Letter From Elba

“Pup Fiction” by Ellen Taratino

Posted on September 1, 2016 by Ellen Ross

This post is dedicated to BR. He knows why.

I don’t know about you guys but I LOVE the movie Pulp Fiction. It came out in 1994 and to me, it’s still Quentin Tarantino’s masterpiece. Sly, funny, violent, quirky, filled with great performances, memorable lines and and terrific music, this movie really stands the test of time. Take a look.

I’ve seen it a lot and one day, it struck me that the entire movie could be reenacted with dogs.

(Don’t ask me why. Better not delve too deeply into the dark abyss known as the “creative process.”)

Look what happens when you do.

So without further ado, I proudly present to you, Dear Readers, the mini play-

Pup Fiction

Cast of Characters:

Dakota, a golden retriever and leader of the pack

Trixie, a fancy miniature black Poodle and Dakota’s main squeeze

Wolf, a German Shepherd and Dakota’s aide-de-camp

Butch, a Boxer

Vincent and Jules, two tough mongrels in Dakota’s wolf pack

7:50 a.m. The Wake-Up Call

JULES: So tell me. What is the word for Liva-snaps in French?

VINCENT: Les Liva-snap. And they call Milk Bone for Large Dogs “Le Bon Bon Classique.”

JULES: I like that, man. Now are you sure these cats have the boss’s brief case? How many of them are there?

VINCENT: Five or six. But there ain’t a cat alive who can get the jump on me. Beside, you know what will happen if we don’t bring it back. I heard about this one pooch. Arno. He tried rubbing noses with Trixie- that fine looking bitch that lives with Dakota. They were just rubbing noses and…

JULES: What, man?

VINCENT: Dakota caught up to him at the Doggie Diner, grabbed Arno by the scruff of his neck and threw him out the window. Dog catcher was waiting for him. And since Arno don’t wear no tags, dog catcher went medieval on his sorry doggy ass. Now Arno just sits around all day and howls. Mutts don’t mess with Dakota. Let’s go.

Fadeout

11:30 a.m. Butch Is A Bad Dog

DAKOTA: You throw the dog show tonight. You don’t come in number one. Got that?

BUTCH: I got it.

DAKOTA: Repeat it for me.

BUTCH: I throw the dog show tonight. I don’t come in number one. Now where are my treats?

DAKOTA: In this Bonz box. Now get going. And when you’re layin’ around a cozy fireplace enjoyin’ your life of ease, you’ll thank your Uncle Dakota for this. Hey, Jules, Vincent, my main mutts! How did it go?

JULES: Here’s the briefcase, Dakota. Boss, I’m getting out.

DAKOTA: Say what? Speak!

JULES: Yes, this mongrel is through. I’m tired of being a bad dog. Come tomorrow I’m turning myself in at that school for the Blind and becomin’ a guide dog.

DAKOTA: That leaves you, Vincent.. I have to go to a dog show tonight so I want you should take Trixie out. Show her a good time. She’ll be waiting in my yard at 7:30.

Fadeout

8 p.m. The Trixie Incident

VINCENT: Get a load of this place! Isn’t that Lassie over there? And Tiger from The Brady Bunch? I can’t believe this! The maitre d’ looks just like Tramp from My Three Sons. Far out.

TRIXIE: Très amusant. This way, cheri. I’ve reserved the booth next to the fire hydrant. You know, Vincent, you are a very handsome hound. Want to rub noses?

VINCENT: Naw. I heard that Arno is still howlin’ off key.

TRIXIE: That old rumor? Don’t believe it. Oh, it’s time for the Dance Contest. They’re playing “How Much Is That Doggie In The Window?” Let’s dance. And remember, cheri. I want to win.

Fadeout

8:30 a.m. Reservoir Dogs

VINCENT: Man, I got cat gut all over me. You’re some sight, too. We can’t go to Dakota lookin’ like this.

JULES: Let’s go to Wolf’s kennel. He’s top dog in this neighborhood.

WOLF: Excuse me, but do you see a “Dog Wash” sign? Did anyone see you come in here?

JULES: No, man. We cool.

WOLF: Okay, just do like I’m tellin’ ya, and I’ll have you both lookin’ well-groomed in no time.

VINCENT: Hey, this ain’t no stinkin’ obedience school. Don’t give me orders.

WOLF: Listen, I don’t have time to waste on mongrels who are dumb enough to run around covered in cat gut.

VINCENT: Sorry, man. I’d just like a little respect here.

WOLF: I’ll keep it in mind, puppy. Go to the end of the block. You’ll find an open fire hydrant. Run through it.

