PRENATAL TO PROM

My niece Leslie, me, and Atticus (baby bump)

 In 1993, just during this time of year, I was four months pregnant with Atticus. I went to meet our real estate agent who was trying to sell our condo in Barrington (which is another story all together).

I got out of my car and she got out of hers, and she turned slowly to face the late afternoon sun and squinting at my baby bump she smiled and pointed at me, 

"Watch out. One minute you look like that, and the next you're going to help him pick out his prom tux," which is what she had just been doing prior to meeting me there.

Now this is a sentiment all parents have heard many times and it was not the first time I had heard it and certainly not the last. But it is the time that sticks with me the most; I think because she said it without sentiment, without regret, but simply as an irrefutable fact in the same tone you might say "The sun has always set in the west," and I know I felt a chill run up my spine on that warm May night because I got it. I really got it.

I used to be slightly annoyed with this kind of advice because really, what can you do about it anyway? Are they telling me I should try to slow time down? Well, that's how I interpreted it for a long time and I really did try. Mightily.

 In fact when I listened to Joni Mitchell's Circle Game  (yes, I know I've referenced this song before) I would wait to hear the milestone that most closely marked my eldest child's time with me and I would feel triumphant if we hadn't gotten there yet.

Yesterday a child came out to wonder. Caught a dragon-fly inside a jar and I'd think, "Yes, he still does that!"

Skated over ten clear frozen ponds "Yes! He's only nine! Lots of time left"

This is delusional behavior and maybe even slightly psychotic and it did not work. Time did not slow down. In fact, it sped up and before I knew it, cartwheels turned to carwheels round the town.

And today is senior prom and I remember Deb Villers saying that to me all those years ago.

And I thought about it as we picked out Atticus's tux this week (white dinner jacket, black pants, yellow vest and tie to match her dress, thanks for asking.)

And I thought about what that advice really means. Because of course it does not mean "Be careful time goes fast, try to slow it down." It means "It goes so fast so enjoy, embrace every minute. Savor every peanut-butter and jelly kiss, every night up in the bathroom with the shower steaming for a croupy cough, every god-awful honking squeaking band concert, and every psycho teen-aged melt-down. Because it does go crazy fast but it is also crazy fun and worth it all."

For new moms everywhere (shout out to Leslie who is in that photo above) --you cannot slow the circle down.

But you can enjoy every single spin you take around it. 

MOMMY WARS? NO SUCH THING

So I have been a stay-at-home mom for 18 years now and every few years some numb-skull says something to unintentionally insult stay-at-home moms and the press just picks it up and RACES away with it turning it into cover stories and blog fodder and yaddah yaddah yaddah.

And each time I have to sort of mull it over and wonder how I feel about this supposed "war" in which I am in.

This most recent skirmish got me thinking again and I have come to several conclusions that I thought I might share for those of you who are in this "battle" or merely observing it from afar.

Here's what I have learned in 18 years of "fighting".

There is no mommy-war. 

It's completely made up by the press for something to talk about and maybe a handful of mommies who really are conflicted about their own choice.

 For the rest of us, it does not exist. In 18 years I have literally never heard a stay-at-home mom bash a working mom for that decision. Never. Sometimes I hear a stay-at-home comment that it looks like it would be awfully hard to work full-time but that is about it. When I worked, I never heard a working mom disparage a stay-at-home. Sometimes I heard a working-mom say staying at home looked boring but that was about it.

Let me organize my thoughts even more with a few bullet-points--because I love bullet-points.

1. The issue of stay-at-home vs. working is not an economic issue (though that topic gets muddled into the debate frequently)--what I mean is if you are talking about the value of a woman staying home raising kids versus the value of her working outside the home while raising kids you are by definition taking the need to work out of the equation.

No this is not nice for women who have to work--they have no choice--but it is not the issue at hand--if you have to work you have to work there is no debate about your decision to do so.

It is like trying to have a conversation about anorexia and having someone point out that there are starving people in the world. Yes, there certainly are and that fact does put the issue in perspective--but it does not address the issue at hand.

2. Here, where there are boots on the ground, there is not much animosity between these two groups (despite all media hype to the contrary including TV and movies): Because our best friends, sisters, and neighbors (or even we have been working moms), we are not really into hating on each other. I seldom hear these terms even come up.

As for the working moms bashing on us...well the worst thing I read in the last go-around was that sometimes we are called "LuLuLemon Moms" because we wear yoga clothes all day. Really? This is the meanest thing you can say about us? Yes, it's true we do wear our yoga clothes but you wear nice work suits! So na-na-na-na-boo-boo!

3. Everyone hates their job and envies someone else's job sometimes--this does not constitute a war:  My husband, a successful corner-office-clawed-his-way-to-the-top business guy sometimes (okay a lot of time) wishes he played lead guitar in a rock band. But he does not go around bashing all men who chose to pursue a music career. He might envy them, but he doesn't try to tell them they should "get a day job". We stay-at-home/working moms are no different. Sometimes we regret what we chose, usually we are happy, we try not to be envious.

