Forgotten Sleep

Tonight was a special night for me. Through a series of circumstances, I got a big treat: I was able to rock both of my children at the same time at bedtime. That’s never happened, and I don’t bank that it will ever happen again.

But as I sat in the Laz-y-Boy with Little Man on my left side and Big Girl on my right, my thoughts drifted from what a lucky mom I am to have two beautiful, healthy, bright children to all of the horrible stories flooding the news about bullying. These stories chill my soul when I think about my children getting closer and closer to school-age.

Like many of you out there, I was subjected to some bullying as a child. I wasn’t popular. I was more than a bit of a Goody-Two-Shoes. Loving Husband still calls me Lisa Simpson. So, being the dorky, smart kid made me a pretty good target. The worst it ever got — and granted, this is still bad — was that in sixth grade, a girl threatened to beat me up. The ordeal lasted for about two or so weeks, I think, and then, it went away. My mom got involved, the assistant principal stepped in, and it stopped.

Not to sound old (because I’m not, truly), but what is wrong with kids these days? Yes, I get it that things are, indeed, different now. Social networking and the Internet give kids the power to taunt, tease, and terrorize their classmates at any time. Even in their homes, children subject to bullying aren’t able to escape and relax. Worst of all, any of it can be anonymous. All of it gives bullies, who are by definition, cowards, the ability to torture their victims in an even more cowardly way. It all makes me nauseated.

My question — and certainly the question on many peoples’ minds — is what are we going to do about it. With more and more young people taking their own lives because the ones they are leading are filled with fear and sadness, we, as a society, can no longer sit by and tell ourselves that bullying is part of growing up — that “kids will be kids.” Our inaction has clearly given kids the impression that it is okay to make others feel inferior, to scare them, to make them have physical reactions to the unease that haunts them awake or asleep.

How did we fail as a group to teach kids that targeting someone because of their race, gender, sexual identity or any other reason is abhorrent and unacceptable. Perhaps I am delusional, but I was under the impression, that even though homosexuals still unfortunately face discrimination from some population pockets, cultural opinion as a whole was far more enlightened. Isn’t it supposed to be the younger generation that is more open-minded and progressive than their parents? What has happened?

I suppose the answer to that question is only important in trying to identify all of the problem spots that we need to address. But, first and foremost, parents need to wake up. Any of us could suddenly find ourselves as the parent of a bullied child or as the parent of the bully. Neither is a good position. It isn’t enough anymore to say that we’ll cross that bridge if and when it comes. Waiting to talk to a child about the importance of treating others with kindness and respect or hoping a bullied child will open up and talk about their experiences is simply naive.

At the risk of sounding corny, how about we start having conversations? How about we start paying attention to what’s actually going on in our kids’ lives? How about, rather than being so afraid that we’ll unduly influence our kids by telling them what to do, we do the correct parental thing and actually tell them what they absolutely can’t do for once?

After the family trip to visit the In-Laws last September, I was pretty sure we could never have an equally horrible travel experience. Next time I have a thought like that, someone wrap my brain in duct tape to keep me silent. Having productive thoughts is clearly not my forte.

For months, I looked forward to Loving Husband’s business trip to Rotterdam, Holland, because it meant a chance for the two of us to get away, leave Little Man and Big Girl with my parents, and have some time to ourselves. If I knew that getting some time away would be this difficult, I would’ve stayed home and just pretended that I wanted to leave the country.

As a bit of background information, Loving Husband shipped a large container of display screens via DHL to Rotterdam a few days before we left. The nice woman behind the counter assured him that he needn’t worry — it was out of his hands and in the capable hands of the company now. They handled this type of shipping all the time. Remember that for later.

We arrived about an hour and a half early for our flight to Newark, from which we would connect to Amsterdam. Our flights were booked on Continental. After the obligatory Heineken (going to Holland and all), we strolled to the gate, sat down, and waited for boarding to begin at 2:55. It was 2:30.