JULES: Thanks, brother. Woof.

Fadeout

On second thought, take a look at how the Best-In-Show at Westminster does it.

Woof.

Posted in Movies, pop culture, Quentin Tarantino | 8 Comments

The Namesake

Posted on August 28, 2016 by Ellen Ross

That’s my grandson- and future wearer of the Master’s hallowed green jacket- Sam.

He lives in Boston with his mother, Natasha, his father, Zach, and his three month old sister, Caroline, aka Carly.

This post is about how Sam got his name.

Last week the front page of the New York Times “Sunday Styles” section featured a story called “A Girl Named Lou.”

It was all about the hot trend in naming babies. New parents are giving them gender-blind, unisex names like Quinn, Harper or Journey.

Or giving boys’ names to girls.

The article cited celebrities’ daughters like Jessica Simpson’s Maxwell and Dax Shepard and Kristen Bell’s daughter, Lincoln, as prime examples of this new fad.

(I guess the reporter, Alex Williams, couldn’t handle the yuck factor and so he/she didn’t cite Gwyneth Paltrow’s Apple and Moses. OMG. ‘Nuff said about those choices.)

But it’s not just Hollywood celebrities setting the trend. I, too, am crazy about giving boys’ names to girls. Always have been. I think it’s adorable.

I went to New Trier with a girl names Jay Gleason. She was named for her father and I never forgot her. And I also know darling girls named Michael, Bobbie, Billie, Stevie and a new precious arrival named Mickie. So I have to give a big thumbs up to Carrie Fisher on her Billie Lourd and Drew Barrymore’s daughter, Frankie.

The Nanny Diaries Sidebar: Well, I can’t honestly say I love giving boy’s unisex names. Back in the day, I had a nanny who had worked for the actress Susan St. James. Her kids’ names were Sunshine and Harmony, Debbie the Nanny had told me. Get the feeling Susan had them in the 70’s?

Any way, the article listed the ten most popular “post-gender” baby names in 2015. Here they are.

(Along with Heidi Klum and her daughter, Lou.)

“Today’s parents have moved beyond the dichotomy of boy and girl names,” said Linda Murray, the editor in chief of Babycenter, which declared 2015 “the year of the gender-neutral baby” and published a list of suggested neutral names from Addison to Winter.

Gender-blind names like Madison or Blake might be given in order perhaps better equip girls to take on men in the workplace.

The article further went on to state that the most popular names today, however, continue to be Emma and Olivia for girls and Liam and Noah for boys.

But the story ended with this.

“Feminism is cool again, gay marriage is the law of the land and transgender celebrities have come into the mainstream,” said Pamela Redmond Satran, author of ten baby-naming books.

“So who knows? We may see the day when boys are named Caitlyn and girls are named Bruce, and nobody thinks twice.”

Now, getting back to this young man…

Sam was born in July of 2014. My dad, Ben, had passed away in May, 2014.

And even though the name “Ben” did not appear on the list of hot, hot boys names, Natasha liked it a lot any way.

She loved her grandfather.

Here they are- both looking very serious.

Weightwatchers Sidebar: It’s interesting to me to see this picture of my dad. It’s 1978 and he was sixty and kind of out of shape. That all ended in 1979 when Natasha was six months old. We had rented a house in Palm Springs for the winter and it had a tennis court.

My dad came out to visit in February and decided to walk around it. The slow run around it. Then jog around it.

He didn’t stop jogging until his late 80’s- and then only because dialysis had slowed him down. He looked great ’til the end (94) as a result.

Anyway, all through the last months of her pregnancy, Natasha vacillated back and forth between her two favorite name candidates- Ben and Sam.

(Of course, at the time, I knew nothing about this She was on radio silence about the whole name bit. But the story came out when Sam did.)

Right down to the wire, poor Natasha could not choose between the two names.

And, as she was suddenly and scarily hustled off to an emergency C-section, she still had not made up her mind.

Ben or Sam? Sam or Ben?

FINALLY, she came to a conclusion.

“His name is Sam,” she announced groggily to a worried/delighted new father, Zach.

(Who, two years later, is so proud of his clone.)

I liked the name “Sam” but I had to ask her why.

“‘Ben’ is the number one most popular boy’s name in Massachusetts,” she informed me. “I’m a teacher and I do NOT want him to be a ‘Benjie T.’ for the rest of his life because there are five other Bens in his class.”

I was startled.

“Wait. What? ‘Ben’ is the number one most popular name in Massachusetts? I didn’t know that. Are you sure?”

