#Me Too

I’m back, Dear Readers, and I have to talk about the Harvey Weinstein thing.

Too bad.

It comes as no great surprise to me that this disgusting, entitled, trauma-inducing and illegal behavior is alive and well in Casting Couch Hollywood.

It happens all the time.

And not just in Hollywood.

Too bad.

Famous women all over the world have rung in about their own awful experiences with these despicable predators.  No need to recap them here.

But one person’s story really resonated with me.

It was Liza Campbell’s. She’s a British writer and she took a meeting with Harvey at the Savoy in London in the hopes of getting an advancement at Miramax.

Instead of a discussion about her career at his company, what she got was Weinstein stripping and asking her to soap him up.

She fled in disgust- and fear.

As she wrote in the U.K’s Sunday Times “It took me days to calm down from the anger I felt and the crushing realization that there never was a job; only a hidden hook.

(My bold letters.)

That really rang my bell.

Never a job.  Just a trick.

Too bad.

I’ve already written about my own personal horrible encounter with legendary lech- former Tribune star columnist Bob Greene.

(If you can stomach it, read all about it here.)

But it was just my luck to come to the attention of this douchebag, too.

TV film critic Michael Medved.

Yuck.

About twenty-five years ago, when he and Jeffrey Lyons were hosting a tv movie review show, Sneak Previews, he got in touch with me and invited me to meet with him regarding a search for a new co-host.

OMG.

I was, back then, a columnist working for the Pioneer Press looking for a way to break into television.  I had a huge interest in film coupled with a vast amount of movie knowledge.  This audition sounded like a dream come true.

I was also happily married suburban mother of two.

But when MM invited me downtown to the Ambassador East (where he stayed during the taping of the show at WTTW’s studio) I wasn’t worried.  He was, after all, also happily married, a father of three and VERY religious.  Almost a rabbi or something.

I wasn’t concerned about his intentions or my safety.  Just excited and anxious to make a great impression. I could do this job. I knew it.

He could only meet in the evening as he taped the show during the day.  So I wasn’t surprised when he asked me to come downtown for a dinner meeting.  We would meet in the lobby, he said.

I’m night blind and can’t drive when the sun goes down so I called for a limousine to take me to the Ambassador East.  But when the limo driver dropped me off and I made my way into the lobby…

No MM in sight.

So I called his room- no, make that suite- and he said he was running late and could I come up for a few minutes and have a brief interview before we headed out for dinner.

What would you do if you wanted that job?

I went up.

No, he wasn’t naked.  No, he didn’t want a massage.  In fact, he was pretty nice, asked some pertinent questions and told me a little about himself.

Then he told me that he kept kosher and was very strict in his observance and would I mind eating at the Indian restaurant within walking distance of the hotel?

Sure, no problem.

We ate and then we walked back to his hotel.  MM said he he had a few more interview questions to go over with me and asked that I go back up with him.

What would you do?

I went.

And that’s when he suggested that I stay the night.

I remember being struck by the fact that that slime ball hypocrite was zealous about keeping kosher but didn’t seem to mind breaking the Ten Commandments at all.

Ugh.

I hastily went downstairs, called for a limo and fumed all the way back to Winnetka.  (BTW, the limo cost $45 each way back then and Medved, if you’re reading this, I’d like you to refund my money.)

There was never a job.  Only a hidden hook.

And I had been fished in.

Too bad.

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Posted in Gender politics, pop culture, Sexual Harrassment | 27 Comments

It Takes A Village

Back in 1985 I got a phone call (remember those?) from Lili Ann Zisook.

“We’re putting together a fund in memory of Lynn.  How would you like to be publicity chairman?”

I hadn’t had the privilege of knowing Lynn Sage very well or for for very long.  I had met her several years earlier at Lili Ann’s house and, of course,  I had been drawn to her kindness and warmth.

We had a lot in common.  She was the mother of two.  So was I.  She had a loving husband, a comfortable home, tons of friends.  A beautiful life.  I liked to think that I had one, too.

