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  Never mind that I was about 4 inches taller than Madonna and had at best, dirty blonde hair, looking nothing like the then-platinum blonde Madonna. My protests went ignored and before I knew it I was standing there like an idiot holding what felt like a 50-pound pale pink beaded long gown. I stood at the microphone as if I were about to sing, something I had never done in my life, as Madonna and her entourage and half of our staff and crew stared at me. I wondered where all these people had come from considering the stage was “closed.” That edict must have applied only to people like me.

  It was probably one of the most unnerving moments of my life, standing there center stage as the internationally famous Madonna stood only a few feet away, staring at me, for what felt like an hour. Even more odd was that no one bothered to introduce us, which seemed rather rude. I was just a warm body that happened to have blondish hair and pale skin, and apparently nothing more important to do.

  But I actually did have something more important to do and the longer I stood there, the more I worried about all the work I had back at my desk. This was definitely going to affect my “out” time that evening. Also, that beaded dress started to get really, really heavy.

  I thought I was doing a fine job standing and doing nothing, but then, Madonna complained to someone, not me directly of course, that I was holding the dress improperly. I was told to hold it up higher and better somehow. But I guess I remained a stand-in failure because she still wasn’t satisfied. It seemed she couldn’t adequately see the way the light would show on the skin that lies above the strapless dress (I suppose that would be called my décolletage) because my conservative button down blouse covered up that area. So, that’s when she suggested that I take my shirt off.

  “I need to see the dress against the skin. So can you have her take her shirt off?” Madonna matter-of-factly asked of the stage manager, again like I somehow did not understand English.

  “What?” I asked yet again.

  The look on my face must have conveyed my horror because the stage manager almost seemed scared as she started to repeat the request that I had already heard quite clearly.

  “No! I’m not taking my shirt off,” I said, defiantly. I didn’t even have to think about that one. After all, for the past ten years I had fought being mistaken for a dumb blonde, and worked hard to be taken seriously in the business. I wasn’t about to throw all that out the window because a famous person asked me to.

  The stage manager, playing the diplomat, asked if I could push my collar back a bit to reveal more skin. That didn’t seem too unreasonable so I tried to tuck part of my blouse under my bra straps.

  Madonna continued to stare at me, periodically turning to her “people” to chat. To use the term “uncomfortable” is an understatement for how I felt during this. She was clearly unhappy with me.

  Meanwhile, workers had apparently begun scanning the theatre, trying to find someone more Madonna-ish; someone hopefully more willing. At last they found a bleach blonde young P.A. who was eager to help and I was relieved of my stand-in duty.

  I remained in the audience to see the rest of the spectacle unfold. I watched as they explained the situation to the girl. She nodded that she was apparently okay with the idea of taking her shirt off. After slipping it off backstage, she came out with the dress held up to her pale Madonna-like skin. Madonna was appeased.

  Then, after mere seconds of observing the lighting against the girl’s skin, Madonna reached out without warning and grabbed the dress away from the unsuspecting production assistant, exposing the poor girl in her bra for all the crew to see. The young woman tried to cover up with her arms and the stage manager kindly tried to shield her as she whisked her backstage to recover her shirt.

  Wow. Clearly I had made the right decision. I couldn’t help thinking, what if I had foolishly agreed and ended up flashing my undergarments to my co-workers? I don’t think I could have been able to look at them ever again.

  Moments later, when I returned to the production office, I was surprised with a hero’s welcome. It turned out that after my verbal exchange with Madonna, the backstage crew jumped on their headsets and walkie-talkies to relay the news: “Madonna asked Kristen to take off her shirt and Kristen said no!” Then it simply became, “Kristen said ‘No’ to Madonna!” You’d think I had slayed an evil dragon. It wasn’t that anyone had any ill will towards the singer, but I guess saying ‘no’ to a diva was considered the most daring thing you could do in this business. I realized I broke a cardinal rule that day by saying “No”

  to the talent. Probably it was good that I was normally hidden away in a back office. But, I couldn’t really understand everyone’s shock and surprise. Would all of these people really have agreed to her request just because she’s a celebrity?