“Google it,” she stated firmly.

I did.

Read it here.

“But why?” I was still in the dark. “I mean, Ben is a nice name and all, but why is it so popular?”

You’re going to have to ask these guys.

In case you can’t make out the photo stolen by a prying paparazzo lens, that’s New England Patriot’s quarterback- and god- Tom Brady, with two of his three children.

Daughter Vivian.

And son.

Ben.

My dad will just have to get over it.

Posted in Baby names, Grandchildren, Grandparents, Parents, pop culture | 10 Comments

Baker’s Secret

Posted on August 25, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: For the last few posts, those of you reading me on iPhones may have noticed that some of the photographs are not oriented correctly. They’re sideways. After attempting to fix this problem for days, I finally went to my IT guy. He can’t fix it either and thinks it may be a problem with the latest IOS update. Sorry about this. Hopefully, this glitch will be gone soon. Be patient. Thanks.

And now, on with the cooking show…

Calling All Bakers.

Those are the latest batch of my chocolate chip cookies pictured above. I make them every Friday and they’re pretty darn good. (If I do say so myself.)

They come out yummy, crispy and uniform in size- I use a cookie scoop- and I’m always pleased with the end results.

But on Friday, July 1, I had a glitch in the bakery works. And I’m turning to you, Dear Readers, to see if you can guess where the problem lay.

Sherlock Holmes sidebar: Think of this as a contest. I spent weeks finding out the correct answer and if anyone one of you can guess it, there will be a homemade batch of the above-pictured beauties delivered to your door.

Here’s the back story…

I always do everything EXACTLY the same way when I make my cookies. Same ingredients, same cookie sheets, same oven temperature, same baking time of day.

Every Friday morning, I take a stick of unsalted butter out of the fridge at 6 am to let it soften. I start mixing the ingredients by 8 am and they’re in the oven for 12 minutes by 8:15 or so.

Nothing ever changes.

But this particular Friday was the one following my first cataract surgery and I could not see well enough to read the fine print of the recipe. Instead of putting a 1/2 teaspoon of salt and baking soda into the bowl, I mistakenly added 1/4 of each.

The result?

This was a bad batch. They were smaller and paler. (I did not give them away. But I couldn’t bear to throw them out, either. I froze them and I eat one once in awhile. They looked lousy but they taste just fine.)

That left me one batch short, however.

And I was out of flour.

With the oven on and all the gear still mis en place, I hightailed it over to the nearby convenience store.

Thrifty Scotsman Sidebar: The nearby convenience mini mart is good in an emergency but its prices are extortionate. $8 for a small bag of flour! It killed me but I paid it. Never again.

I scampered home with my new bag of flour, took out another stick of butter from the freezer, made the cookie dough all over again- this time using the correct amounts of salt and baking soda- and voilà!

I got the same small, lousy-looking cookies on Batch 2!

I was stumped. But this time I did not throw them out. I delivered them- with apologies- to their intended recipient.

He was not all that concerned.

“I bet they taste just fine,” he said graciously.

And they did.

But the mystery of why they had come out looking so puny haunted me. And I was determined to find out what exactly had caused this sea change in my heretofore perfect cookies.

Maybe it was my oven temperature? So I called to have it re-calibrated.

The repair guy who came out assured me that the oven temperature was fine. Nothing amiss there.

I checked and re-checked the recipe I used. And even though I had purchased a new bag of flour, everything else was still exactly the same stuff I always employed in my regular Friday bakeoff.

Then I went on the internet and read up on cookie fails.

Nothing seemed to apply to me.

I couldn’t for the life of me figure out why that second batch of cookies had come out so small and pale. This mystery was driving me nuts.

Finally, in a frenzy of curiosity, I sought out a baker in my neighborhood. And I found one.

Here at Lakeview Kitchen and Market.

He patiently listened to my story, thought about it for a minute and then he told me what had happened and why.

Any guesses?

Winner gets a visit from Ellen the Keebler Elf. Sweets for the sweet. (And smart.)

Bye, sweeties.

Make it a chocolate chip cookie kind of day.

Posted in Baking, Chocolate chip cookies | 14 Comments

Pure ‘Bwa

Posted on August 21, 2016 by Ellen Ross

This post is dedicated to Sandy and Denny Rosen. Keepers of the flame.

Take a look at the guy in the matching red shirt on the steps behind me. If you don’t know him, that’s Denny Rosen, Director of Camp Ojibwa and spiritual leader- and master prime rib carver- of the annual summertime festival known as Post Camp. More about Denny and the red shirts in a moment…

Many of you readers already know how I feel about this place. Every summer I’ve gone on and on about its virtues. And many of you are former campers or current Post Campers.