4. Bottom line is we all do what we can and what we have to do to make the best life for family and ourselves. If you find yourself getting very worked up over this topic, perhaps it is yourself you are struggling with. As has been suggested before by many wiser than I, it might just be that the mommy-war is an internal struggle.

As for the rest of us, we can always meet up at the end of a work day (wherever that may take place) and discuss our common lives (being mommies) over a glass of wine.

That doesn't look like a war to me.

Dear Friends and Family,
As we head off to Sanibel Island this weekend, I cannot help but remember that it was ten years ago this weekend, on March 25, 2002, that we discovered a lump on our daughter Lilly's abdomen.

After six grueling hours in the ER at Ft. Myers, we learned our 3-year-old baby girl had kidney cancer. We raced home to Chicago where she had her kidney and the tumor removed and received six months of chemo and radiation at Chicago Children's Memorial Hospital.

To express our gratitude to the hospital and our happiness that Lilly is ten years cancer-free, we would like to have a mini-fundraiser here online to benefit the Patient Emergency Fund at Children's Memorial.
During that grueling time, we were SO grateful to have a place like Children's Memorial that we could drive to easily for world-class care. Just a half hour away we were able to drive down for the day on treatment days and be in our own beds at night. And we were fortunate that our insurance paid for it all.

I cannot imagine going through what we did AND having to worry about getting to the hospital, where to stay, what to do with the other kids, and how to pay for it all. But that is just what many families face and I saw many of them. As if the pediatric oncology ward isn't sad enough, I would watch families numbly talking to the social worker about how they might get help paying for diapers or a place to stay.

One family in particular broke my heart. They had come from out of the country --having already lost one child to cancer they hoped to save another--leaving two more children at home in the care of a grandmother. I remember watching the social worker discretely hand them Target Gift cards so they could afford some basics.

I have since learned that the Target cards and similar gifts come from a fund called the Patient Emergency Fund that is financed solely by donations. It is to this account I hope you will consider giving in honor of Lilly.

Today Lilly is a completely healthy, lovely, sassy 13-year-old thanks to her successful treatment at Children's Memorial Hospital.

If Lilly has ever made you smile, then please click on this link and make a donation. Even a small amount would be appreciated.

If you prefer to mail a check you can send one to the address below. Just include Lilly's name on the memo line so they know :

Children’s Memorial Hospital
Attn: Katie Green
2300 Children’s Plaza
Box 4
Chicago, IL 60614

For all you have done. For all you do. We thank you from the bottom of our hearts.
Peace,
Judy and Jeff

MORE ABOUT THE SCHOOL OF THE ART INSTITUTE

I never really thought of Atticus as artistic. He is not the kid who worked feverishly on art projects or brought home stuff from art class --that would be Grace.

But he started taking photography classes as a Freshman and never really stopped. Still, I didn't think of it as an artistic pursuit but more of an interest of his because he is, after all, a serial interest taker.

Last spring I finally noticed he was doing more with his photography. One day he asked to use a speaker from the computer and he stretched a black balloon over it, poured paint on it, then turned on music. When the paint jumped up he took pictures (see left).

And on vacation in Maine while the other kids ran around the grounds he covered his bedroom windows in black garbage bags and created a room-sized camera (see left above).

Still I just thought it was just a hobby of his so I was surprised when he declared he wanted to study photography in college. And surprised when the Art Institute sent someone out to the high school to help the kids with their portfolios that the woman told him his stuff was fabulous and he should apply to their school. And shocked when he not only got accepted but was offered an amazing scholarship based on his portfolio.

So that's a quick version of how he got to the SAIC. As promised in my previous post, here's some more info on the school that is kind of cool and we have learned since he was accepted.

-The school came before the museum. In the 1860s some artists started a school of art. Their personal collections of art became the start of the museum

-The Chicago Art Institute is the third largest art museum in the world: after the Louvre and the Met

-As a student you have access to all the art in the museum. Only about 25% of the collection is out at any time. You can go into the archives and say "I'd like to look at Picasso's diaries" and they'll hand you white gloves and let you have at it.

-There are dorms. They are high-rise loft apartments in the Theatre District. Every student has a drafting table in their room. The entire 17th floor is an art studio open 24/7. When Atticus heard about the drafting tables he was sold.

So next time you are in Chicago, don't forget to visit our museum and keep your eyes peeled. That artsy kid prowling the galleries just might be mine.

ARTISTS IN TRAINING

When Grace was first born and Atticus was just 19 months old we moved to a high-rise in the city on Wacker drive. We had a view of the lake and Grant Park and rode the elevator with a former and a future governor (Edgar and Ryan). It was the summer of the OJ trial and it was so hot people were dying left and right in the city. Fireworks were shot out every night over the newly renovated Navy Pier and we could see them and hear them from the kids' bedroom.