(That’s Lynn on Ellen Soren’s lap.  Behind Ellen are Joan Himmel Freeman and Diane Greengross.)

And we had a special bond.  We both had daughters born on September sixteenth.

But she had been tapped by that random specter of no respect- Fate- and she had died of breast cancer at thirty-eight.

She.

Not me.

So out of regard for two great gals, of course I agreed to be P.R. Chairman of the fledgling Lynn Sage Fund.

I didn’t have many great media contacts back then but I made dozens of phone calls to anyone remotely connected with the press.

“We’re starting a charity to find the cure for breast cancer and we’re having a kick off event.  Would you please cover it?” I’d implore.

There weren’t many takers.  But finally, a couple of journalists felt that the cause- and the small band of dedicated women championing it- were worth covering.

And thus the original founding members made their way to the Board of Trade one afternoon.  And as we toured the trading floor, there were some photographers flashing away and reporters scribbling down who were were exactly and exactly what were we doing there.

It hadn’t been easy but there was the story and a great photograph in the paper the following week.

Whew.  I was so glad that I was able to pull it off.

Fast forward thirty-two years to last Monday, October first.

I had the honor of attending “Light The Way. Time for find a cure.”  The Lynn Sage Cancer Research Foundation 2017 Fall Benefit Luncheon.

Wow.  Had things changed.

No trading floor could hold the crowd of people attending this event.  Now it took the Grand Ballroom of the Conrad Hilton to accommodate the guest list.

And the joint was jumpin’.

The cocktail party purse auction AKA “Purse-Sue The Cure” was swarming with savvy and generous auction bidders all looking for a great bag and a great cause at the same time.

Lunch was then served and it was elegant.  (And delicious.)

And there there was a warm welcome from fellow journalist, man-about-town and great guy, Chicago’s own Bill Zwecker.

(In case you haven’t had the fun of meeting Bill, you can always read this.)

He deftly introduced the speakers: the co-chairs Sofia Ahmad Jones and Julie Roth Novack. (As Julie struggled to hold back the tears as she movingly spoke of her beloved older sister’s battle with breast cancer, there was a lump in my throat- and the entire audience’s.)

And then there was an electrifying brief speech- a call to action- by Dr. Leonidas Platanias, Director of the Robert H. Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Center.  He related the thrilling news that researchers are on the brink of of a breakthrough.

NOW.

“Soon no one need die of this disease,” he stressed.

He was a hard act to follow but the next speaker was more than up to the challenge.

World class actress Kathy Bates delivered a wonderful speech.

My gosh, if I had loved her in Misery, Primary Colors and Titanic before, I was her willing slave after her remarks.

And the real life Kathy had a real world warning for all of us.

“Testing negative for the BRACA gene is not a “get out of jail free’ card.”  (Both Kathy and her niece had tested negatively and both had gotten breast cancer.)

“Listen to your body.  Get tested if you don’t feel right.”

Thanks, Kathy.

Towanda!

During the past thirty-two years, $32 million has been raised by these women.  Unlike me- who high-tailed it to Aspen in 1996 and am just getting back to my Chicago philanthropic roots- most of the original board has been ceaselessly working for the cure.

They can take pride in knowing that their efforts have raised funds to defeat cancer “by advancing research, education, awareness and patient care initiative” at both Northwestern Hospital and the Robert Lurie Comprehensive Cancer Center of Northwestern University.

The LSCRF sure doesn’t need my help anymore.  But it’s a great comfort to know that they will be there if I ever need theirs.

You’re right, Lil.

It takes a village.

Just be sure that it’s lit up in pink.

Author’s Note:  This is my last post until October 29, Dear Readers.  See you in your email box then.  Thanks.

And now, here’s the fabulous Kathy.

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Posted in Philanthropy | 6 Comments

Closer

WARNING: This post is rated V for Violent Content.  (That’s the world we live in now, Dear Readers.)