  Two days later, as the show aired live, I sat in the backstage office and watched Madonna rise up from beneath the Oscar stage, wearing that incredibly heavy and beautiful beaded dress. I marveled that she could stand so poised under the weight of it all. Moments earlier, the microphone that was supposed to also rise up from the stage did not function, reportedly because the technician who was supposed to trigger it had fallen asleep during the show. Madonna was forced to switch to a hand microphone, a last-minute change that must have been unsettling even for a seasoned pro.

  As she started to sing, the camera moved in for her close-up, and I was surprised to see that her hand was trembling with fear. Clearly she was nervous about performing in front of a room full of performers. Her voice and face seemed in control, but her hand gave her away. After seeing that shaking hand, I no longer viewed her as the intimidating diva. Instead, she became just a person who was not that different from me. After all, like me, she wanted to do a good job and save face in front of her peers.

  So not that different at all . . . except for the talent, money and fame part.

  Halfway! (5 weeks to go)

  I should really be happy that summer is halfway over, but instead I’m feeling murderous. I probably shouldn’t admit it. If someone I know ends up dead, I won’t have a leg to stand on. But everyone and everything is frustrating me. For starters I’m worried about what my mom’s doctor will say after her labs come back. That news could change everything.

  Also, I’m anxious about my in-laws. My husband has taken to calling them each day, pretending he has questions to ask, when really he’s just making sure that they’re still able to pick up the phone and not sitting out in the garage in their Saturn with the motor running.

  And I guess if I’m being honest, what I’m really cranky about is that I asked a writer friend to read my children’s book to give me critical feedback and she had the nerve to actually give me critical feedback. Didn’t she know I wanted fawning and praise?

  My frustration has made me act out in destructive ways. The first victim was Samantha’s prized Abercrombie t-shirt. Oops, did I shrink it in the dryer, sweetie? Then I left Peyton’s flip-flops in the living room. I knew that our evil kitty cat couldn’t resist the temptation of their delicious foamy goodness.

  Hurtful things keep coming to the tip of my tongue too. “Your socks are missing? Why, I don’t know where they are, honey. Maybe I put them in your sister’s drawer because she’s my favorite.”

  Yesterday I took Buddy to get his shots in case we have to board him during whatever vacation we end up taking. I’m really hoping that our friend Barry will housesit and watch Buddy because he gets so nervous at that boarding place. (Buddy, not Barry) The other dogs frighten him, especially the little ones. When the vet returned Buddy to me after giving him his shots she apologized about the smell. I was confused at first, but then was suddenly overcome by the most rancid odor I had ever smelled in my life. The vet explained that Buddy got scared and released the contents of his anal sac. Huh? I had never heard of such a thing! She said that some dogs do this when they’re incredibly nervous. “Buddy is a very insecure dog,” she added.

  I immediately took this as an affront. “But
we’re home with him all the time. Buddy knows we love him . . . and I hardly ever look at other dogs when we’re out together.”

  Maybe it hurt his feelings when we watched that YouTube video of labradoodle puppies the other day. We’ll have to be more discreet with our puppy porn.

  The odorous experience left me traumatized. Like a natural disaster victim who feels compelled to share their adrenaline-fueled tale of survival, I had to tell the story of the vet visit to every member of my family. Each time I described the horrible stench, Buddy would look at the ground and groan, “I am so ashamed.” Finally, my eldest daughter issued an edict that the words “anal sac” could never be uttered in our home again. I reluctantly agreed.