But just in either case you’re a newbie, let me introduce you to one of the most magical places I know.

The campus of Camp Ojibwa in Eagle River, Wisconsin.

Here’s Catfish Lake.

Or would some of you landlubbers prefer the baseball diamond?

If chowing down is your thing, get a load of this. (This is only part of breakfast but there are FOUR squares a day.)

And after you have sailed or water skied or fished or climbed the rock wall or played tennis or golf or had a pickup basketball game or did the zip line or biked or hiked or tie-dyed or worked out in the gym or played softball under the lights or went to the dance or took a twilight cruise or saw the movie, you could always do this.

One of the things I love at Post Camp is the fact that you and your family can be as busy as your heart desires.

Or as lazy as your battered soul demands.

The outside world- along with cares and woes- disappears and you’re left with the scent of pine woods and an echo of carefree childhood summer.

Another thing I love about Post Camp is my condo. Take a gander.

You can see the amenities like the fridge and flat screen tv. But I love the bathtub, the heaters and the desk. This place is the Ritz of the North Woods and I look forward to staying in it every season.

This year, there was a tiny glitch.

My first night was spent in the camp hospital.

Nope, I wasn’t sick. A scheduling hiccup had arisen and Denny asked me if I would give up my four star accommodations for one night.

What was a girl to do?

Easy.

This.

The Med Shed.

Denny himself took me on a tour.

“I’m sorry that you’re out of your condo for the one night. But the whole place is yours. Which room would you like?”

I looked over the real estate and couldn’t decide.

“Which room would you take?” I asked the Boss.

“I like the desk,” he said.

Sold.

This must be the reception room. You can’t see it but hiding behind my stuff is a bell. And there is a notepad on the wall. I figure this is where the occasional under the weather camper reported.

I loved having the whole joint to myself at night. (And I guess that made me ER in the ER in ER.)

Very Dr. Kildare.

Denny heaved a sigh of relief.

“You’ve been a good sport about this. And I promised you a shirt.”

He drove me over in a golf cart to a locked shed.

It was full of Camp Ojibwa swag.

I was drooling at the sight of all that clothing emblazoned with the camp logos.
Again I couldn’t make a decision. Denny came to the rescue once more.

“Take this one,” he said as he handed me a very cool red shirt.

What can I say?

The moment was pure ‘Bwa.

What does that mean?

To me, it’s shorthand for new friends becoming old friends.

Friends helping friends.

And friends becoming family.

I’m proud to be a part of it all.

See you up there next summer, Dear Readers.

Your bench is waiting.

Now take a look at some camps that are nothing like Ojibwa.

Rise and shine, Campers!

Posted in Camp Ojibwa, Post Camp, Uncategorized | 11 Comments

Day Drink Believer

Posted on August 11, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: Hi, Dear Readers. I’m off on my annual summer fling to Eagle River. See you back here on Sunday, August 21. But first to the (monkey) business at hand…

I’ve come to a crossroads, guys. Just check out those street signs. I have to admit it. I have discovered the joys of…

Wait for it…

Day Drinking.

Patsy and Edina- the two Ab Fab gals- have shown me the way.

Movie Review Sidebar: I just saw Absolutely Fabulous, The Movie, last weekend. I give it 15 stars. Let me just add that if you’re not a rabid fan of the television show, don’t bother to see it. It has NO socially-redeemable virtues whatsoever. (Just like Eddie and Patsy.) But if you are an Ab Fab aficionado, drop everything, grab a bottle of Bolly for your purse and go immediately. I screamed with laughter.

My road to ruin started here.

That’s the very sexy bar at RL.

When my buddy, SuperCPA Kevin Gibson was in town for a seminar last October, we dashed in one late Saturday afternoon to get out of the rain. He ordered a G&T. I ordered a Diet Coke.

“You’re no fun,” Kev complained. “Come on. Don’t you like champagne? Look, they have a champagne cocktail. You’re getting it.”

“But it’s a fortune,” I argued.

“You’re getting it.” Kevin stood firm.

I did and it was divine. Like the best thing I had ever drunk. Even better than Seagram’s Diet Ginger Ale.

And the side effects?

I saw the rest of that gloomy, rainy Saturday in a rainbow-colored haze.

(This photo was taken a couple of weeks ago on a repeat engagement but you get the idea.)

My next stop on the highway to day-drinking Hell was this joint.