And, now, my fair readers, we have reached the Gates of Hell.

The lady next to me gasped and said, “Oh my goodness! The flight is delayed by an hour?!”

Loving Husband and I turned, and there, in bright red electronic lighting was the beginning of our personal journey through Hades. Departure: 3:47 p.m. We stared at each other in utter disbelief. We were going to miss out connection to Amsterdam. There was no question.

I started frantically searching the Web on my phone, and Loving Husband bolted to the check-in desk, trying to find another flight that would get us to Europe that night. Not only had the Continental staff not made an announcement about the hour delay in the airport, but no one answered the 1-800 number on the Continental Web site that was supposed to connect you with a customer service agent who could re-book your flight. I got a recording that told me all agents were busy and that I could call back later. With that, the recording hung up on me. Nice, Continental…good business plan.

After much discussion, Loving Husband got us on a connecting flight to Brussels with bar coded tickets that would put us at the front of the line to schedule a flight to Amsterdam once we landed in Belgium. That would’ve been so easy.

Continental delayed us again for an additional hour. You would think with so many international travelers trying to get home, someone would’ve announced the change. No, that would’ve made sense. We finally got on the plane and asked the flight attendant what the hold up was in Newark. It was nothing really. They just wanted to get all the international flights into the airport so all the domestics had to wait. That. makes. no. sense. How can you re-board international flights unless you pack them with passengers from connecting domestic flights. Clearly, logic isn’t Continental’s strong suit.

We landed in Newark with five minutes to spare before the Brussels flight was airborne. It just wasn’t mean to be. We hoped someone at the customer service desk would help us. I swear, no offense to my New Jersey friends (of which I have a few), I felt like I was talking to the lower-level of the Mob. Granted the gentleman helping us was Haitian, but his co-worker was born and bred stereotypical New Jersey. Wow.

Mr. Haitian told us that there were no seats available on any flights from Newark to anywhere in Europe until Monday morning. This was Friday. No. No. No. He clearly didn’t understand that we would be leaving the country that night, and he was going to be the one to make it happen. Loving Husband was smart. He walked away. He let me work my magic. I smiled, I laughed, I cracked a joke or two. I just asked in my nice way, “Are you sure there’s nothing we can do? We’ll even take a train if you can just get us somewhere.”

What do you know, there were two seats available on a 9:30 p.m. flight to Paris that he could book for us. Do it, sir. We’ll take care of the train. Thanks for your cooperation and for making my travel experience with Continental so smooth and enjoyable.

In the midst of begging for two plane tickets (which, by the way, were not next to each other), I heard a woman with a small boy and Mr. I’m-from-Jersey, You-Got-a-Problem-Wit-Dat get into a screaming battle. She screamed that he was responsible for helping her, and he screamed that he wasn’t going to help her because of her attitude. He yelled at her to leave the counter, that there was no f’ing way he would book her on any flight. Mr. Haitian told Mr. I’m-From-Jersey to walk away and go to the break room. I seriously thought I was going to see hand-to-hand combat. What’s with some people? Yelling doesn’t work, folks.

We walked away, tickets in hand, and got dinner. As 9:30 approached, we meandered to our gate. Oh, nothing on this trip would be easy. The lovely electronic sign didn’t say “Departure: 9:30.” It read, “Departure: 11:30.” By this point, I felt like I was in an Albee play or maybe an Abbott and Costello skit. Of course, the flight was delayed. Why would the flight be on time?

We waited. Finally, our flight to Paris took off at 12:45. I usually have trouble sleeping on trans-Atlantic flights. Not an issue this time. Loving Husband and I both slept for at least five hours. We arrived in Paris relatively rested and awake, ready to get our train tickets and continue on to our ultimate destination.

