Check, Please!

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Based on a True Incident…

Cast of Characters: Ellen, a beautiful, brilliant and sophisticated divorcée, her brother Kenny, a really good guy, Norman, a suave vegan man-about-town and The Waiter

All the action takes place in Booth 11 at a famous Chicago steakhouse.

Ellen:  Hi, guys.  So glad you two could make it tonight.  I love this joint.  The cole slaw is to die for.

Kenny:  I like the bread basket.  And the filet is great here, too.  Are you going to be alright with the menu, Norman?

Norman:  Oh yes.  I already called ahead and checked.  They have a special vegan menu and I’ll be fine.

Ellen:  Yes, they’re pretty accommodating.  And the service is always top notch.  I’m sure they’ll do anything you need them to do.

The Waiter now makes his first appearance.

Waiter: (beaming)  Good evening, gentleman.  And lady.  My name is Robert.  And I’m sure you’ve all been here with us before.  May I start you with something to drink?

Ellen: (gesturing towards Norman)  He’s never been here before and he’s a vegan.

The Waiter:  Oh, that’s right, sir.  I was informed that you would be joining us.  May I show you, sir?  Permit me.  This side of the special menu is all vegan.  The other side of the card is “gluten-free” but many of our guests get confused and want to know why there are meat items on it.

Norman: (politely)  Thank you.  I can see that.  Ellen, I know you don’t drink.  Kenny, will you have anything?

Ellen:  I’ll have a Diet Coke with a lime, please.

Kenny:  A Miller Light with a glass, please.

Norman:  Do you have a recommendation for a glass of white wine?  I’ve had the most terrible day.

The Waiter:  Oh, I’m sorry to hear that, sir.  But as a matter of fact, you’re in luck.  We are doing a very special wine-tasting later this week and I happen to know there are a few bottles of a delightfully insouciant Chardonnay on hand.  I have a Domaine Ramonet Montrachet that might be the very thing.  May I pour you a glass, sir?

Norman:  That would be perfect.  Thank you.

The Waiter exits and the conversation resumes.

Kenny:  So, Norman, will you get a chance to go away this winter?  Palm Beach or Palm Springs?

Norman:  Yes, I’m hoping to get away.  Maybe both.  If I can arrange…

The Waiter: (bearing the drinks)  Here’s your wine, sir.  I hope it’s to your liking. (He stands at attention and waits while Norman takes a sip.)

Norman:  It’s just perfect.  Thank you.  So, as I was saying, I hope to get a chance to spend a little time in both places.  I love Palm Springs as you know, but Palm Beach can be so much fun.  I’m just torn.

The Waiter:  I vote for Palm Springs.  The mountains, the golf courses, the dry weather.

Norman: (startled) Yes, thank you.

The Waiter:  And you know, they have completely done over La Quinta.  The Waldorf group has taken it over and lavished millions on it.  May I suggest that you stay there, sir.

Norman:  I’ll think about it.  So, let’s talk politics.  Is Ted Cruz eligible to run for president or not?

Ellen:  Do you mean eligible because of his Canadian birthplace or eligible because he’s a moron?

Kenny:  Well, he was born in Calgary but…

The Waiter still stands there.

Ellen:  You can come back in a few minutes.  We haven’t even looked at the menus yet.  We will let you know when we are ready to order.

The Waiter:  Oh, no hurry.  I’m just interested in hearing what he (he indicates Kenny) is going to say.

Kenny:  He seems to meet the requirements for “natural born citizen.”

The Waiter: (triumphantly)  Ha! That’s exactly what I think!

Norman:  (getting annoyed)  Yes, well thank you.  (He turns away and dismisses The Waiter but The Waiter stands his ground)

The Waiter:  Does anyone have any questions about tonight’s menu?

Norman:  I hear the cole slaw is wonderful.  Does it have any mayonnaise in it?

The Waiter:  A small dollop of mayonnaise, sir.  But we can leave that out or put it on the side for you.  Whatever you wish, sir.  And by the way, it’s Hellman’s Mayonnaise, sir. Never Miracle Whip.  Now as for me, I was raised on Miracle Whip.  And when it’s a tuna salad sandwich, as far as I’m concerned, it just has to be Miracle Whip.  However, for a salad dressing, Hellman’s is my choice.