So last Sunday TBF and I were supposed to be in Las Vegas.  We had gone there for his birthday last year and had such a great time in such fabulous weather that we vowed to do it all over again for this birthday.

Besides, we both had an unfinished Things To Do list.

He wanted to get in a little more poker time in downtown Vegas and I wanted to go to Carbone and see what their $64 veal parmigiana was all about.

(Hold your horses, Kauf.  That’s only if he had gotten lucky at the poker table.)

But my recent surgery has precluded me from wearing a bathing suit, and if I couldn’t spend lots of time sunning at the pool, I’d soon as not go.

Reluctantly, I told TBF  how I felt.  He was a sport and agreed that until I am bathing suit-ready, we should hold off on all getaways that are bikini-based.

So with a heavy heart- I was still hugely disappointed, after all- I canceled the reservation for Sunday, October first and we stay-cationed in Chicago instead.

So you can imagine how I felt on Monday morning waking up to the news that Las Vegas had been the site of the latest and largest mass shooting in U.S. history.

I felt like I had dodged a bullet.

Another one.

To be fair, we did not have reservations at the Mandalay Bay Hotel.  Nor do I think we would have been anywhere near that concert tent venue.  But that doesn’t really matter.

This would have been the third time that I had been in the vicinity of an awful, awful shooting involving crazy people and their easy access to guns.

Let me take you back to 1988.

Does the name “Laurie Dann” ring any (graveyard) bells?

As a Winnetka parent, this was too close for comfort.

About a month before that heinous event, I met Joel Corwin in a popcorn line at the Edens Theater.  My brother Kenny introduced us, saying,”Ellen’s son is named Nick.”

Joel Corwin’s face lit up like he had been handed a present.

“You have a ‘Nick?’  I have a ‘Nick.’”

And with that, he pulled out his wallet and proudly showed me a photograph of an adorable eight year old Little League slugger.  He was in a green and white uniform and had struck a batting stance.

I remember the photograph perfectly.

Because I had the exact same one.

My eight year old was in the same Little League.  With the same uniform.  In the same pose.

And in exactly the same position in this mother’s heart.

There was only one difference.  A month later, a maniac named Laurie Dann did not come into my kids’ school and shoot up a classroom full of third graders.

Her rampage took her to other elementary schools to spread her lethal trail of murder and some kind of psychotic revenge.

I was lucky to get two children returned to me that day.

Some parents in Jefferson County, Colorado weren’t that lucky on April 20, 1999.  My son Nick and I were watching tv when the news cut in blaring forth the story of two teenaged gunmen and their murderous massacre at Columbine High School.

Sickening to just listen to it all over again.  And, as Nick and I watched for a week in horror, that school shooting destroyed so many young, promising lives- and the lives of their friends and family, of course.

It almost killed the community, too.  The gap between the families that had lost children and the families that had been spared the tragedy grew bigger ever year.

How can you get over something like this?

I was fortunate not to be in Florida or California or Virginia or…

And then, I read this.

OMG.

I can’t keep dodging bullets.

And neither can you.

Do something.

Please.

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Posted in Gun Control, Las Vegas, Politics, pop culture | 14 Comments

Pop Go The Weasels

This is a (P)op-Ed piece.  And it’s going to be short and (Nutra) sweet.

This woman ruined my life.

Her name is Toni Preckwinkle.  She is a former Chicago alderman and is the current president of the Cook County Board of Commissioners.

She was elected to this position on November 2, 2010.

And I want her impeached.

Thrown out of office.

Why all this rancor?

She cast the tie-breaking vote on the hated new Cook County penny-an-ounce beverage tax.

She’s counting on an extra $224 million a year to help balance the county’s books.

For awhile.

Well, I won’t be a party to it.

I am not going to pay that outrageous pop blackmail money.

I won’t do it.

I am going to stand up to those bullies.

From now on, I’m buying my pop elsewhere.

To date, I have schlepped in Seagram’s Diet Ginger Ale and Diet Coke from Pittsburgh and Eagle River.

And I bring pop home whenever I am in Lake, Kane or DuPage County.