Continental had other things in mind, again. We made it through immigration and found our baggage carousel. Those little conveyor belts really can mock you. Loving Husband’s bag tumbled out onto the carousel at last, but we waited and waited. After 15 minutes, we admitted defeat and accepted that my bag was not part of this particular Paris adventure. All my shoes, pants, shirts, skirts…everything I’d planned to wear — gone. At least I’m smart and packed my make-up and curlers in my carry-on. One must at least look like a human being when traveling.

I filled out the requisite forms, and we made it to the train station where we purchased tickets to Rotterdam. Of course, the man at the counter didn’t tell us that we’d have to change trains. That was so nice of him. Only after we started chatting with a couple who really didn’t speak a lot of English, did we figure out that we needed to switch trains in Brussels. Blast. It wasn’t clear from our tickets exactly which train we needed to catch, but we had to find it fast. We only had about 10 minutes maximum between this train’s arrival and that one’s departure. So, imagine if you will, Loving Husband and me running through the Brussels train station, heavy with luggage, me in kitten heels (not my finest choice), screaming “Rotterdam? Rotterdam?” in the hopes that someone would point us to the right locomotive.

We got lucky. Maybe 45 seconds after we sat down, the train pulled out of the station. Upon arriving at Rotterdam Centraal, we caught a cab for the ridiculously close three-block trip to the hotel. We stepped into our room 24 hours after we arrived at our airport of origin, a full 10 hours late.

To make matters worse, remember those lovely display banners that Loving Husband shipped via DHL? The ones the DHL associate had assured him would arrive without incident? The ones he paid $1,770 to have delivered directly to the convention site? Yeh, he got an e-mail just as we landed in Paris from our local DHL representative that his display banners were being held in customs and that he needed to call customs officials at Schipol Airport in Amsterdam to answer some questions.

Our lovely DHL representative wasn’t helpful in finding the appropriate people with whom to speak or the appropriate phone numbers to call. She gave Loving Husband the number for DHL media relations on a Saturday. That. Is. Not. Helpful.

Loving Husband navigated the problem alone. And, after paying a previously undiscussed import tax of roughly $400, the customs officials released his display banners. Crisis mitigated.

Our stay in Rotterdam was lovely, but clearly travel was meant to be heinous. Our original travel plan from Rotterdam to Amsterdam involved another train. Our cab driver to the train station convinced us that he could take us direct to our hotel in Amsterdam for 110 Euro. We were so tired, we agreed.

Now, he was nice enough. A bluesy-gruff voiced Dutch cabbie of Greek origin who drove a BMW taxi. He had a good sense of humor and was aware enough to let us chill out and talk between ourselves. It became apparent, however, when he passed the atlas back to Loving Husband, asking him to find the route to our hotel while he drove, that he really didn’t know where the hell we were going. This wasn’t part of the deal.

So, Mr. I-Really-Don’t-Know-Where-I’m-Going missed the appropriate exit for our hotel. We spent the next 45 minutes circling Amsterdam with Loving Husband and me attempting to find new routes to our hotel and our cab driver jumping out at stop lights to get directions from other drivers around us. Thank God we were so fatigued…it was ridiculously comical to us rather than infuriating.

Needless to say, the trip to Holland wasn’t the relaxing one we hoped it would be. I do now, sincerely, believe that the airline industry and the partnering airports have it in for me in some way. They don’t want to harm me, I think they just want to rough me up a little. Make me beg for mercy. Maybe next time, I’ll take a boat.

I’ve always found it mildly offensive when someone has asked me that question. So what if I’m not – does it matter? Of course, most of the time, it’s been because they detect the lingering big of Southern drawl that refuses to disappear when I speak. It’s really no big deal, but seeing the news reports about the new Arizona immigration legislation made me pause to think about what it would be like if that question carried a far more sinister meaning.

Two days ago, Arizona’s governor passed immigration legislation that requires the state police to determine someone’s immigration status in an effort, she said, to crack down on illegal immigration. Immigrants are required to carry their alien residency papers on their person at all times. Previously, the state police were only able to check immigration status if someone was suspected in a previous crime. Frankly, I have to say, are you kidding me?