Kenny:  I like Miracle Whip.

Norman:  No, it’s got to be Hellman’s.

Ellen:  I can see the reason for both.  Wait a minute. Who cares about mayonnaise?  I’m getting hungry.  Do you have the chopped steak tonight?

The Waiter:  We always have that, madam.  Unless we have run out of the prime aged beef. But never fear.  We have it tonight. Would you care to order?

Ellen:  I think we’d better.  I’ll start with the cole slaw.

The Waiter:  Would you like to toss it yourself or would you prefer me to toss it?

Ellen:  You can do it.  And I’ll have the chopped steak.  Medium rare plus.  Thank you.

The Waiter:  No, thank you, madam. (He turns to Norman).  And for you, sir?

Norman:  The cole slaw with the mayonnaise on the side and the cauliflower steak sounds just wonderful.

The Waiter:  It is, sir.  A very good choice.  And may I add that I love the way they prepare it here.  (He now turns to Kenny.)  And have you made your selection, sir?

Kenny:  I’ll start with the wedge.  No onions, please.  And I’ll do the crab cakes.

The Waiter:  Another very good choice, sir.  Now I see how you stay so trim, sir.

Ellen:  Well, he runs every day and he’s still playing hardball.

The Waiter:  Really?  That’s fascinating, sir.  Do you know my cousin played for the Cubs?

Kenny:  Really?  I’m a big Cubs fan. Who’s your cousin?

The Waiter: (motioning to Kenny)  Move over.  I’ll tell you all about it…  (He shoves Kenny over and sits down next to him.)

Norman and Ellen exchange meaningful glances but they can see that it’s hopeless.

Finis.

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“That’s Nice.”

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Bright and early the other morning, my daughter Natasha face-timed me from Boston.

“Hi, Mom, we’re back and Sam wanted to say hi.”

(My grandson Sam was entirely engrossed in his train set but when he heard the face-time sound, he looked up and blew kisses.  This kid is a diplomat.)

“Did he have a wonderful time in Florida?” I asked.

Natasha told me how much Sam enjoyed the beach and loved dumping buckets of cold water on her.

Then she dumped a bucket of cold water on me.

“Oh, by the way.  Sam learned to use a toaster at Papa Bill’s house.”

Huh?  Why would an eighteen month old use an electrical appliance?  Why would she allow that?

I was really baffled.

And worried.

But in times like these, I instantly revert to my tried and true formulaic response.

“That’s nice,” I said between clenched teeth.

Don’t criticize, Ellen, I thought.  You don’t want to be a meddling grandmother, do you?  If Natasha thinks that Sam should learn to use a toaster, so be it.

After all, you can’t go wrong if you just keep your big trap shut.

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“Yes,” she giggled.  “Sam learned how to use a coaster right away.”

Oh. A COASTER.

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Never mind.

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Posted in Grandchildren, Grandparents | 8 Comments

No Chopsticks and The City

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A Very Politically Incorrect Play For A Sunday by Ellen Ross

Cast of Characters: BFF’s Charlotte, Miranda and Carrie

All the action takes place in Jade Gardens, a fictional Chinese restaurant.

Charlotte: (sweetly) Where have you two been?  You are exactly forty-seven seconds late and I will not tolerate such unbridled rudeness.

Carrie: Gosh, it was my fault.  I was watching The Pallisers and I didn’t realize…

Charlotte: (sweetly) That Cockney drivel?  It’s a million years old.  I suppose you unearthed it on Youtube.  As usual.  For pity sakes, Carrie, it’s 2016.  Get an Apple TV.  I’m begging you. (She blows air kisses to Miranda.) Hello, darling.  You look fabulous.  So svelte.

Miranda: (checking her iPhone) Thanks, babe.  Look, when the hostess comes to seat us, let me handle it, ok?  She’s a tough customer but I know how to talk to her.

Madame Wu comes over bearing menus and smiling.  She sees Miranda and immediately scowls.

Madame Wu: You again?  Didn’t I tell you no bring pop in here?