That’s Charlie Beinlich’s. North Shore bar- and legend. Natasha’s favorite place and in my top ten.

My usual order is a hamburger deluxe with grilled and raw onions and the ubiquitous Diet Coke.

But on this Spring afternoon, a trio of old New Trier pals took me to lunch there.

Author’s Note: For the purposes of preserving their dignity, they will be known as Bob, Mike and Stan.

It was a Tuesday, and when the waiter came around to take our orders, the guys ordered beers.

WTF, I thought. My love life had taken a turn for the worse and I was in a mood exactly like this.

If Bogey could take it, I could take it.

“Gimme a Bloody Mary,” I announced. “Really spicy and really light on the vodka.”

Three mouths fell open.

Bob turned to me in amazement.

“What the heck happened to you? You don’t drink.”

“Some guy is giving me a very hard time,” I complained.

“Is he nuts?” asked Stan loyally.

Mike clucked sympathetically.

I downed about half that thing and got royally crocked. I forgot the problematic, would-be boyfriend and started loving the whole wide world.

Hey, this day drinking thing had its advantages, I thought. I was beginning to see the point of it.

Fast forward to two weeks ago.

A trip to Milwaukee and the first stop was here.

That’s A. J. Bomber’s and it was chosen by my traveling companion for its burgers, unique peanut delivery system- that’s the overhead chute that sends them right to your table when you’ve eaten your way through a ton of them- and their justifiably-famous Bloody Marys.

That thing was terrific! Especially the olives. (The little burger/cheese/bacon thing- along with that pony of beer- went to my partner in day-drinking crime.)

And what a sunny mood I was in for the rest of the afternoon.

That was it. I’m a believer.

It’s day drinking for me from here on out.

BTW, that troublesome guy who had been responsible for my very first Beinlich’s Bloody ever?

Let’s just say…

He had a pretty good time in Milwaukee.

(And so did I.)

Cheers!

Posted in Beer, Champagne, Hamburgers, Milwaukee, pop culture, RL Bar, Travel | 16 Comments

Post Time

Posted on August 7, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Author’s Note: This post is dedicated to the great Phil Georgeff.

A couple of Sundays ago I spent the day at Arlington Park.

The last time I was there it had to be 1986. We ran into our waiters from Gene and Georgetti’s- those guys always went to the track- and they gave me some of their $2 bills for Natasha and Nick.

That’s thirty years between races. It was more than time for “Riders Up!”

I was pretty excited about my Day At The Races.

But not as excited as Kenny and Nick.

“You’re going to Arlington? Nice! I want a quinella with the numbers 1,4, and 5. Any race you choose,” instructed Kenny the Horse.

“You’re going to the track, Dude? Cool. Put some money down for me. I’ll get back to you after I look at the Racing Form,” directed Nicky Detroit.

The day dawned hot and clear. It was going to be a fast track.

We found our box at the finish line, my companion went to place his- and Kenny and Nick’s- bets and I settled in to enjoy the view and peruse the menu.

Suddenly I got a text message from him.

“You don’t want anything on Be Nice Coach?”

He was right. I had forgotten that I wanted to bet on that horse. I liked his name.

I texted back.

“Put $2 on him to win.”

“K”

And then I texted:

I was just tucking in to my yummy, delivered-to-the-box turkey sandwich when my gentleman caller reappeared.

And then they were off!

It was exciting. The horses flew by in a whir of color. The crown roared. I took a photo.

“You won!” said my racing enthusiast happily informed me.

Huh?

“Your horse won! Nice going.”

I was in shock.

“I did?”

I couldn’t believe it.

“How much did I win?” I asked numbly.

“$18.40. ”

Nice.

Just call me Nicely-Nicely Ross.

Kenny’s quinella bombed out.

And he turned out to be a sore loser. He saw this photo and said I looked like a “four thousand dollar claimer.”

He also demanded to see a photo of his losing ticket.

Nick’s pick tank, too.

Shucks. Beginner’s Luck.

And if you’re going to the track, Dear Readers…

I’ve got a horse right here…

Posted in Arlington Park Race Track, Horseracing | 9 Comments

Dear Abby

Posted on August 4, 2016 by Ellen Ross

(Photograph by Mary Lu Roffe)

As you may know, I have been back in the dating game for awhile now. And I always discuss the pros and cons of my various suitors with my brother Kenny.

Don’t ask me why I do this. He knows baseball. He knows plenty about baseball. He knows NOTHING about dating- having married his high school sweetheart, Mary Lu, at the age of twenty-one.