Now, before anyone slams me, I am not in favor of illegal immigration. If you want to come here to live, do it legally. Yes, we are a nation of immigrants – give me your tired, your hungry, your huddled masses yearning to be free. But, don’t forget, there was a registry on Ellis Island. People signed their names on the dotted line when they crossed our borders.

Given all of that, though, do we really need to create a situation that eerily resembles the Eastern Block in 1987? Do we want to go so far that one our own states starts to reek of the fear and repression that oozed from communism’s open wounds?

When Loving Husband studied abroad in Hungary in 1987, he had to carry his papers with him at all times. He was routinely approached by members of the local police who demanded he produce proof that he was in the country legally. He lived with the constant unease of being under perpetual surveillance.

For decades, we, as Americans, have railed against anything that even whiffed of Big Brother. It goes against the bedrock of our government – personal liberties and individual freedoms. How can we now condone an effort from within our republic to willfully create a situation so antithetical to who we claim to be?

And, all of this doesn’t even touch on the racial aspects of this law. To claim that this legislation will not spawn racial profiling is laughable. People are inherently racist. They do not like those different from themselves. They fear what they do not know and often do not understand. The idea of giving state police additional training to stave off any racial profiling is an excellent idea in theory, and no doubt it will work for some officers. But there will always be some who abuse the law, and they will hide behind the law to defend and justify actions that treat others inhumanely.

Many Arizona officials have said that the state is merely trying to succeed where the federal government has failed. Nice try. Not only does the idea of 50 different state immigration laws make my head hurt, but it’s also against the Constitution. Only the feds have the authority to create a law that affects immigration laws and penalties. I’m hoping the courts send this new law packing so fast that legal immigrants don’t even have the time to dig their papers out of their sock drawers.

I’m not claiming to have the answer to immigration reform. I don’t know how to stop the constant flow of people pouring over our borders illegally. But, I know that this isn’t it. If counterfeiters can mass produce fake $50s and if teenagers can buy reasonable replicas of valid IDs, how long do you think it would take for someone to start shucking fake immigration papers?

So, thanks for trying Arizona, but I’m going to call this one a fail. No do-over for you. Nice try. Next.

Loving Husband and I had the brilliant idea yesterday to take the kids out for a fun morning. We clearly should’ve known that the beautiful weather would be misleading.

It wasn’t bad enough that Little Man woke up on the wrong side of the crib, crabby and screamy. But, he was generally in the mood to scream about everything. Frankly, I’m amazed that Big Girl didn’t try to join in the action.

After a quick shopping spree at The Children’s Place (which went amazingly well, considering the events that followed), we thought we’d take the kids to the playground. It was empty, so we had the run of the swings, slides, and climbing equipment. Little Man took off by himself, chasing after his sister, giggling wildly. All of a sudden, he tripped over a root, twisted, did a face plant into the mulch ground covering, shoving the right side of his face into the earth. Twigs, mulch bits and dirt stuck to his face (which was also quickly covered with mucus), and as I feverishly wiped his face off, I saw that he’d bloodied his nose. Fortunately, it was just a scrape on the underside of his nose, but it was still bad enough to bubble like mad with hydrogen peroxide later.

But like a big boy, he recovered and wanted to play on the slides, just like Big Girl. So, Loving Husband helped him climb up to the top, gently pushed him, and I waited at the bottom to catch him. Everything went well for the first few slides, but the last time, Little Man took off at an angle and managed to bounce his head against the sides of the curly-Q slide until he reached the bottom. Reaction: yep, you guessed it, screaming, crying, general bad mood returning.