Miranda: I know you did, Madame Wu, but I just don’t like your soda.  It’s always flat and besides, I must have caffeine free.  May we come in?  I promise to be discreet.

Madame Wu: (eyeing her suspiciously)  Ok.  You come in but no keep can on table.  You keep can under table where other customers not see.  Follow me now.

She leads the way to a booth near a window.

Charlotte: (sweetly) This is unacceptable.  I feel a draft.

Miranda: Nope, not here.  My back is killing me and I need to sit in a chair.

Madame Wu glowers but she shows them to a different table.

Carrie:  Gosh, I don’t like this table.  We’re right next to a…

Charlotte: (sweetly)  Just sit down.  You’re making a scene.  She accepts the menus from Madame Wu.  Thank you.  We will let you know when we are ready to order.

Miranda: (checking her Nexus 6P) I’ve got this covered, girls.  I’ll order the appetizers and then we’ll decide about the entrees.  They always rush you. If we order everything at once, we will be out of here in ten minutes.

Carrie: Great.  I’m starving.  I’d like an egg roll and some barbecue pork and…

Charlotte: (sweetly) Really?  Egg roll? Pork?  I don’t even know who you are.

A sulking, disgruntled waitress comes over.

Sullen Waitress: You ready to order now?

Miranda: (checking her Galaxy Note 5) Yes.  We will split an order of edamame and one won ton soup.  In three bowls.  Hold the wonton.  Thank you.

Sullen Waitress: You want tea?

Carrie: Golly, I hate tea.  Al hot beverages actually.  Could I please have a…

Charlotte: (sweetly) We will be fine with water.  Thank you.

Miranda: (texting furiously)  Can I have a glass with ice, please?  Thank you.

The waitress returns in a nano-second with one glass of ice, one bowl of edamame and three teacups of soup.

Sullen Waitress:  You ready order now?

Carrie:  I am.  I think I’ll have the…

Charlotte: (sweetly)  Now yet, Carrie.  Must you be such a glutton?  I want to discuss something extremely important. As you all know, we are in an election year and Hillary Clinton’s poll numbers are down. What are you going to do about this?

Miranda: (IM’ing a friend)  I’m going to host an informal discussion group at my house. Just a few influential friends, PAC’s and some media types.

Charlotte: (sweetly)  Sounds good.  Carrie?  How are you going to mobilize?  And please don’t even mention that dreary blog.  We are all so over it.

Carrie:  Golly, no.  I’m going to do something really important this time.  I just know it will be a game changer.  I’m going to construct an unflattering Ted Cruz crossword puzzle. If that doesn’t affect the presidential race, nothing will.

Sullen Waitress: You order now?

Miranda: (checking her iPad mini) You know what, girls?  I feel like Dairy Queen.   Who’s with me?

Charlotte: (sweetly) Hmm.  Dairy Queen?  There’s an idea.  I think my new diet program allows for a Cherry Arctic Rush.  Alright.  Let’s go.

Carrie: Gosh,wait a minute.  I’m still hungry and I don’t like D…

Miranda and Charlotte: (simultaneously) Check, please.

Madame Wu: (seething) You no eat entree?  You on black list!  Never come here again!

Carrie: Wait!  Wait!  I didn’t get a fortune cookie!

The curtain falls as Madame Wu rips the check off the table and storms away swearing in Mandarin.

Finis.

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Posted in pop culture, Restaurants | 8 Comments

Teacher’s Pet

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Author’s Note: Although the teachers referred to herein were my high schools teachers, I ask you, Dear Readers, to now remember your favorite teacher, coach or mentor. Someone who really changed the course of your life in a positive way.  This post is meant to honor all of those great people who had a big hand in our destinies.

I’m lucky and I know it.  I had the good fortune to attend New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois.

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I loved every minute of my four years.  And that’s no exaggeration.

The social life?  For me, the greatest.  (I’m still friends with some of my high school BFF’s.) The school spirit gave me a community of which to be proud.  Our swim team was unbeatable.  Our girls and boys the preppiest.

And our teachers second to none.

I wouldn’t have had the wonderful life I’ve been fortunate enough to have led without the guidance, wisdom and good sense of some of my gifted teachers.