I think his last official date was when he was sixteen.

What he doesn’t know about the current singles scene is a lot. But I had to vet my new prospects with somebody and I welcomed a man’s point of view on my love life.

So each time I start out on the road to romance with a new guy, I confab with Kenny about the new contender’s particular set of pros and cons.

Let’s take an example from February, shall we?

My latest would-be Romeo had some good stats. Smart, well-off, from Lake Forest, a widower. I was good with all of these.

So this guy made the initial cut. We talked for a week or so and then I agreed to accompany him to dinner and a play at the Goodman.

I figured how terrible could it be?

OMG.

First of all, the date was scheduled for a Friday night.

Now I’m sure that many of you know that traffic into the city of Chicago on a Friday is heinous. This guy was a world-famous Internet Wiz and I thought that for sure he would know that you have to allot plenty of time to come in from the ‘burbs.

Wrong. He may have been a Ph.D in computer science but he was a moron when it came to real world stuff.

And even though I had warned him, and begged him to leave enough time to make it to my house by 5:20, he showed up two hours late.

He had stopped to buy me flowers but they were closed… he had gotten lost… the traffic was heavier than he expected… yada yada yada…

I had to give him real-time directions as he called from the car but he still somehow ended up at Wrigley Field. By now, we had missed dinner and the play’s first act, but no matter.

I hated him already.

Then he informed me that there had been a change of plans. He now had to get to Woodfield Mall in two hours to meet one of his daughters.

WTF?

This left exactly forty-five minutes with me before he had to head west. So I threw the evening into overdrive and steered him toward my local dive Chinese restaurant where they serve you so fast, you’re out in thirty minutes flat.

As I gave directions to put him on the Outer Drive, I couldn’t help but notice that he was a terrible driver. Hesitant, fearful to make lanes changes, other drivers honking their displeasure at us.

I felt just like this.

After an interminable fifteen minutes, I headed him into the parking lot.

Dear Readers, he couldn’t park.

Even with all the bells and whistles of the fancy guidance system on his BMW, he pulled into the parking space and took up half the handicapped space on the right, as well.

This was pathetic.

“You’re in the handicapped parking space,” I pointed out. “Maybe you should back out and re-park?”

He backed out tremulously and then, oh-so-carefully, made his way all the way down to the end of the parking lot to pull into a space you could park a semi in.

Then we got out of the car and started walking to restaurant.

At least, I did.

He was so sloooooooowwww.

I had to keep stopping and looking over my shoulder to make sure he was still there.

He wasn’t that hungry, he told me. Could we just have appetizers?

That was fine by me. By now, I had completely lost my appetite. And I could also see that he would never have time to take me back home and still be on time to meet his daughter.

“Why don’t I grab a cab or Uber home?” I suggested. “That way you won’t be late.”

Fifteen minutes of painful small talk later, he threw down a twenty to pay for the apps and I hailed a cab.

What a yutz.

When he called the next night, I let it go to voice mail. And when he called the day after that, I broke it to him that it really wasn’t working for me.

Of course he was shocked. Boring egomaniacs never ask themselves if you are as interested in them as they are in you.

But here’s how my conversation with my brother- the relationship counselor- went the morning after.

Kenny: So how was your date last night?

Me: Awful.

Kenny: Come on. Give the guy another chance. He’s smart, you like Lake Forest, he’s successful. What more do you want? You’re lucky if anyone takes you out.

Me: He couldn’t drive.

Kenny: So what? At least he’s got a nice car. You can drive him.

Me: He was boring. All he did was talk about himself.

Kenny: So what? Who listens?

Me: His dogs aren’t house-broken. And he’s got three of them.

Kenny: So what? You’re the biggest dog person I know. You can train them in no time flat.

Me: He was too old for me. He could barely walk through the parking lot.

Kenny: So what? You’re not getting any younger and Nick and I will ski with you.

Me: There was no chemistry. He didn’t turn me on at all.

Kenny: So what? He’s old. You’d probably never have to do it more than once.

Me: He’s never been to baseball game.

Kenny: What?

Me: He told me that he’s never been to a baseball game.

Kenny: Dump him.

Thanks, Kenny. I knew I could rely on you for good, solid real world advice.

But here’s the guy I can always count on for great advice.

Play ball.

Posted in baseball, Dating, pop culture | 27 Comments

The Miracle Workers

Posted on July 31, 2016 by Ellen Ross

It all started with Dr. Stevie Young. A PYBED at Contacts and Specs on Broadway. (Pretty, young, blonde eye doctor.)