  The odor has persisted well into today and it is not helping my mood any. I try to block it out as I look over the notes that my friend gave me about my book. She said that I needed to cut way back on the mom character, even insisting that the mom can’t go on the fantasy journey with the kid. “No kid wants her mom on her fantasy journey,” she said. Maybe she’s right. I don’t know. But if I cut the mom out, then I’ll have to lose the mom’s love interest, Rolf, the hunky Nordic ski instructor. I love Rolf. He’s so handsome. I miss him already. In any event, I should probably hang on to those Rolf pages for when my book is made into a movie and Jennifer Aniston demands a beefier part.

  “Don’t you think you are getting a little ahead of yourself?” Buddy interrupts my daydream.

  Oh, who asked you?

  “You seem stressed out and insecure. Maybe you should release the contents of your anal sac? That always makes me feel better.”

  It’s something to think about.

  Summer school ends tomorrow. I keep nagging Chloe

  to study for her history final but she keeps watching TV instead. “Hey, I’m watching the History Channel,” she defends.

  I don’t believe that the show claiming that aliens visited the ancient Mayans will help her. I took control of the remote and discovered that the entire day’s lineup on the History Channel alternated between “Ancient Aliens” and “UFO Files.” What happened to the History Channel? Did it turn out that there were no viewers for shows about actual history? I guess I know the answer to that question.

  The same thing happened to the Learning Channel. Seems like they used to air legitimate instructional shows, but then they switched to “Sister Wives,” “Extreme Couponing” and a zillion shows about unusually sized people or families. They should change the name to “The Learning Circus Freaks.” Oh dear, that’s not very P.C. of me. Sorry.

  I confess that I watch that “Hoarders” show on The Learning Channel with my kids sometimes. I hope it gives them a little perspective whenever they have the urge to complain about me, or the house we live in.

  And it’s the Friday night hum of The Learning Channel that often drives my husband running from the house. The military should really consider repetitive airings of TLC’s “Say Yes to The Dress” as a way of convincing male captives to spill their secrets. It only takes a couple of episodes in the bridal shop before my husband will yell, “I can’t take this anymore,” and then leave to meet Barry or Ted for a drink at the local bar.

  While Barry and he have been friends since college, his friendship with Ted started only a few years ago, after Ted’s wife and I orchestrated a man date. It went well and now they’ve become good friends. Sometimes they go to this wine bar where once they were mistaken as a gay couple.

  “Maybe you shouldn’t have been French kissing so much,” I suggested, after he told me.

  There are a lot of heterosexual men who would be annoyed or offended by such a mistake, but my husband wasn’t. “Heck if the waiter thinks I’m dressed well enough to be gay, I take that as a compliment,” he said.

  I love that about him.

  My Husband Had Prostate Cancer and All I Got Was This Stupid T-Shirt

  When my husband came home from the doctor with news that he needed a biopsy to rule out prostate cancer, I was instantly worried. But not about the test coming back positive, because I was 100%, no more like 150% certain that the test would come back negative and all would be fine.

  What I was worried about was that until my husband got the test results, he would likely become a basket case, obsessed about the very slim chance that he might have cancer, and drive me crazy in the meantime. I couldn’t wait until he got that biopsy over with so we could get the happy call and return to our normal lives.

  I minimized his concerns. “Come on, it’s a simple test. People get tested for cancer and diseases all the time and they almost always come back negative, like when you got that mole tested last year. Besides, only old guys get prostate cancer. Trust me, it will be negative.”

  As it turned out, I was a wee bit wrong.

  Not only was the test incredibly painful (in fact, more so than any treatment to follow), but also the results were not the negative ones I had so confidently predicted.

  When the doctor uttered the ‘C’ word I think I was more in shock than my husband. He had accepted his fate the moment he first heard he needed the biopsy. I, on the other hand, sat there dumbfounded, asking over and over, “Are you sure?” I was almost suspicious, like the time my dentist told me I needed a root canal and a crown right after boasting about purchasing a new boat.

  After announcing his diagnosis, the doctor went into a lengthy description of the different types and stages of prostate cancers and how it’s not one cancerous tumor, but actually a cluster of tumors. He briefly went over the various treatment options. I’m not sure how much either of us heard.