Meanwhile, Big Girl was trying to learn how to climb up a vertical ladder and span the distance between said ladder and the big slide structure. I was very proud of her. She did it a couple of times, but on her third try (of course, the one she wanted to do alone), she lost her footing and couldn’t hold on. Down she went, falling about three feet to the ground. No real biggie, and she wasn’t hurt, but for a 3-year-old, it was terrifying, and she had to be cuddled for a few minutes.

At this point, Loving Husband and I were ready to pack it in and go home. The parental happiness quotient was in the toilet. We returned to our bags and stroller to pack everything up, and then Loving Husband hears this: “Daddy, I had an accident.”

Yep, our fully potty-trained daughter had peed in her pants. A lot. I mean, a lot. No only were her shorts soaked, but she had streams of urine flowing down her legs. She complained that her shoes were wet. Loving Husband removed them, looked inside, and then turned them upside down, letting pools of urine splatter on the ground. It was lovely.

So, finally, we made it back to our van, put a towel underneath big girl, strapped little man in, making sure to provide the security binky, and tried to get home as quickly as possible. Believe me, I couldn’t drive fast enough. No matter what we did, Little Man wanted to scream.

Things finally calmed down for a little while once Little Man went to sleep for four hours. But even that didn’t let us recover from the epic family day FAIL from hell.

shame on you. Bite me twice, maybe shame on me. Bite me three times, I think we need to talk.

Okay, so I’m not talking about me. I can’t remember the last time that a person (other than one of my children) actually bit me. Well, yes, I can, but we won’t talk about that.

This time, I’m talking about Little Man. We got a call from Spiffy, Expensive Daycare/Preschool today, informing us that our son had been bitten for the third time since we enrolled him in January. Three nibbles in less than three months. We’ve decided to call him the “afternoon snack.”

Fortunately, none of the bites have broken the skin, and he’s seemed to be perfectly fine within a minute or two of having one of his little friends mistake him for a Goldfish cracker. But, seriously? I think they’re spraying him with movie theater butter and setting the other munchkins on him.

Alright, so not really. But sometimes it seems that way. Don’t me wrong, I’m not angry. I’m well aware that little kids bite, especially those who can’t yet talk. And, the teachers can’t be within arm’s reach of all the kids at all times — there’s only two of them, after all.

At the same time, though, having my son associate with the Bad Biting Crowd makes me worry that he’ll pick up this vice. I’ve seen kids get kicked out of preschools because they aren’t able to control their cannibalistic tendencies. Big Girl was never a biter, so I don’t relish the possibility of having to prevent Little Man from taking a chunk out of his big sister. Frankly, given that he already head butts me, pinches and scrapes at the skin on my neck and smacks me in the face, the thought of seeing his little chompers closing in on any part of my exposed skin makes me quake with fear.

Still, catching sight of the mouth-shaped bruise on his right cheek this afternoon as he ran toward me when we picked him up made me feel more than the average amount of sympathy for my sweet Little Man. And, in the back of my mind, I found myself wondering, are 1-year-olds too young to get what Muno from Yo Gabba Gabba means when he says, “Don’t, don’t, don’t bite your friends?”

I had a feeling this would happen. On that hot June day, I turned to Loving Husband, and I told him that this would be the outcome.

On June 25, the entertainment world lost two shining stars. Farrah Fawcett lost her three-year battle with anal cancer at age 62 that day. Upon hearing the news, almost everyone mourned this loss, and NBC Dateline aired an hour-long program, called “Farrah Fawcett: The Life and Death of an Angel.” Whispered memories of her bright smile, her engaging nature, her sweet personality, and yes, that lovely hair, swirled for hours.

But, by 5:00 p.m., those whispers had stopped. Farrah’s death was shelved when more shocking news hit the air waves. Michael Jackson was rumored to have been rushed to the hospital, and word that he was dead was starting to trickle out. The King of Pop was, indeed, gone, and so was any memory that Farrah Fawcett had also lost her life.