Let’s start with a superstar.

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“Doc” was the legendary head of New Trier’s famed music department.  And he was a king-maker.  Just ask Ann-Margret.

His discipline, high standards, critical ear and enthusiasm were boundless.  So was his talent for making high school musicals into professional shows.

The Northwestern University Drama Department always came calling when Doc had a kid he thought had talent.

Alas, this was not me.***

I did get to see him perform miracles when I worked on Summer Opera.

(***I wasn’t good enough to make the chorus.  I ushered with aplomb, however.)

As Annie Get Your Gun found its feet, I got a great backstage bird’s-eye view.

Penelope Milford- our uber-talented Annie- was then Doc’s protégée.  And she went on to well-deserved show business fame.

But let’s now turn the pages in the syllabus to the less-famous teachers that I did have.

Starting with Mr. Pink.

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It probably comes as no surprise to you reading this but I loved English.  And my sophomore year English teacher, Mr. Pink gave me two invaluable gifts.  First, he introduced me to Man of Property by John Galsworthy.  That led to a passion for all things Forsyte that continues unabated to this day.  I have read and reread every book in The Forsyte Saga with more pleasure now than I did as a know-nothing pseudo-sophisticated fifteen year old.

Soames, Irene, Bossiney, Fleur, Young and Old Jolyon are old friends.  They have kept me company on many a lonely night.

The other present Mr. Pink handed me was a boost to my self-esteem.  He was known for his inventive weekly vocabulary tests, and one day, I ended up on one- as a word definition.

The word was “gamin” and the definition was “a girl who looks like Ellen Roffe or Leslie Caron.”

I was flattered to be included in such adorable company.  And the class was impressed. (Up until now, my scrawny frame and big eyes had never been pointed out as anything attractive.  It would take the Swinging 60’s with Twiggy and her mini skirts to make me feel au courant.)

Junior Year English brought me into Mrs. Gage’s classroom.

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She did kind of resemble a mashup of Miss Hathaway ad Carolyn Jones but she was a terrific teacher and an understanding one.  When I was stymied and flummoxed about which author to pick for the dreaded junior theme, she bent the rules and let me chose Truman Capote.  The joke was on me because at that time, there was barely enough source material on him- then a living author- to fill many of the required note cards,  Still she let me hand in my paper- something abut the relationship between parents and children in his oeuvre and gave me a tolerant grade, as well.

She was nice.

Senior Year rewarded me with four fabulous teachers.

Mr. Lightner, Great Books.

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This was a fascinating course and Mr. Lightner was a demanding boss who used the Socratic Method to teach it.  I still have my set of Great Books and I dip into them once in awhile.

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And then there was Dr. Johnston, Medieval History

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Dr. J’s classroom was a real taste of college.  We were pretty much left to our own devices to form groups and come up with independent projects.  If it wasn’t for that AWFUL textbook, The Waning of the Middle Ages by some boring sadist called Huizinga, it would have been perfect.

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Here’s Dr. Boyle, English  (The photo says “Mr.” but by the time my senior year rolled around, he had gotten his Ph.d.)

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I loved Dr. Boyle so much that years and years later, whenever I had to go to a school conference for one of my stepdaughters, I would always race around and see him, too.

And the educator who would change my life in its biggest way- Mr. Thomson, my Italian teacher.

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Grazie to him. He gave me a solid foothold in Italian and that led to me living in Florence. What a fabulous experience that was.  I could never repay him.

I just heard the bell ring.  Time to hit the Student Lounge.

Thanks, Teach.

Ellen Roffe, Class of ’67

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Posted in Education, New Trier High School, Teachers, Tributes, Winnetka | 14 Comments

Grabthar’s Hammer

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This past week sucked.  First the legendary David Bowie dies.

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Then Jerry Hall and Rupert Murdoch announce their engagement.

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Yuck.  No.  Better make that eww.

But just when I thought the news couldn’t get any worse…

The Universe threw me a big fat curve.

One of my most revered screen idols- Alan Rickman- was taken by cancer at the age of sixty-nine.

This is a tremendous loss.