  But I remember one thing very clearly; the doctor said that prostate cancer was unusual in that it was one of the few cancers that could essentially be “cured.” The way to do so was by surgically removing the prostate gland entirely. As he spoke, the doctor’s eyes darted back and forth between my husband and me, waiting for a reaction.

  Mine was this: I thought what he said about my husband’s prognosis was wonderful news! I smiled widely and turned to him, expecting to see a shared look of relief, but there was none. He was still very pale. After the word, “cancer,” he had completely tuned out.

  As we walked to the car I repeated the good news the doctor had told us, that the cancer could easily be cured. I was convinced that my husband must not have fully heard or understood the doctor’s words.

  But he didn’t respond. He just kept walking. Undeterred, I tried again, “Didn’t you hear the doctor?

  He said they could remove the whole gland with surgery and then you’ll be fine. The cancer will be gone. Isn’t that great news? Honey?”

  Logically I understood that learning one has cancer is horrible and that it’s shocking news, but with this cancer and with this particular case, it was totally treatable. I thought that was a pretty big “but” and didn’t understand why my husband wasn’t relieved like I was.

  Sure, the prostate gland, located just north of the penis, is in a pretty sensitive area and the surgery would result in some pain, but my husband was in good shape and would likely heal quickly, I figured.

  What I wasn’t grasping at the time was how fond men are of their penises. Apparently they’re super fond of them, and the very thought of something sharp coming close to it or the idea that something might interfere in any way with the way it functions, is, to most men, terrifying.

  But I didn’t get that then. I honestly believed that all he needed was a day or two to realize that this cloud had a great silver lining. Yes, he had cancer, but he would be fine. I was sure that eventually my “Power of Positive thinking” cheerleader approach would snap him out of it.

  We got in the car and he started to drive out of the parking structure. I could tell he was looking around for the exit. “The parking attendant is over there,” I indicated,

  pointing to the tollbooth.

  “Really? Are you sure about that?” he barked. “Because you were pretty sure that my test would be negative and look how that tur
ned out!”

  Okay, clearly he wasn’t quite ready for my Sister Mary Sunshine approach.

  We got home and told the kids, but then my husband announced that he didn’t want others to know about his illness and didn’t even want to talk about it. Luckily that only lasted a day, because by telling people, my husband and I learned that he was not alone. It seemed like everyone had a story or a relative who recently had prostate cancer. His dad had had it. My dad had had it. John Kerry, Joe Torre and Robert DeNiro had it. Fortunately, all the stories we heard had ended well.

  Within about a week of the diagnosis we had read every article we could find on the subject. We scoured every medical website and signed on to patient chat rooms. We became prostate cancer experts.

  It was a rare moment that we weren’t discussing prostate cancer. That cancer had a way of invading even a relaxing night out at a restaurant. One moment we’d be engaged in happy chitchat about the kids, and the next my husband would spot a table of elderly gentlemen, prompting him to comment out loud, “I wonder how many of those old guys still have their prostate?”

  Why don’t you go ask them? I almost suggested, but didn’t because I knew that he actually might.

  He found that there was one small benefit to having a potentially deadly disease. He could milk the hell out of it. What started as a one-time joke quickly became his standard response. “Well, I would take out the trash, but you know I have cancer.” Or “It’s hard for me to focus on the dishes, what with my cancer and all.”

  You can’t really argue with that, and I figured he was due a perk.

  Oddly enough, besides having the slow-growing cancer, he was the picture of health. He exercised four or five times a week, ate better than most middle-aged Americans, and his heart rate and blood pressure were that of a younger man. But, even my best friends couldn’t reconcile this fact. They would speak to me as if my husband was at home lying on his deathbed, awaiting his last rites. I ended up comforting our friends more than they did me. “Really, besides the cancer, he’s fine. He doesn’t feel sick at all,” I protested, not wanting anyone to interfere with my upbeat mood.