Seeing the media pour over Michael Jackson’s death over the next few weeks and ignore Farrah Fawcett was maddening. Yes, I know that his death was suspicious, and his doctor is now under indictment. But, a death is a death, loss is a loss and human life is human life. All are equal.

It wasn’t until Sunday night, though, that I realized the true extent to which she had been pushed outside of our collective memory. The In Memorium segment at the Academy Awards has always been a time to remember the talented people who have left us during the previous year and reflect upon their achievements. This year’s list was incomplete — as the names and faces flashed across the screen, Farrah Fawcett was nowhere to be found. But, Michael Jackson was.

As an aside, I’m well aware that the Academy didn’t include Bea Arthur, as well. This also makes me sad, but the specific circumstances around Farrah Fawcett and Michael Jackson gave me greater pause.

Now, I am one of MJ’s biggest fans. I still dance to his music and can vividly remember pulling out the vinyl Thriller album that my parents bought me so I could flit around the room. I deeply mourned his death. But, to label him as an actor is simply inaccurate and unfair to those who devote their lives to the craft.

It breaks my heart for Farrah Fawcett’s family that not only was her death quickly forgotten because a bigger, and arguably more bizarre, star followed her closely in passing, but she was also overlooked for a list of actors and actresses who died in 2009. A list, people. She was left off a list. Someone really fell down on the job by omitting her. This isn’t like going to the grocery store and forgetting the peanut butter because you forgot to write it down. This is forgetting to acknowledge a living, breathing being who worked hard to entertain us and fought valiantly for her life.

There is something fundamentally wrong with that. The Academy’s lame excuse that they “can’t include everyone” is ridiculous. Some of these In Memorium segments have lingered on the screen far longer that I would’ve liked. You would hope that records are scrubbed to make sure that no one is left out.

And, in the case of two deaths in one day — you make sure you include both. It’s just what you do, period

Let’s see…on any given day, $60 could buy you a relatively nice dinner. Or a new pair of shoes. If you’re like me, it might even buy you a lot of clothes for your kids if your favorite Kiddie Clothing Emporium is having one of their famous sales.

But, today is not any given day. Today is Monday — otherwise known as “Let’s get ourselves locked out of the house day.”

When we bought our house we knew it had “character.” One of those lovely little idiosyncrasies is that our main door has two locks serviced by two different keys. Neither of us carry a key for the second lock because it’s just not necessary.

Bad. Decision.

After helping a colleague for a few hours today, I returned to my office to find my cell phone blinking wildly at me. It appeared that my graphic designer had called me a few times, but the voice mail said something different.

Loving Husband had frantically been trying to get in touch with me this afternoon to let me know that we were locked out of our house. Not only that, but he didn’t have his cell phone and had pilfered the cell phone from Great Graphic Designer, with whom we both work. So, being sans phone, he couldn’t call a locksmith.

So, at 4 p.m. (and I leave work at 4:30), I set out to find a locksmith. The first one turned me down because he was booked into the evening. He recommended another company with the phrase, “They don’t smile much, but they do a good job.” Great, crabby locksmiths attempting to pick the lock to my house. Just what I want to see at the end of the day.

But, the non-smileys took my call and said they’d be on their way. What? Immediately? Great service, but not great for timing. It takes me a good 30 minutes to get home, considering that I have to take a bus just to get to my car. Even if I’d left the office and caught a bus immediately, the chances of my making it were slim.

I guessed right. On my way out of the parking lot, my cell phone rang with the surly locksmith on the other end of the line.

“I was under the impression that you were locked out of your house and needed to get back in.”

Hoping not to make the locksmith so mad he left, leaving me to sit outside in the sun (wait, today was warm, that wouldn’t have been so bad), I frantically explained that I would be home in four minutes. The cop directly behind me made sure I didn’t make it in those four minutes, but I really tried as best I could.

Finally, I pulled into my driveway and scampered up to the locksmith’s van. He didn’t even bother to get out of his truck to greet me. With his foot tapping on the door jam to the driver’s side, he simply looked at me sideways as I apologized for being late.

