“Oh, Mare!”
Posted by Carol Starr Schneider on Jan 8th, 2008
The other night, as the ambulance took poor Britney away for a 72-hour hold, I turned to my youngest and regaled him with a cozy bedtime story:
“Now, son, you may think it’s normal for crazed paparazzi to camp out on celebrity doorsteps, just waiting for them to have a complete psychotic breakdown for all to see. But did you know that –”
The gentle murmur of Scotty’s snoring didn’t deter me. I went on to explain that in the good ol’, pre-bodyguard, pre-Internet days, famous people actually roamed free without getting chased and flash bulbs accosting them at every turn. Celebrity behavior often went undetected. Case in point:
Many moons ago, Mary Tyler Moore wandered into the studio where I took modern dance. It was 1970, the first season of her eponymous show. I was 12 at the time, a huge fan of everything she’d done from “Dick Van Dyke” to “Thoroughly Modern Millie” to her new hit sitcom.
She walked in just as our class was ending. We all spotted her and got giggly with joy. I wanted to run up and hug her. I wanted to throw my hat in the air, if I had one to throw, twirl around and sing, “You’re gonna make it after all!”
I did none of the above. I just stood there and gawked at her, counting the assorted freckles I was surprised to discover on her face. Seconds ticked by as we all dawdled, staring at her in awe. On her end, she seemed … unhappy. It quickly became clear that something was off.
Apparently, it was us.
The pungent aroma of hormonal, adolescent modern dancers had overwhelmed MTM. In fact, our very essence had offended her. She started to swoon and wave at the air, disapprovingly.
Could “pee-ew!” be far behind?
My childhood idol was too classy for “pee-ew.” The words she uttered were more biting, more theatrical in nature. To this day, they haunt me:
“It stinks in here,” declared Mary Tyler Moore.
Our mouths, gleaming brightly with orthodonture, dropped open in shock. In my best Rhoda voice, I wanted to cry out: “Oh, Mare!”
Instead, I clutched my sweaty leotard in shame. I cursed my Love’s Lemon Scent for failing me. I moped out of that studio, mortified.
At this point in my cautionary tale, I nudged Scotty on the sofa: “Stop snoring.”
“I’m not snoring,” he insisted.
I continued to talk. I knew he was half-listening. And that was enough.
“You think Mary Tyler Moore would’ve been nicer if a bunch of photographers had been lurking around the dance studio, taking pictures? Or would she have thrown a fit, anyway, and landed on YouTube?”
“Mary Tyler who?” Scotty mumbled. He had no opinion on the matter. Or so it seemed.
“Never mind,” I said, throwing a pillow at his head.
“Let it go, Mom. It’s in the past,” my son advised from beneath said pillow.
“Okay, you’re right, it’s stupid, I’m over it,” I lied.
“No, you’re not,” he countered.
The boy saw through me. He always has. Just one of his many gifts.
“Seriously. I mean it. I’m done,” I declared.
Oh, but I didn’t mean it. Maybe one day, I will. Maybe one day, I’ll forgive Mare for crushing the spirits of the smelly dancer girls she dismissed that day back in 1970. Maybe one day, I’ll get past the hurt. Maybe one day, I won’t feel the urge to bathe every time I see her on TV.
I kind of doubt it. But don’t tell Scotty, okay? Let him think his mother is a grown up, even if she still has a way to go.
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