Here was a great actor and a brilliant teacher and a terrific human being gone all in one blow.

I’m just devastated.  To think that I’ll never get to see him on stage just kills me.

With a lift of an eyebrow coupled with the most insinuating voice since James Mason, Alan Rickman could play me like a fiddle.

I was his slave at first sneer.

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I, like most of you, became acquainted – and enthralled- when I first saw him in 1988’s Die Hard.

I loved that movie.  And, of course, I cheered for Bruce Willis as he (almost single-handedly) saved the Nakatomi Towers from destruction at the hands of Hans.

But it was Alan Rickman’s sly, clever performance that gave the movie such a kick.

Now here was a villain you loved to hate.

Hans Gruber was the coolest evil mastermind to hit the screen.  And when he fell to his death…

Wow!

I had read somewhere that Mr. Rickman was just as surprised as the rest of us.  He was told that he was going to be dropped on the count of “three.”  Instead they dropped him on “two.”  Hence the started look on his face.

But I’ll let him speak for himself on this matter.

After all, speaking was what he did best.

I’ve written before about how his voice mesmerized me.  But he had to invent it.

Born to a working-class family in the Acton section of London, I bet he didn’t start out talking with such dulcet tones.

After study at an art college and a stint as a graphic designer he made his unlikely way to RADA.  And it was all kudos from there.  The artist had found his metier.

He could play heroes- with an edge- as well as the baddie.

In 1995, his close friend Emma Thompson cast him as the true blue, tortured-by-his-past suitor, Colonel Brandon, in her version of Sense and Sensibility.

His narration of his tragic love affair with his doomed ward Eliza was melancholy itself. His bass viol voice added an extra dimension of pathos to the whole sad business.

Now listen to Colonel Brandon recite some poetry.

(As good as Mr. R. was however, the movie was worth it just to watch Hugh Laurie steal scene after scene from all his old pro acting friends.  What a hoot.)

In 2004, he was great as another flawed hero in the television movie Something the Lord Made.  He played Dr. Alfred Blalock- an arrogant southern heart surgeon- coming to terms with racism as his talented black assistant Vivien Thomas- acted by Mos Def- helps him pioneer the “blue baby’ surgery.

I’m going to skip over his recurring role as Severus Snape in the Harry Potter stuff. Although he was perfectly cast as the reptilian spells teacher of Hogwarts and it was this role that brought him to his biggest audience, I only caught brief glimpses of this series.

Here’s AR discussing SS.

But I can discuss his turn in 2003 as Emma Thompson’s cheating husband in Love, Actually.

Here was the thinking man’s adulterer.  He seemed just as bemused, baffled, bewildered and conscience-stricken as ever an older man was when pursued by a much younger hottie.

Poor Alan! Of course he was uncomfortable. (That didn’t stop him from sampling the goods later. How like real life.)

But I want to end this tribute on a high note.  My all-time favorite Alan Rickman role.

Alexander Dane, aka Dr. Lazarus, in 1999’s witty sci fi spoof, Galaxy Quest.

I can not stress to you, Dear Readers, how much I love this movie.  I’ll let the opening speak for itself.

Yes, the show must go on. But by Grabthar’s hammer, it will never be the same with you, Alan.

Rest in peace.

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Posted in Actors, Movies, pop culture, Tributes | 6 Comments

8, 27, 34, 4, 19, and the Powerball is 10!

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As Sophie Tucker famously said, “I’ve been rich and I’ve been poor.  Rich is better.”

And by the time you read this, the suspense might be over.  As of eleven p.m. yesterday, it looks like some lucky SOB in Chino Hills, California might be a whole lot richer because he just won the Powerball Lottery. Worth- as you know darn well- $1.5 billion dollars.

Now that’s my kind of payday.

No, I didn’t buy a ticket.  I read that the odds of winning are over 292.1 million to 1.

But I could fantasize, couldn’t I?

Obscene amounts of money are my kind of porn.

It’s so diverting to dream about everything I would have done if I was that lucky SOB.

Endowing English Literature chairs at my favorite universities could be fun.

And l could figure out a way to further improve my kids’ boarding school, St. George’s. Their one hundred something year old infrastructure always needs money thrown at it.