“I can’t help you,” she sighed. “Your cataracts are so bad that I can’t give you a prescription for any more glasses.”

Hold up. It started back before that.

Way before that.

Like when I was born.

I’ve never been able to really see. My eyes were whacked out from Day One.

I had a “lazy” eye and 20/10 vision in one of them and 20/200 in the other.

I couldn’t see two inches in front of my nose and I was subjected to to the ignominy of wearing a patch and then ugly, ugly glasses ever since I was about four.

But I did eye exercises diligently, and by the time I was in junior high, I had ditched the glasses for good.

True, I had to wear them for driving later on. But I wore prescription sunglasses. And I could never see anything at night- but that was merely an inconvenience.

I was spec-free 90% of the time and that was all that mattered.

But ten years ago, my eye doctor in Aspen gave me the bad news. I had cataracts and sooner or later, what little vision I had was going to crap out on me.

He was right.

My world was growing dimmer. The last straw was my visit to Potash.

I went to the one on Clark because I wanted to check out their gourmet food department.

Was I disappointed. The epicurean selection look moth-eaten and not up to the Potash standard I had remembered. Sadly, I gazed around the crummy-looking store- boy had it gone downhill- bought some yogurt and went home.

When I was unpacking the yogurt, I looked at the receipt.

I had been in a Big Apple Convenience Store. It wasn’t Potash at all.

I went to see Dr. Stevie the next day.

“You have to have the surgery now, ” she informed me. “Do you need a name of a doctor?”

Just for fun…

I didn’t need one. My brother Kenny had a name.

The best.

Dr. Steve Brown. Harvard graduate- and more important to Kenny- a great former pitcher on his New Trier West baseball team.

Good enough reference for me.

I saw Dr. Steve. He confirmed Dr. Stevie’s diagnosis. I had a bad case and he had the cure.

Two surgeries were scheduled at Glenbrook Hospital.

And boy, were they eye-openers. (Sorry.)

From the moment the gal called to give me the check-in information, I knew I was in for something way different from the usual, old school hospital experience.

She was so nice.

And so was everyone else who I came in contact with in the Ambulatory Surgery Unit.

When I arrived to have my left eye done, I was cosseted, petted, spoiled and treated with with utmost in professionalism and concern.

I have to single out Nurse Cathy Goldberg here.

What a doll.

Another New Trier graduate. And beautiful, smart, so congenial- and a great touch with the lidocaine needle. When I came back for the second surgery on my right eye, she smiled.

“I remember you,” she said.

And she proceeded to treat me like an old friend.

Hot blankets, good chit chat to ease my pre-op nerves (not too many butterflies, I have to admit, but still…) and deft hands that made all the drops and other procedures a walk in the park.

The other nurses, Karen and Sarah, were cut from the same cloth. Florence Nightingale would have been proud.

Virtually everyone I came in contact with- the gas passer, his assistant, the guy who brought me the bagels and cranberry juice post op- were smiling, patient and concerned about my well-being.

A big change from the old, cold, take-a-number hospital system I remember from the past.

And I have to hand it to Dr. Brown.

Wow.

He’s the man.

Everything went just as he explained it would. No muss, no fuss, and here I am and I can see.

(And I can see that he’s hunky, ladies. Just sayin’…)

For the first time in my life, I can read an Arrival/Departure board at O’Hare.

I can read street signs and actually know where I am.

I can see the real colors and graphics on my computer.

I can see dust on my floor. (Not so great, I must admit. I am now forced to get out a broom once in awhile.)

Thank you, thank you, thank you, Doc.

You may be a great pitcher to Kenny, but you’ll always be MVP (Most Valuable Physician) to me.

And finally, after sixty plus years, it’s a very great pleasure to be able to say:

See you around, Dear Readers.

Posted in Aging, Cataract Surgery, Glenbrook Hospital, pop culture | 8 Comments

The Scoop

Posted on July 17, 2016 by Ellen Ross

I feel like having a little fun today, Dear Readers. Let’s mix things up a little and start off with a clip.

That sums up my feelings. Let’s have summer all the time.

And ice cream.

On these hot, humid days, what could be more perfect, taste-wise, than a cone, a cup or a carton – depending on your wont- of ice cream?

Remember this guy?

That had to be my very first memory of eating ice cream. Why do I think that a Good Humor bar cost 10 cents when I was a kid?

This is what I liked.

When The Good Humor man didn’t make it to our neighborhood, my father took us here.

Cock Robin was between Oakton and Main in Skokie. And it had square scoops of ice cream. That always baffled me.