Every day the kids and I would head out to explore with the double-stroller. I quickly got to know the underground pedway system (to escape the heat) and soon walked off the baby weight and then some. Sometimes I would push them down to the Art Institute (the stroller entrance is in the back on Columbus--can't get in on the lion side) where we've always had a membership. Sometimes I just nursed Grace in the family area while Atticus looked at art books. Other times we would wander around and stop to people watch. I like to look at people looking at art more than I like to look at art really. Most days we sat in the room with Monet's haystacks and enjoyed the cool, quiet room and then went on to get a snack. After we moved out to Glenview I still took them in to the city whenever I could and we almost always included a brief stop at the museum. That might be the best part about having a museum pass--that you can pop in for a short time and not feel obligated to look at everything all at once-- which is really just a chore.

During these visits we had some memorable moments like the time Grace petted the horse on a Remington statue. Atticus and I had a heart-attack--the guard never noticed. To this day she says, "Well how was I supposed to know you're not supposed to touch it?" Or the time Grace tripped and nearly went through the Chagall windows.

Sometimes we would see young adults in the galleries, dressed funky, sketching the art, or taking notes, or just discussing the art with each other. Art students I would think--how cool is that? I was vaguely aware that the Art Institute also has a school attached to it but did not give it much thought.

So it is a great surprise to me that after the long hard college search it turns out that is where Atticus will be going--the School of the Art Institute of Chicago. During all those visits it NEVER occurred to me that one of the kids might go to school there one day.

He will be studying photography and print-making starting next fall. And one thing's for sure, he will feel quite at home there. More on the School of the Art Institue of Chicago in my next post...

WHAT'S FOR DINNER?

Not me I hope! --->

My youngest has been a vegetarian since she was 10-- three years now. She did not go to this place easily--she was one of the biggest carnivores I had known until she made the leap. I once saw her eat 12 pieces of bacon. She could eat half a potroast by herself. The night before she became a vegetarian, in a last hoorah, she ate three corn dogs.

But it was important to her and I have always supported this very thoughtful and well-informed decision. So I am always surprised by the reaction her decision often gets from people.
You'd think that in this day and age this would not be such a big deal but people often react to her news as if it were novel, or an invitation to debate, or worse, some kind of anti-American behavior.

Let me explain her decision quite simply: she does not eat animals for the same reason you do not cook your dog for dinner.

She kind of has the high ground on this one--there is no moral reason at all that we eat cows and pigs but not cats and dogs. It's just our culture. And I probably don't have to remind you that cows and pigs aren't exactly treated as well as our cats and dogs prior to their slaughter.

So you can see her point, even if you don't want to stop eating meat yourself.

Now I know you don't want to be one of those people who responds in a goofy manner so I will give you a few tips for the next time you encounter a vegetarian:

1. Please don't ask why she is a vegetarian: I know, I used to do this all the time too thinking I was making clever conversation--but the fact is most vegetarians have chosen not to eat meat for ethical reasons not health reasons so there's your answer. Additionally, it is just more polite not to require an explanation for the same reason you are not required to explain why you just ordered that bacon cheeseburger. It is tiresome.

2. Don't worry about the protein: People, adults especially, like to tell her she won't get enough protein if she doesn't eat meat. This is a big fat myth. The American diet is loaded with protein. If you eat an egg for breakfast, a piece of cheese for lunch, and some beans for dinner you have just had more protein than most of the world has in a week.

3. Don't worry about what to feed a vegetarian: Hostesses often stress over this, "But what does she eat!" Umm, let's review...EVERYTHING but meat. You do not need to make a tofu turkey or anything, she'll eat the veggies and rolls thank you. But what about her protein, you will ask--no worries, she's only eating one meal at your house, she already got her daily protein (see above).

4. Do not say "You don't eat meat? Not even chicken?": Really people, this one is pretty simple--she does not eat animals. Yes, fish and chicken are animals. If you TRULY don't get this one, a basic biology class may be in order.

5. Do not try to convert her back: She will not give YOU a lecture for eating meat (though she could) so do not give her one for abstaining. You'd be surprised how many (usually men) people give her this speech.

Well, there you have it--the basics on how to politely communicate with a vegetarian. She is a friend to all animals, healthier than us, and a better steward of the earth's resources (the quantity of grain and water to raise one cow is crazy).

So the next time you meet a vegetarian instead of rolling your eyes or asking "Why?" just smile and say, "Good for you!"

PURE MICHIGAN

A while back I got an email from my high-school Spanish teacher entitled "You might be from Michigan if...." I forwarded it to Beth who I met here in Chicago but is also from Michigan. She replied "If you still keep in touch with your high-school Spanish teacher, you might be from Michigan."

Well I am from Michigan and I do know how to play and SPELL euchre and I do point at my hand when you ask me where I am from. I love those Pure Michigan take-off ads. If you haven't seen them check this one out about University of Michigan football fans. Warning, if you actually went to UofM you may snort food out of your nose laughing when you see this so make sure you are not eating.

My kids like to point out things that they consider to be Pure Michigan when we travel there. Like the enormous woman at Culvers who brought her cheese curds in to the bathroom with her and kept eating while waiting in the bathroom line. Lilly spotted this delightful creature and told me about it in the car saying, "I was afraid she might eat me, so I got out of there. Pure Michigan."

