pictures of your kids. When we see you have kids we know you had sex and that is something we are very uncomfortable thinking about.

4. Never hug, hold hands or for god's sake kiss your spouse in public. This includes in front of family and friends because it makes a lot of people uncomfortable. Really, we don't need to know about your sex life!

5. If your husband leaves you tomorrow, you are not entitled to anything because the law no longer recognizes that you are a couple. That's because if they recognize you are a couple, the law would also recognize you have sex, and we don't want to know about anyone's sex life.

6. If you go to the hospital your spouse will not be able to find out how you are doing. He can only find that out through blood relatives like your parents and siblings. I think you know why.


If this all seems ridiculous, then ask yourself, why do you expect this from our gay and lesbian brothers and sisters?


Peace and blessings to all married couples today. What God has joined, let no one put asunder.