I will not give in.

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Posted in Chicago, Politics, Soda Pop TAx | 19 Comments

Sandwich Wrap-up

That’s John Montagu, the fourth Earl of Sandwich.  He was born in 1718 and he died in 1792.

He was a diplomat and a rake.  A world traveler, a high-ranking official and an inveterate gambler. He had held many important posts in his lifetime. And failed miserably- and upwardly- at all of them.

A wit once suggested that his epitaph read “Seldom has any held so many offices and accomplished so little.”

And he did me a solid.

Legend has him inventing a light repast- modeled after the small canapés he had seen on his Eastern Mediterranean tour- so as not to interrupt his all-night gaming bouts.

Food historians date the small protein nestled between two slices of carbs somewhat earlier but they concede that this Gamblers Anonymous poster boy’s title and cachet instantly popularized this new food group.  Other gamesters were quick to shout out “I’ll have the same as Sandwich!” to no-doubt exhausted club waiters.

When legend becomes fact, print the legend.

As far as I’m concerned, John Montagu is one of the greats.  Sandwiches are right up there on my Food Hit Parade along with hot dogs, hamburgers and pizza.

What would lunch be without them?

It all started for me with Oscar Mayer.

As long as I can remember, Oscar Mayer bologna had pride of place in our old refrigerator.  Even my mother- who could not cook and showed no interest in food- knew how to places two slices of O.M. bologna between two slices on Wonder Bread.

(With a squirt of French’s mustard for garni.)

Sometimes she’d vary the menu.  The bologna was replaced with a smear of Oscar Mayer liver sausage.

What was she/I thinking?

Add a summer’s day, a paper plate and a sweet gherkin pickle and you had the perfect picnic.

But I didn’t stay on one side of the ethnic sandwich aisle.

The old Ashkenaz on Morse Avenue certainly had its charms.

I doubt that the Earl ever enjoyed a corned beef sandwich on rye washed down by a chocolate phos but he’ll never know what he missed.

As I grew older I discovered that a sandwich could be much more than lunch meat.

It could contain tuna salad, egg salad or my favorite- chicken salad.

And my favorite chicken salad sandwich was right under my nose.

It could be had at The Patio in Winnetka.  Along with a lemonade.  (Their pop machine broke long ago and they simply neglected to replace it.)

Located in the little shopping arcade along with L&A Stationers, The Patio’s finely-minced chicken salad sandwich was a little slice of heaven.

(And if that didn’t float your boat and dessert was more up your gastronomic alley, they baked an unbelievable angel food cake filled with chocolate chips and topped with a dreamy, light mocha frosting.  It made a spectacular coda to your refined ladies’ lunch.)

(Not exactly it.  But close.)

And if I wanted to go downtown, there was always my grandmother and…

The Marshall Fields Special.

Grandma would treat me to the Walnut Room’s most famous sandwich- an open-face turkey club smothered in Thousand Island dressing.

Yum.

And then one day I made a huge discovery in Chicago.

A sandwich didn’t have to be cold.

A sandwich could be hot.

Cue Don Roth’s Blackhawk.

Swoon. Creamy mornay sauce atop wonderful turkey and tasty ham- all serving piping hot in its own little dish.  I was in love.

Sigh.

Those were the sandwich- and damn the calories-days.

These days, with Marshall Fields, The Patio and the Blackhawk gone with the sands of time, I’ve had to make do.

And I haven’t done too badly.

I’m all about the turkey sandwich at the Berghoff outpost at O’Hare, the turkey sandwich (hold the cheese) at the Levy Brother’s concession at Arlington Park and I throw in the odd lobster roll whenever I can get one.

Hugo’s makes a good one.

But I have recently located a sandwich that nows reigns supreme.

The best of the best.

If you’re ever in the Boston area, head to a small sub-section called Waban.

Located in an eh-looking tiny strip mall is a hidden gem.

It’s called Barry’s Village Deli.

Scan the menu until you come to “Artie’s Famous Pilgrim.”