Or last summer when we went to the fancy horse show in Traverse City. When we went to get a pop (not soda, we were in Michigan) we saw a dad on an ATV with his kid on the back. The kid who was about seven had a rat-tail (I think that is what that fashion statement hair-style is called) and the dad was holding a beer while he drove around the grounds. "Pure Michigan" Lilly whispered.

Last weekend Jeff and I had dinner with my old high school boyfriend Greg who lives with his wife Sue in the Chicago suburbs like everyone else who moved away after college. The fact that we had dinner with them might be Pure Michigan--I'm not sure. Anyhoo, he and I got to reminiscing about our old high school which has been demolished and replaced with a Taj-Mah-High-School as my sister calls it.

"You know, they built that new school on our old cornfield," I said to Greg referring to a favorite make-out spot.

"Hey, is that the same cornfield you took me to?" his wife of 25+ years asked.

Making out in cornfields. Pure Michigan.

Although I bet they have those in Iowa and Wisconsin too.

Pure Midwest.

TEXTING 1-2-3

Today's post comes to you courtesy of Lilly, my 13-year-old. Basically, I will just post a text she sent me and you will laugh and I will not have to write much at all.

I just need to set it up.

So last week she wanted to go on a sleep-over. She's not a big sleep-over kid and it was at the home of some friends I don't know well in a neighborhood I am not familiar with. So naturally I had a lot of questions, most of which are pretty useless because in the end you let them go but it's what you do when you're a mom and want to at least pretend you have some control over a situation.

Me: Are you sure you want to sleep over? You aren't big on that.

Lilly: Yeah, I really want to. By the way, they have an indoor pool and want to know if it's okay with you to swim.

Me: Umm, I guess. But you aren't a strong swimmer. Who will supervise?

Lilly: (rolling her eyes) We're 13 there will be no supervisors. Do you send a supervisor with me to the community pool?

Me: Uhh, I guess not. Can you at least have a swim buddy? You know, just tell a friend you aren't a great swimmer and it's her job to keep an eye on you.

Lilly: Yeah. Yeah I'll do that (making a face that clearly says she would not do that if I put a gun to her head). Geez, when did you become Tiger Mom?

Me: It's just that, you know, that's the neighborhood where the candy heiress, Helen Brach disappeared.

Lilly: When?

Me:1977

Lilly: Yeah. Bad neighborhood.

In the end we sent her off to the sleep over in the mansion. A real mansion by the way, not a McMansion. Later that night I texted her and asked if she was okay. Here is her response:

Text: Well, we had to fend off many murderous multi-billionaires and the waters in the pool were rough. But no worries. Not dead yet. I informed Mrs. Levi that she must supervise me at all times (even when we are sleeping) and told the other kids not to roughouse in the shallow end where I have been all night. I also reminded them we can only watch something rated G...maybe PG if we are feeling up to something on the raunchy side. Oh yes, and I also reminded them that Jesus Christ is my savior, since they are Jewish and all. So there are no issues.

Good night, Mommy.


Good night, Lilly.

NEW CHRISTMAS SONG

Our friend Dan Fergus along with his friend Andy, has composed and produced a new Christmas song. Check it out and feel free to download it for your iPod. Or download the music and perform it at your annual Christmas party. It's free for the taking! Just mention him when you do.

MICHAEL JOHNSON

About sixty years ago, when Jeff and I were first married, we went to dinner at the home of some friends of my parents' --Art and Sondra. They were older than us. Really old. They were, let's see carry the one divide by...they were about my age now. But they were always fun (still are) and made us nice food and drinks so we loved to see them.

As we got a tour of their grown-up home full of teenaged children we came to one of the daughter's rooms. She had a poster on the wall and Art said, "Oh yeah, that's that singer Michael Johnson." This SLAYED us! It was the early 80s and the poster was of course of Michael Jackson. We made fun of Art and then later laughed about it more. In fact, we laughed about it for years assuming that old people just don't know who pop singers are.

But lately, I am not laughing so hard. Because it turns out, this happens to all of us. After filling our brains with useless things like the names of the Brady Bunch (Greg, Peter, Bobby, Marcia, Jan, and Cindy) you find the names of more recent celebs tend to not fit in there. You will not be able to fit Kylie Minogue and Nikki Minaj and actually know the difference. And forget trying to put Kardashian names in there, you have stuffed that space with Shaun and David Cassidy.

On Saturday I came in the house and said to Lilly, "I was just listening to the funniest interview on NPR with Justin Timberfield." As soon as it was out of my mouth I knew it was wrong. I sort of looked at the malaprop as it slipped to the floor. Then I looked her in the eyes, praying she hadn't caught it but I could tell by the snarky smile forming at her lips I would have no luck sneaking it by. I came clean. "Did I just say Justin Timberfield," heh heh, I laughed nervously. "Aren't I funny?"