Closer to home- and with normal shaped cones- was Peacock’s in No Man’s Land in Wilmette.

They had great hot fudge there.

And then there was/is Homer’s in Wilmette.

I have already written about that magnificent emporium in depth. ICYMI, read all about it here.

And of course there was Dairy Queen.

Honesty compels me to admit that I never really loved the “ice cream” at DQ. The chocolate coating was ok but the vanilla stuff tasted like it was invented by Dow Chemical to me. I did love the little hamburgers, however, and my brother Kenny- who was addicted to the the burgers, Mr. Misty’s and just about everything else on the menu– would have no compunction about rifling my mother’s purse to feed his habit.

George Washington Cherry Tree Sidebar: I would ask Kenny how much money he’d take out of her purse. He’d always say “I didn’t want to take a dollar. So I took 6 quarters.” Not exactly a math whizz but he could ride his bike there in five minutes flat.

As a teenager I hung out at “Thirty-One.” The Baskin Robbins in Glencoe. Almost every summer night date ended up there.

Back in the day, a guy named Al used to run it. (Am I right here, Steve? He was a buddy of yours, as I recall.) And back then, for me it was ALL about the Jamoca Almond Fudge.

But I had to be careful. I had to show up at the Glencoe beach the next day swimsuit-ready.

These days it’s ALL about the coconut.

The old Swenson’s Ice Cream Parlor that lived in the basement of the MGM Grand in Las Vegas used to have the BEST Coconut ice cream cone ever.

But when the craving strikes now I head over to Windy City Sweets on Broadway to put it right.

Well, I think that’s enough for today. I’ve got an ice cream headache.

And this will be my last blog post until Sunday, July 31, Dear Readers. I am having my right eye cataract surgery and I need time to get back into focus. (The left one is doing great, btw.)

And if eating an ice cream cone makes you look like this, make mine a double.

Posted in food, Ice Cream, pop culture | 24 Comments

“Allons enfants de la Patrie”

Posted on July 14, 2016 by Ellen Ross

Bonjour, mes amis. It’s Bastille Day and those are the Marseillais volunteers sculpted on L’Arc de Triomphe.

It seems comme il faut to discuss La Belle France aujourd’hui.

And my daughter, Natasha.

When she was sixteen, Natasha wanted to study French in summer school. Her school, St. George’s, made all the arrangements. For seven weeks she would live with a local family and take classes en franÇais at L’Université de Caen.

Author’s Note: I can NOT get the cedille under the small “c.” I’ve tried and tried. Quelle dommage. Excusez-moi.

It sounded parfait and ma belle fille bid us au revoir and headed for her rendez-vous with toutes les choses franÇaises.

Her first communiques home sounded enthusiastic. She had been placed with a family with two teenaged children right around her age. Madame was a member of the Grey Poupon family and so mealtimes were bound to be delicieux.

But j’ai fait une erreur.

Madame was a miser who grudgingly doled out one see-through slice of jambon at each meal.

And the kids desperately wanted to learn English.

Hélas.

Natasha found herself speaking English all of the time and starving to death.

(She did manage to console herself with glace et fromage, however.)

I was not a happy camper. I hadn’t spent all those francs for her to brush up her English and not pick up any French customs to boot.

And plus Ça DID change because she was getting well…what’s the politically-correct term here?

Oh, I know.

Plump.

WEIGHT WATCHER’S SIDEBAR: I never said une mot. Natasha came home and lost all the kilograms she had put on gorging on chèvre and Berthillon’s ice cream. She may have ditched the excess baggage forever but she has never lost her taste for those Frenchified delights.

Alors…

Natasha would call home periodically to whine. Madame was keeping her hungry, the kids were brats who only pestered her to tell them about the états Unis, and she missed her amis. Her vie was definitely not en rose.

But I tried to look on the bright side.

“Natasha, dites-moi. Yesterday was Bastille Day. That had to be fun. What did you do?”

“We didn’t celebrate it,” was the firm reply.

“What do you mean ‘we didn’t celebrate it?'” I asked.

“Madame is a member of le gratin. You know. The French nobility. We ignored it,” sniffed Natasha Antoinette.

Mon Dieu. A Gallic-Anglo cultural exchange at last.

Let ’em eat cake, I guess.

Vive La France.

Posted in Bastille Day, France | 7 Comments

“Pup Fiction” by Ellen Taratino

The Namesake

Baker’s Secret

Pure ‘Bwa

Day Drink Believer

Post Time

Dear Abby

The Miracle Workers

The Scoop

“Allons enfants de la Patrie”

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