It’s simply described as “Hand Cut Turkey with stuffing, cranberry sauce and mayo.”

OMG.

The Earl could bet that this sandwich is a sure thing.

Now see if you agree with this list.

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Posted in food, pop culture, Sandwiches | 12 Comments

Book Report

If I had to describe myself in one word, I think that word would have to be…

Bookworm.

In first grade, the reading die was cast.  The library let me take out five books.  I read them and the next Saturday I would take out another five books.

I’ve continued this five books a week bit – although sometimes I re-read old favorites- to this very day.

Take a look at my night table right now.

Eagle-eyed readers may notice that there are only four books in the pile.  But that’s because I am currently reading two on my Kindle.

And eagle-eyed readers can probably tell that these all come under the heading of “Old Favorites.”  (That’s a first edition Act One, btw.)

But today I want to talk about two nifty books just perfect for these unseasonably hot dog days.

One came out in 2016 and one is brand new.

English Professor Note: Warning! Neither of these choices can be considered great literature.  Janeites and fans of F. Scott Fitzgerald don’t have to be worried about the competition here.  But they’re both fun, exciting and quick to polish off.  What could be better as we head into fall?

Let’s start with the brand new one.

The Marsh King’s Daughter by Karen Dionne.

Spoiler Alert:  The Marsh King’s Daughter is not for the faint of heart.  Not quite as graphic as The Silence of the Lambs, it’s still gory and really scary.  If your idea of a perfect beach read is The Devil Wears Prada, skip this book.

However, if you’re in the mood for excitement with a high concept premise and a memorable heroine, read on.  No plot twists will be revealed.

TMKD – recently rave-reviewed in the New York Times Book Section- is the story of Helena Pelletier.  Helena is a thirty-something, happily-married mother of two daughters who makes her living in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula selling home made jams and jellies. She knows a lot about wood lore and the local flora and fauna.  She can hunt, fish, trap and track.  Her father taught her how to do all these things.

But Helena is hiding a secret from her loving family.  Her father has been in prison for the last fifteen years for kidnapping and murder.  He kidnapped Helena’s mother when she was just fourteen and kept her prisoner for fifteen years.  Helena was the child of this unholy alliance and she was twelve and her mother twenty-eight when they were recovered from their captor.

In Helena’s own words “..I never went to school, never rode a bicycle, never knew electricity or running water.  That the only people I spoke to during those twelve years were my mother and father.  That I didn’t know we were captives until we were not.”

Think Jaycee Dugard or Elizabeth Smart or those poor women who were held prisoner by a maniac in Ohio.

Ever read a People Magazine article about them? Have you ever wondered what it would be like to survive something like that?

Then ask yourself what it means to find out you are a child of such a union.

Helena has to come to grips with the past quickly.  The book opens with the news bulletin that her father has killed two guards in a prisoner break and he is somewhere on the loose.

Helena knows that she has to find him before he finds her- and her daughters.

Karen Dionne does a great job with the setting in Michigan’s barren Upper Peninsula landscape.  She knows her territory- both physically and psychologically.  She handles the sensitive topic of kidnapping with insight and compassion and she has created a heroine who is resourceful, brave, vulnerable and most of all, believable.

As Helena sets out to track her fugitive father, Dionne keeps you guessing.  There are enough thrills and chills to keep you turning the pages, too.

I read it in one gulp.  And if you’re brave enough to follow a Native American psychopath equipped with uncanny wilderness skills and no conscience, grab your bear rifle and get in the truck

The Marsh King’s Daughter needs all the help she can get.

The second book I’m recommending is Ready Player One.

(If you have a techie boy in the family, you have already seen it when he unpacked his back pack.  Chances are he has read it.)

Author Ernest Cline also starts out with a bleak, vast universe.  It’s what remains of the United States of America in the year 2045.  People are living in dystopian misery in abandoned trailer homes piled one on top of another.  The hero, Wade Watts, is a teenager living in “the stacks” and his only outlet from this grim reality is logging onto OASIS (Ontologically Anthropocentric Sensory Immersive Simulation) and playing video games to distract him from his misery.