A few weeks ago I was on the phone with my mom. She was telling me about my sister's trip to New York City, "Yes, she went to see the spot where George Hamilton was shot." Umm, what? "You know, the Beatle." I whooped at this, "Mom," I said, rolling my eyes as Lilly does to me, "George Hamilton is the tan actor your age, I think you mean George Harrison." Of course it was two hours later when I told the story to Jeff that he had to remind me I meant John Lennon. Oh. Right. Shit. When I told my friend Beth this story she pointed out helpfully that at least I didn't think she meant Alexander Hamilton who was shot by some vice president...was that Dick Cheney?

Then Beth suggested we could have a game show for older people in which you say things like "What is the name of the actor who starred in 'Love at First Bite'" and then one of you would say, "Wasn't that girl from 'McMillan and Wife' in that movie?" and "I think he was on 'Dancing with the Stars'" and another would say "And that movie about spring break where boys are, what's the name of that movie?" and the other old person would say "Where the Boys Are" and the first would say, "Yes, I know that's what it's about but what's the name of the movie?" and so on and so on until the game show host's ears would bleed and no one ever would come up with George Hamilton unless my mother was there and she could say "Wasn't he shot in front of The Dakota?" And the funniest part of all is that ALL of the older people will TOTALLY follow this conversation like a lot of you just did.

So there you go. You can make fun of older people but then one day you're older too and you'll have these silly half conversations and it will be oddly comforting.

LIMPING TOWARD COLLEGE

As many of you know, the first wave of college application deadlines is coming up on November 1. I thought this might be a good time to recap the whole process (from a parent's point of view) up until this point. Here's how it has looked so far:

Last winter: Start worrying about campus visits. Don't actually do anything about it but talk to every mom you know until you hear a rational strategy that you might follow. Hear this advice "Don't take any special trips out of the way, but visit colleges if you are traveling anyway." Love this advice! Take this advice and run with it.

Spring Break: While in Florida go ahead and visit a Florida college:University of Miami. As you are escorted around the lush green grounds taking in the sights of bikini-top girls and frisbee-playing boys wonder why in the hell you chose to go to a frigid Big-Ten school that had weather like this ummm, well, NEVER. Fall into a deep depression as you realize that your fun college days (which were definitely not as fun as these kids are having...hey are those hammocks between palm trees over there?) are not only behind you but decades behind you. Try not to cry just a little as you are filled with deep, bitter, regret. Have your kid declare this school is NOT his cup of tea.

Summer: Make a few half-assed plans to travel to see more colleges. Try not to listen to your friends when they tell you they have been flying along the East and West Coasts taking their smarty-pants kid to colleges. Wonder why you are even friends with such over-acheivers. Make a note to start having coffee and drinks with people who have much lower aspirations for their offspring. Visit some of the schools you can get to easily. Repeat more or less the Florida experience ("Why didn't I come here?! This is way more fun/cool/funky/ than where I went?") Have kid declare the most expensive one you visit "Is just where I belong". Wonder how people pay for this. Get used to everyone in the world asking your kid what his college plans are. Coach him to just say the name of a college so they will stop bugging him. Maybe even make up a name of a college to watch people make a funny frowny face as they try to think of something to say.

Late Summer: Realize you are in no way going to find "the school" for your kid before application time. The one school he declared he belongs at does not offer the program he wants. Realize further you don't have to figure this out right now...he can apply and then you can visit the ones he gets into. See his transcripts and realize that when the counselors talked about the importance not of just the grades but the trend of the grades that his are not trending the right way. Realize maybe you won't have many schools to visit when it all shakes out.

Fall: Start full-time nagging of your kid regarding application process. Attend yet another parent meeting to go over all the things your slacker kid is supposed to do to apply to each college. Curl up in the fetal position just thinking about it. Watch as your kid acts like it is no big deal. Continue nagging. Set up a weekly meeting with him to go over the progress he has not made and continue to nag. You should be nagging him about filling out the common application, writing an essay, getting teacher recommendations, sending ACT scores, and ordering transcripts. Nag some more.

Early October: It is crunch time. Go out to dinner with your husband and talk about nothing but how your kid has not done anything towards applying to college. Realize, hey, I went to college. Call the blockhead into the living room for the weekly ass-kicking and inform him it is up to HIM to get himself into a college--you are done. Watch his face with its funny mixture of relief and horror.

Mid October: Watch your kid scramble to get all the things done he needs to get done. Enjoy this tiny moment in which you have managed to put the stress back where it belongs. Mix a cocktail even as he sweats over his essay. Be very happy you do not have to do this. Be a little sad you do not get a do-over for college.

So that's where we are. How about you? For all of you with Seniors (and I know a lot of you) I hope it's going pretty much on target and your kids make the November 1 deadline. If you have had to nag them a tiny bit...I'm pretty sure you are not alone.

Happy Halloween!

THE ACTs

A short time ago both my high-schoolers took the ACTs. For my European readers, this is a general college admissions test kids take primarily in the midwest. East and west coast require a similar test called the SATs.

Anyhoo, Grace, a junior was taking it for the first time just to see how she would do and Atticus, a senior, was taking it for the second time to see if he could bump his score a point or two which can translate into scholarship money.

The test was at 8 a.m. on a Saturday and I nudged Jeff early and suggested we go downstairs and offer to make them breakfast before they go.