“If it’s just the bottom lock that was locked, it’s unlocked now.”

This was my greeting. I didn’t even have time to register that he’d unlocked my house without me there. Stunned, I ran inside and found a check. From “hello” to “here’s your check, thanks again,” my entire encounter with Mr. Locksmith lasted a grand total of three minutes. He was gone before I’d retrieved my coat from my car.

As happy as I was that he came over so quickly, giving me entrance back into the place I hocked both kidneys to purchase, I must admit that I was more than a little bummed that he took with him my plan to purchase $60 work of Indian take-out for dinner.

Le sigh.

All I can say is that it’s about freakin’ time.

In all my years as an avid political observer, I’ve seen a lot of things that have frustrated me, made me angry or, flat out, disgusted me. Nothing has ticked me off more, though, that the image of the dutiful, long-suffering politician’s wife. If the saying that behind every successful man is a strong and good woman, then why do all of these ladies look and act like doormats?!

Think about it — over the past decade, what have we seen? N.J. Gov. James McGreevey resigned in 2004 after accusations that he was gay and had sexually harassed a staffer proved true. Idaho Sen. Larry Craig lost his re-election bid in 2009 after a police report that he had allegedly solicited sex in an airport bathroom came to light. N.Y. Gov. Eliot Spitzer resigned from office in 2008 amidst a blazing scandal in which he spent copious amounts of money on prostitutes — the irony in his case was rich.

The one constant in these cases has been the forlorn, dejected wife standing next to her husband at the podium while he apologized to the world and his family for his transgressions and asked for privacy as he tried to make amends. Give me a break. If he were my husband, you better believe I wouldn’t be standing there, and I certainly wouldn’t have had any supportive words to utter.

I can offer two exceptions to the rule — well one half exception and one full. Hillary Clinton may have stood by Bill Clinton when accusations and proof of all his affairs surfaced, but there are enough rumors floating around to make me feel pretty confident that Hillary scorched Bill’s ears on plenty of occasions. She’s also a powerful politician in her own right, and she’s thrown herself in an amazingly successful career. As a woman, I have to say, way to go, Hillary!

But, on to my true exception. Jenny Sanford. Today, her divorce from S.C. Gov. Mark Sanford becomes final in a Charleston family court. Last year, Sanford humiliated himself, his wife, his sons and his state when he disappeared from the country on Father’s Day weekend to visit his “soulmate” mistress in Argentina. In his public confession all he did was froth off about how wonderful this woman was and how there was an instant attraction. A public “D’oh! I’m sorry” it was not.

What was missing? Yep, you guessed it. Jenny Sanford. I love it that a woman was pissed off enough and confident enough to tell her husband, “Hell no, I’m standing with you out in front of those cameras.” Mark Sanford made this mess for himself, and she let him swing in the wind by himself when he admitted it. Rock on, sistah!

Here is a woman who is setting a positive example for young women and girls everywhere. No, I not condoning divorce as a fabulous thing. But, I am condoning and promoting images of women who are strong enough to take control of their lives and not put up with the ridiculousness that “men of power” think they are entitled to create.

We don’t need to tell our little girls that they have to suffer with the indignity caused by infidelity. We don’t need to let them think that their place is to merely succumb to the whims of their husbands or partners. Our little girls should know that it’s acceptable and expected that they stand up for themselves and demand to be treated appropriately.

So, to Jenny Sanford, I say this: You might not be the warmest of women, but my hat’s off to you. Thank you for finally doing what the majority of us have wanted political wives to do for so long. Thank you for taking charge of your life and your marriage.

Most of all, thank you for showing your four young sons that real men don’t treat women the way their father has treated you. You’ve just help school-up a new generation of men.