The story takes off when James Halliday, a Steve Wozniak-like character, dies and hides his immense fortune in one of the games.  But in order to find it, the player has to be adept, not only in classic video games like Dungeons and Dragons but “ancient” television programs and movies like War Games.  The player who thus scores the highest in all this role-playing will find the “easter egg” Halliday has cleverly hidden and become enormously rich and powerful himself.

Needless to say, his challenge is taken up by “gunters”- short for “egg hunters”- throughout the universe.

And needless to say, all this imagination and clever pop culture was immediately snapped up by the great game changer himself, Steven Spielberg, and will be released to much anticipation in Spring of 2018.

Here. I’ll let Wade explain it to you.

Next stop? John le Carré’s new one-  A Legacy of Spies.  I can’t wait to rendez-vous with the old Circus crowd again.

See you at the library.

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Posted in books, Movies, Ready Player One, The Marsh King's Daughter | 12 Comments

Reunited (And it feels so good)

That’s my I.D. badge, Dear Readers, proudly bearing my class picture.  (Wince.)

The year was 1967, and although I was having a clearly a bad hair day, my four years at New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois were the greatest.

I was handed that badge two Saturday nights ago on the twelfth floor at the Doubletree Hotel in Skokie, Illinois.  That’s where our fiftieth reunion was being held and I wasn’t entirely sure if I should still clip it on.

When I first got the invitation earlier this year, I had had my doubts.

A lot had changed in my life since my last appearance at the twenty-fifth reunion.  Back then, I was a Winnetka housewife, a mother, a columnist, a generous philanthropist and hard worker for many Chicago charities.

All that had gone with the divorce wind.  I wasn’t real sure how the 2017 version of Ellen Ross would play.

But high school had been a magical time for me.  And more importantly, New Trier had given me everything.

I had loved my teachers, my friends, my classes.  And the school had given me an identity of which I was- and am- proud.  As a dopey teenager, it had been a privilege to be part of something truly special.

There is no doubt in my mind as I type this.  New Trier had shaped the course of my life.

And of course, I wanted to reconnect with my old- no make that former- classmates.  Some I still see, of course.  But others I hadn’t seen in over twenty-five years.

And the subset I was most anxious to revisit were my Avoca Class of  ’63 kids.  Avoca was/is a small school- eighty three boys and girls had been in my graduating class- and I had gone all the way from first to eighth grade with most of them.

But eighty-three freshmen got lost in a class of twelve hundred and I hadn’t seen most of these people since they were twelve.  What would they be like now?  Would I recognize them? Would they know who I was?

Curiosity may have killed the cat but it got me to overcome my second thoughts and shell out the $125 to put my name on the guest list.

Once that check was in the mail, the die was cast and the Rubicon was crossed. (N.B. Mr. Thomson. Latin teacher ne plus ultra and professore d’italiano magnifico.)

Author’s Note:  I’ve already apple-polished and written a love screed to my favorite teachers.  If you want to read (or reread ) it here it is. Click here.

But as Saturday, September sixteenth drew near, my original trepidation came back.

After all, I wasn’t married, my kids had moved away and Kelly Ripa still had my dream job. I hadn’t written Heartburn or directed Something’s Got To Give, either.

I had nothing to show for the last fifty years.

But it felt lousy to chicken out and pull a no-show.  Besides, my former next-door neighbor had graciously agreed to pick me up at the train station and I didn’t want to stand her up.

Ellen was waiting right on time with her old friend Janice already riding shotgun. And as we walked in to the reception, I felt my pulse quicken with…I don’t know nerves, anxiety, excitement…

And then I spotted Cathy and it was 1963 all over again.  All the memories came flooding back and I was awash in laughter- and a few tears- for the rest of the night.

Old training-wheels beaux, former jumprope and jacks rivals, girls I had worshipped from afar swirled around me in a wonderful whirlpool.  People and things I hadn’t thought about in fifty years all came rushing towards me with a clarity that somehow defied the years.