When we got to the kitchen we found the following scene:

Grace was standing at the kitchen table fully dressed. She declined the offer of breakfast--she had already made herself a smoothie and an omelet and put her dishes in the dishwasher. Her calculator was out along with four spare batteries, neatly arranged next to several sharpened pencils, and her test admission ticket. She was making herself a healthy snack to have during the test break and going over the directions she had printed out one last time.


Atticus was sitting at the computer clad only in his boxer shorts. He had headphones on and was chuckling over his on-line morning cartoons. He declined the offer of breakfast because he was already eating a muffin, much of which was falling apart in crumbs down his bare belly.

There was nothing regarding the test in sight...not even a number two pencil.

None of this was a surprise of course but it is hard not get a little panicky when you see someone not even dressed, 45 minutes before a big test. So I felt I should speak up.


Me: "Don't you want to print out an admission ticket like your sister's?"

Atticus: "Oh. Do I need that?"

Sigh. Yes, 19 months apart and it's like they're from different planets. Just when you think maybe you had something to do with your children (for better or worse) you come across a scenario like this and realize they could have been raised by wolves and Grace would still be the kind of person who has spare batteries for her calculator and Atticus might even forget to take the test (oh yeah, he DID forget to take the SAT he was signed up for last June).

So parents, remind yourself today if you are gloating over your over-achiever or fretting over your under-achiever, you probably had nothing to do with it anyway.

THE KISSING HAND: THE SEQUEL

Back to school means time to read "The Kissing Hand" that adorable story about Chester the raccoon who is scared to go to kindergarten until his mom gives him a special kiss on his palm to help him know she's thinking of him while he's at school.

It's a tear-jerker but I read it every year to each of my three kids the night before school. Except last night. I forgot my teens would be out until late and as they got home after I was already asleep I did not get to read it to them.

Which is why I was following my high-school senior around the kitchen this morning as he got his breakfast, reading aloud and trying not to cry as he tried not roll is eyes and laugh. I was doing fine but then I started thinking all of my friends who just took their freshmen kids to college--Ann who flew Olivia to TCU and Bridgette who is driving Billy to GVSU and Coop who took Nicholas to Clemson and Martha who drove Rachel to Miszou--and knowing I'm just a short year away from it all I started to cry a little.

As I angrily brushed tears away with the back of my hand I muttered, "I don't know why we all had you kids; all you do is grow up and leave us." And then I had to laugh and say, "Which I suppose is preferable to the alternative; that you grow up and don't leave us."

Lilly liked this idea and suggested a sequel to "The Kissing Hand" in which Chester moves back home after college and his mom pleads with him, "Please, I know we all have to do things that are scary but you'll be fine once you get an apartment of your own" just as she did when he was going off to kindergarten. Chester could be wearing boxers over his little ringed tail and scratch his belly and say, "But mommy, I don't want to leave you and the laundry you do for me and the meals you make!"

I don't know if the sequel would help any of us but it might be worth a chuckle.

To all of you having to say goodbye this month, my thoughts and tears are with you.

I'll be right there with you next year when my own raccoon leaves the nest.

COUNTRY STRONG

Although we are brought up to believe that country music is something that only southerners listen to the real truth is that anytime you are more than 20 miles from a Starbucks and a Target (sure signs of urban civilization) and you turn on the radio, you will be inundated with music that appeals to your inner-hillbilly even if you are well north of the mason-dixon line.

I was reminded of this again as I made a family road trip a few weeks back and though I swear we never got farther south than Oberlin, Ohio the radio played a soundtrack that made it seem like we were deep in Deliverance-land. I kept a nervous eye peeled for a banjo-playing simpleton at every turn.

If you like to listen to the radio as you travel (as I do) to give yourself a break from your own playlist you have the following choices whenever you are out in Sarah Palin Land: 3 country stations, 1 oldies station, 1 to 3 right-wing Christian stations, and a very fuzzy and odd version of NPR (who is this Diana Rehm?

Eventually when you tire of "Brown Eyed Girl" and a staticky "All Things Considered" you will turn the dial to a country music station for a rest and you will get to hear poetic lines like, "Take your tongue out of my mouth I'm kissing you goodbye" and "She's actin' single so I'm drinkin' doubles."

Last summer as we drove around western Michigan my family and I had so much fun listening to these things that we made a list of themes that are featured in almost all country western songs. The best songs manage to incorporate most or all of these themes:

1. She's amazing; I'm a doofus (or variations on this theme such as "I'm lucky she's with me" or "I behaved like an ass and I hope she'll forgive me.")

2. This country is the best country anywhere in the world. So there.

3. I don't have much but I'm happy. So there.

4. I drink a lot of alcohol after work. Usually beer.

5. Poor people have way more fun than rich people. So there.

6. I'm country through and through (even if I live in a Nashville mansion) and that makes me better than you.

7. Blue jeans/women's behinds in blue jeans

8. Pick up trucks

9. Jesus

10. Lil' bitty babies

11. Soldiers (never officers)


I think that covers it.

I know a lot of people like country music and I know a few who pretend they don't but really do but I don't know anyone who pretends to like it if they don't. Do with that what you will.