As a young child of the 80s, I am in no way ashamed to admit that I loved watching “Growing Pains.” I always identified in large part with Carol, the nerdy, socially awkward sister. Oh, who am I kidding, I had a red-hot place in my heart for Mike (played by Kirk Cameron).

I wasn’t close to being a teenager yet, so I reveled in watching what I only assumed were the real-life trials and tribulations of all-American teens. Each episode came with its own drama, its own strife, its own endearing dorkiness.

And part of that was the lovable, but not-nearly-as-good-looking side-kick to Mike Seaver — “Boner” Stabone. He was goofy, he wasn’t quite so bright, and he was frequently the butt of the joke. But, you had to love him. You felt drawn to him. The silly way he curled his mouth when he talked or the way he so readily went along with whatever scheme Mike cooked up — you couldn’t help but have a soft spot for the kind kid who seemed to be a bit of an oaf.

Memories of him on screen playing that likeable character make it all the more sad that the actor who played him — Andrew Koenig — took his own life sometime in the past few weeks. At 41, his family said he was despondent and depressed. He went missing on Valentine’s Day, and his body was discovered in a Vancouver park today.

From the news reports, his family, including his father who played Pavel Chekov on the original Star Trek, seem to be beside themselves with grief. They have clearly been caught off guard — what a horrible thing for a parent to outlive their child.

I’ve talked about this theme many times recently — we so quickly forget that our celebrities are people who suffer from the same problems that the rest of us do. And, for whatever reason, apparently Koenig didn’t feel like he could talk to anyone about his pain. He clearly felt alone.

I pray for his family and friends who are, no doubt, reeling with shock. It’s hard to picture the young man who was known nationally as “Boner” (followed by many childish giggles) for such a long time suffered so much with inner turmoil.

Hopefully, he would want to be remembered as that young man who appeared to smile easily — I’d prefer to hold on to those warm, fuzzy memories of sitting in front of my television as a young kid.

There are plenty of things in my life for which I will accept apologies.

“Honey, I’m sorry I wrecked the car.” “Mommy, I’m sorry I spilled grape juice all over the Oriental rug.” “I’m sorry I stole your idea, lied to the boss and told her it was mine.”

These are things for which I would feel totally appropriate accepting an apology.

But an apology from Tiger Woods regarding his having multiple affairs and potentially being a sex addict? Nah, I don’t need an “I’m sorry” for that one. I think I’ll be just fine without his mia culpa.

Yes, yes, I know that finding out that anyone (let alone a revered athlete) has cheated on his spouse with no fewer than 12 women offends the delicate sensibilities of the American culture. We’d all be horrified if someone in our immediate circles conducted themselves that way.

And, that’s just my point. In our immediate circles. But even then, if it’s not our spouse, father, mother, brother, sister, whatever, we don’t have the right to expect (nor should we get) an apology. The transgression didn’t hurt us in the slightest.

Now, I’m not defending what Tiger did. I think it’s lousy and shameful. I feel bad for his wife and his children — particularly the kids. Having a daddy who boinked nearly a baker’s dozen of women across the country will be humiliating as they get older.

But me? In my life? I have to give this the big “Whatev.” Sportscasters this morning were talking about how it would take a long time for the American people to forget about what Tiger has done and to forgive him. Until I saw the story about his public apology today, I hadn’t thought about his issues in a long, long time. This has not been the biggest thing going on in my life, I have to admit. And, for those of you who have been brooding over it — move on. You don’t get to judge him.

So, I’ll pass on the apology, Tiger. Don’t worry about me, I’ll be fine.

What I do need from you, though, is for you to get your butt back on the golf course. You’re a golfer, and I expect you to play. You didn’t get famous for being a moral pinnacle. Your fame came from your ability to launch a drive 340 yards down the fairway. That’s what drew people to you in the first place.

Get it together, grab your clubs (maybe not the one your wife used to shatter your windshield) and step on the green.

It’s time to put the ball in the hole — the golf ball, that is.