There was Bob and Jeff and Ernie and Cathy and Vickie and beloved Barbara and Diane and Butch and Rodney and Stew…

We laughed and reminisced.

And we mourned our fallen classmates.  I hadn’t realized how many of us had died.  Living in Colorado for seventeen years had left me way out of the loop.

Too many kids in our little class were gone.  And that’s how I’ll always think about them- as twelve year old kids with their whole lives in front of them.  Scott and Jimmy and Bob and Charles…

Sad.

My buddy Fred drove me home.  We left kind of on the early side before the music and the dancing started.

Besides, I was ready to go.  I had seen everybody that I wanted to see.  It had been a blast and now it was time to let my inner teenager go.

Ave atque vale, Class of 1967.

It was a gas, gas gas.

With love from Ellen R.

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Posted in New Trier Class of '67 Reunion, New Trier High School, Nostalgia, pop culture, Winnetka | 14 Comments

Condolence Note

This is Buster Roffe. He belonged to my brother Kenny and my sister-in-law Mary Lu.

Or rather I should say, they belonged to him.

They were his love slaves, body and soul.

And he deserved it.

Buster passed away on September 6 at the ripe old age of thirteen.  (That’s good innings for an Old English Sheepdog.  They usually don’t make it that long.)

And his passing left a hole in their hearts- and the hearts of everyone who ever had the privilege of patting him.

You might think I’m exaggerating but Buster was a gent.

A real dog-about-town and a loving soul.

I know whereof I speak.  I dog-sat him on many occasions and he didn’t have a mean bone in his furry Panda body.

As I would walk him around the neighborhood, I could see how he was a shining example of canine good will.  Whiny little kids, surly doormen, camera-wielding foreign tourists all would melt and ooh and aah at the sight of him.

He accepted their adulation- and dog cookies- with good humor and grace.  He was steadfastly kind and patient with his flock of admirers.

And he had tons of them.

There was something about his handsome head, roly poly gait and beautiful gray and white coat that made him seem like a big stuffed toy.

In all the years I knew him, I never saw him be anything less than an ambassador for his breed.

This may seem sentimental or silly to those of you non-dog lovers who don’t get what all the fuss is about when a pet passes away.

But trust me.  I’ve had had good dogs and bad dogs and smart dogs and dumb dogs.  And once or twice, exceptional dogs who made the world a kinder, more loving place to be in.

Buster was one of the greats.  And I know Mary Lu and Kenny will always feel his loss.

My heart goes out to them- and to all of you who have ever been owned by a pet who has loved us and left us.

RIP, Mister Buster.  May you eternally play your “Running away from the leash and drinking up all your water” game in Dog Heaven.

And say hello to Andy when you see him.

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Posted in Dogs, Old English Sheepdog | 14 Comments

Light The Candles

Well, Dear Readers, it’s great to be back.  I have been recuperating from a nasty little operation on my… none of your beeswax.

My hideous internal abscess of March returned with a vengeance and surgical intervention was necessary to get me healing.

Ugh.  The bad news is that it’s a long, slow process.  Let’s just say I won’t be wearing a bathing suit any time soon.

But the good news is that my condition is NOT life-threatening and I’m semi-out and about and able to write again.

However my energy level and wardrobe choices do still limit my activities and I’ve had to pick and choose events I can show up at these days.

And the first event I attended post-op was an important one.

It was the Risa K. Lambert Luncheon to benefit the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum in Washington D.C.

My post “Never Again” explains why I fervently support this museum- and all that it stands for.  Please read it if you haven’t already.

Now you know why I found the afternoon so inspirational.  You’d have to be made of stone if you weren’t moved to tears by the tales of bravery and hope in the face of unimaginable human suffering and loss.

And you’d have to be an idiot if you didn’t feel frightened by the political climate change so chillingly apparent in the wake of Charlottesville.