I honestly don't know if I like it or not but I know it can sure break up a tedious road-trip.

Well, I'm going to go now and I will leave you with this thought from "Honky-Tonk Bedonkadonk"
--"We hate to see her go but we love to watch her leave."

MAMAPEDIA

Hey check me out at this site today! Thanks to Mamapedia for the feature!!

Judy on Mamapedia

MORAINE SCHOOL STUDENT SPEAKING

The belt is nice. But a cape is better.

We are just home from a family road-trip that I would like to dub, the "You went what way? Tour of 2011" because it turns out you can use a map and your memory as you drive around the state you grew up in (but have not lived in for 25 years) or you can use the GPS but if you try to use the GPS for part of it and your memory for part of it you will make mistakes. Big mistakes. Like thinking you are driving south on 23 while actuallygoing east on 96 when trying to get from Brighton to Ann Arbor to visit your grandma who has lived in the same place for 51 years.

Which is how I accidentally ended up in my hometown of Northville Michigan last week. It wasn't part of the plan but I figured I might as well give the kids a quick tour and as I drove them around and told them stories of my youth I soon had them roaring with laughter. The only problem is, I was not trying to be funny; I was just telling them real life things that happened in my childhood and not even in an ironic way.

Here's the story that really slayed them: when I was in the fifth grade at Moraine Elementary, I was a Service Girl. Yes, a Service Girl. This was the 1960s sexist answer to being a Safety Boy.

The boys patrolled the outdoors keeping us all safe from, safe from I don't know what, but they got to wear reflective belts that went around their waists and across their shoulders as they patrolled the playground and yelled at the "walkers" if they ran and told the "bussers" where to line up. They got to be outside because they were boys and everyone knows boys are meant to be outdoors in the wild.

Meanwhile, we Service Girls stayed indoors safe from the elements (that we had just walked to school through...did this make any sense?) We did not get to wear the reflective belts like the Safety Boys but we did not care. We did not care because we got to wear something waaay better-- we got to wear capes. No, not full capes, more like cape-lets that came to about elbow length. They were a muted orange and one of the front flaps of the cape was tacked back to reveal the yellow lining and the orange chenille letters "SG"--for Service Girl of course.

When we wore these we were empowered to boss everyone in the whole school around which we already did (have you ever met a fifth grade girl?) but with the cape we were official bossy girls. We kept the peace by patrolling the lunchroom to make sure people lined up properly in the milk line and didn't talk too loud or have any fun.

Even among the Service Girls I was extra bossy and this trait propelled me through the Service Girl ranks to lieutenant. I wish I could say I made it to captain but I did not. Jane Mach was our captain (damn her!) and though I envied her I served her faithfully and loyally and to this day would follow Jane into any kind of skirmish if called upon.

Because she and I held these elite stations we were called upon to fulfill the highest post in the land --Office Service Girls (I think that's what we were called, if I messed any of this up I hope a former Service Girl will set me straight).

In this capacity we were left alone to answer the phone and greet visitors while the secretary Mrs. Zeuner and the principal Mr. Jacobi went to the teachers' lounge for lunch (and no doubt a smoke). We were highly trained and answered the phone dutifully with "Hello, Moraine School student speaking, may I help you?" and also learned never to say things like, "Yes, Mr. Jacobi is here but he's in the bathroom right now" and other valuable life skills. We also got to dole out ice packs and band aids to the wounded furthering our social status to giddy heights.

I have fond memories of my official bossy time but when I told all of this to my kids they just found it all hilarious (especially the part about the capes) and they were a little amazed that there was ever a time when 10-year-olds were allowed to run a school office as they have grown up in a world where school offices are run not unlike Homeland Security.

Anyhoo, even though we arrived an hour and a half late to my Grandma's house it was worth it to have the opportunity to show my kids the house I grew up in and the schools I attended and tell them "funny" stories.

I just wish I still had my Service Girl cape because this place could use a little discipline.

WHAT WOULD TYRA DO?

When I used to come home from the 7th grade I would grab the box of Ritz Crackers, a tub of port-wine cheese, and head into my bedroom where I would watch re-runs of "Petticoat Junction" on the small black and white TV my parents (surprisingly) allowed me to have in my room. It was in this manner I would forget about the minor mean girl acts and other mini transgressions that are part and parcel of being in junior high.

Lots of curves you bet, even more when you get, to the Junction! Petticoat Junction! Why on earth were those girls allowed to bathe in the water tower? That seems mighty unsanitary.

When Lilly comes home from 7th grade she grabs the pita chips, the hummus and flops down on the couch to watch "The Tyra Show" on the big family-room flat-screen TV.

I'm coming out! I want the world to know, got to let it show! Who are all these horrible people shamelessly talking about the terrible things they do?

It is hard for me to imagine two shows that are more ridiculously different than "Petticoat Junction" and "The Tyra Show."

I don't really get what my daughter likes about this show. Wait she's in the room now, I will ask her.