Just seeing that menacing and oddly familiar footage of thugs chanting “Jews will not replace us” made me think it was 1939 all over again.

But this time we can’t turn a blind or worse- indifferent- eye to the news. We know exactly what cruelty human beings can dole out.

We heard some of those stories but we also heard stories of courage, redemption and incredible sacrifice.

And at the end of the program, the audience lit candles in memory of those who perished and we all pledged a resolution that the ugliest chapter in twentieth century history would not repeat itself ever again.

We vowed that prejudice and hatred would not be tolerated- regardless of one’s religion, race or creed.

As I lit my candle and swore my promise, I got a text from my son, Nick.

He and his wife Missy were on the way to the hospital.

And on Saturday, September 9, I lit another kind of candle.

A birthday one.

Happy birthday, Hendrix Benjamin Ross.

As I blew out his birthday candle, I wished him a better world.

It’s up to us now.

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Posted in History, Holocaust Museum, Philanthropy | 14 Comments

Heartburn

Emergency Doctor’s Note:  I am having surgery today for that problem in March that I thought was fixed.  This came as a complete surprise and this sucks, Dear Readers.  Please bear with me as my next Letter From Elba post will be postponed until I’m back on my feet and writing again.  Meantime, enjoy today’s blog but don’t bother to post comments. I’m not going to be able to put them up today.  (Btw, any good thoughts coming my way would be much appreciated.)

…So a couple of years ago I was visiting my son Nick in Seattle.  It was a Saturday night and we had just had a late night après-theater dinner with our friend, Lou Magor.

(If you don’t already know Seattle’s finest, read all about Lou in Mensch.)

It was 11:30 and I went all in- pulled pork sandwich with spicy cole slaw.  We yakked it up for an hour and then it was time to hit the hay.

Not so fast.

The moment I lay down I was overcome by an unfamiliar burning sensation in my stomach and my throat.

“Yikes! This must be heartburn, ” I thought.  “I’ll never eat that late again.  I must be getting old.”

And I tossed and turned the rest of that sleepless night.

But the burning sensation came back.  It didn’t matter what I ate or when I ate it. Whenever I went to bed, it would reappear like Old Faithful.

Ouch.

By the end of two years, I was at my wits’ end.  I was in mucho pain, no matter what I ate. As soon as I went to bed, it didn’t matter if I had ingested a meringue or a ghost pepper.  I was in Hell on the inside.

Of course I was concerned.  And of course I did what any sensible person does when they have a major medical problem.

I consulted WebMD.

The diagnosis was clear.  The Internet said I had GERD.

Hmmm.

There didn’t seem to be much I could do about it- other than leave out virtually every food I enjoyed and sleep on my left side.

And for two years, I gave the restricted diet and sleep-on-the-side thing a try.   I  also went through industrial size bottles of Tums and Rolaids.  I ate food so bland it would be banned in nursing homes.

Nada.

And then one day, Nick- who was tired of me bitching every time we sat down at a meal together- said this.

“Maybe you should try these, Dude.  I’m lactose-intolerant and they’ve really helped me.  Take them right before you start eating.  What have you got to lose?”

He handed me two little white pills.

What indeed? I took them.

They worked.  No pain, BIG gain.

“What are those things?” I asked my son, The Drug Dealer.

“This stuff.  I buy it on-line.  It’s from Canada.”

“But you can just get something like it at GNC, Dude.”

And that’s just what I did.

I’ve been heartburn-free since April and it’s been heavenly.

Oh, by the way, when I went to my yearly physical with my endocrinologist (no thyroid, long story) Dr. Pitts asked me how my heartburn was.

“It’s gone, ” I reported.  “I take these crummy pills that Nick told me about and for some reason, they seem to work.  Don’t ask me why but they do.”

I reached into my bag and handed them over.

“I know they’re not prescription or anything,” I said sheepishly. “But they’ve stop the burning.  Do you think I’m nuts?”

“I take the exact same pills,” he replied.

My son, The Doctor!

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Posted in Aging, GNC | Leave a comment