Okay, here is what she said, "I like the Tyra show because there are a bunch of crazy people on that show and they are entertaining to watch. And because Tyra keeps it real."

I (along with pretty much everyone my age and older) do not like this genre of talk show because I find it horribly depressing to learn that I share the planet let alone the same nationality with said crazy people. People like the woman who weighed 600 pounds and aspires to weigh 1000 pounds. Or the parents who took their gay son to a fringe church to have his "gayness" exorcised (beaten) out of him. Or the woman who brought her husband to the show so she could tell him (in front of a national TV audience) that he no longer excites her sexually (but she just couldn't bring herself to tell him before that point because it might hurt his feelings WTF??)

I know the parenting manual says that when your kid watches a show you do not approve of you are supposed to watch it with her and say things like, "Well what do you think about that?" or "That's interesting do you think he handled that well?"

Instead I shout things like, "Oh for god sakes, what a horrible human!" "Who DOES that?" and "Please tell me this is a bad, bad joke!"

How's that for keeping it real?

But this stuff cracks Lilly up. Perhaps this horrible behavior makes the junior high nonsense look tame. I don't know.

I do know that she takes much of what Tyra says to heart and quotes her which leads to scenes like this:

At dinner: "You took too many potatoes. Tyra says your serving of carbs should be no bigger than your fist."

When I was worrying about going without my wig when my hair first grew out, "You have to just be you and be fierce. That's what Tyra would say. Then she'd look at you and say something nice about you," here Lilly looked me over from top to bottom, obviously searching for something nice to say and finally came up with, "You have nice teeth."

And she has learned a LOT about black women and their hair and hair extensions in general. Which is why our new favorite game to play when we watch TV is "Is she wearing extensions?" It also explains when she told the sweet 8-year-old African-American girl at our church, "I like your hair," and the girl answered, "It ain't mine, it's a weave," she was not a bit surprised.

So I don't like that she watches it but at least she's learning. I don't think I learned anything from "Petticoat Junction" except if I ever get the chance to stay at the Shady Rest I should not drink the water.

THE TRUMP-INATOR

This is a repeat because I am told my Aunt Maxine missed it--just as she has missed trump calls for years.

The Trump-inator: Brilliant

When I play Euchre with my family (which is something we do nearly every time a bunch of Zimmermans are together) I have trouble keeping track of what trump is. This should not be difficult--there are only four choices--hearts, clubs, spades, and diamonds but I find myself frequently asking, "What's trump?" and hearing the standard reply of "Hearts, Maxine," accompanied by groans at my ridiculous inability to remember something so simple. "Hearts Maxine" is an expression my family uses because my cousin Maxine was sort of the pioneer of forgetful Euchre players and asked what trump was so many times that the phrase was coined.

As the next generation is learning to play Euchre, I find they are even more impatient with my forgetfulness than my own siblings so I have devised a way to keep track. I simply take out four number two cards (you only use 9-Aces in Euchre) and set them at my elbow. When trump is called I turn over the two of whatever suit was called and that way instead of having to ask all the time I can just glance down. This is such a brilliant idea that I have named my stack of four cards "The Trump-inator" Never mind that sometimes the Trump-inator gets tangled up in the discard pile or worse yet the score-keeping cards, it works pretty well overall.

I think The Trump-inator is so ingenious that I am starting to collect other ideas that need a similar solution--situations when people frequently have problems keeping track. Here are a few ideas. I don't actually have a device to solve these problems; I just think it would be cool if there were such a thing. Let me know if you have any ideas and no, "there's an app for that" is not an answer. I don't have a Smart Phone.

1. The Link-inator: this handy device would somehow collect all the websites, YouTube videos, shopping links, and family photos that are referenced in a given conversation and automatically send them to everyone involved. For example, you are out to dinner with your sister and you reference a slutty drunken picture of one of the cousins you saw on FaceBook and she says she hasn't seen it so you say you'll send her the link the next day but by the next morning you realize that you said that about several things and you cannot for the life of you remember what the links were that you thought were so damned funny/relevant/interesting the night before. This would solve the problem and ensure that your sister will never again miss that amazing video of a cat playing piano.

2 The dinner-party-guest-name-inator: This pocket-sized implement has the names of all the guests at the dinner party you are going to along with photos and dotted lines to show who is married to whom. This will eliminate the need for the conversation in the car on the way to the dinner party when your husband keeps saying, "Now what's Susan's husband's name? The Jackass?" and "Will that hot babe from book club be there--what's her name?"

3. The anti-re-gift-inator: This is a discrete stamp noting the date and giver on the bottom of every hostess gift and bottle of wine you receive so that you may never ever accidentally give that bottle of Prosecco back to the person who gave it to you.

4. What's-her-name-inator: Somehow this projects a person's name above her head at a social function so that you will never again know the panic you feel when you realize you need to introduce two people and have somehow managed to forget the name of the person you know best, perhaps someone you know very well and have known for years, I'm just saying, Coffee Friend 2, this could happen.

Just imagine how awesome the world would be if we had these wonderful little helpers. But for now, you can take comfort in knowing you'll never again have to ask what's trump, Maxine.

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.