Philanthropic Sidebar:  I attended many fund-raising board meetings for the school.  Big donors could always be found to contribute to bricks and mortar.  A new dorm, gym or a squash court with one’s name on it was a sexy sell. But shoring up the rafters or putting on a new roof?  Not so much.  Someone has to replace the dilapidated HVAC systems in these old places, too.  That’s where my putative largess would come in.  I’d fix everything.

And then there are the Arts.

The Lyric Opera here in Chicago could always use some cash.  As could the Costume Committee of the Chicago Historical Museum.

And the Sciences.  I recently attended a kick ass lecture on black holes, dark matter and the Big Bang Theory delivered by gorgeous brainiac Harvard physicist, Dr. Lisa Randall.

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It was sponsored by the Illinois Science Council and they always are looking for some underwriting for their worthy endeavors.

Then there are the diseases.

Having been involved since its inception, naturally I would have to write a hefty check to the Lynn Sage Cancer Research Foundation. 

I could go on and on.  When I’m in the chips, I just love to give it away.

But we all know that there is a dark side to winning a huge lottery.

Here’s my cautionary tale…

For years, I went to a fabulous manicurist in Winnetka.  Her name- for these purposes- was “Zsa Zsa,” and I used to write about her and her clients at her nail salon when I did my old column for the Pioneer Press.

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Once a week, we would gather for changes of polish or liquid wraps (this preceded the No Chip era) and we would chew the fat as the polish dried.

If you see a person once a week for ten plus years,  you get to know them pretty well.  And over the years, I got to know Zsa Zsa’s family- and her extended one.

Zsa Zsa was Armenian.  Not an assimilated Kardashian-type Armenian-American.  A  full-on keep-to your-own-kind Armenian Armenian from Jerusalem.

Her private life- and that of her family- exclusively revolved around the Armenian Church. All of her friends were Armenian.  And her two boys were expected to date only pre-vetted nice Armenian girls who the family knew from the community.

Very, very insular.

And then one day, her twenty-something nephew won the Illinois Lottery.

Not a real big amount.  Maybe thirty thousand or forty thousand dollars.

We were thrilled for him.

And then a few years later…

He won it again!

A BIG one.

Millions this time.

His life was upended overnight.  He instantly quit his factory job (well, who wouldn’t?) and married the first blonde American girl who gave him- and his dough- the time of day.

And a few years later, she divorced him, taking most of it with her.

Be careful what you wish for.

Still, it never hurts to dream.

Where was I?

Oh yeah, a big house in Snowmass and a Gulfstream G650 to take me there, a pied-à-terre in London, a little place on Ischia, an Aston-Martin DB9 GT…

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Posted in Money, Philanthropy, pop culture | 10 Comments

GrayDate

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….So I’ve been dating for awhile now.  And you know what, Dear Readers?  I have come to the conclusion that dating at my advanced age is…

Weird.

Make that weird and unnatural.

As I walk around my neighborhood, I constantly see happy couples strolling hand in hand. This looks so warm and nice and I want a piece of that action.  Until I remind myself that these romantic pairs are always in their middle twenties to mid-thirties.

At that age, they’re supposed to be gaga about each other.  How else would the human race replenish itself?

But without Dame Nature trying to hurry us into the reproductive trap, what’s the point of doubling up?

I know.  I know.  It sucks being alone.  And a trouble halved is a trouble shared.

Even that awful loudmouth harridan, Joy Behar, didn’t want to die alone.   After years of kvetching, she finally gave in and married her Steve.

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But speaking as a veteran now of many nights at the opera and lunch dates in Lincoln Park and brunches at The Bagel and meetings at the movies, I’m starting to feel like I’m not ever meant to find my Significant Final Other.

Okay, maybe it’s just me.  Maybe it is different for senior guys.  Maybe I should learn something from this.

But it’s not like I haven’t given elder dating the old college try.

Here are just some of the pitfalls I have encountered upon my return to the Battle of the Sexes Cage Match that “gray” dating has become.

Fix ups?  Big problem.  If you hate them, the friends who fixed you up in the first place get mad at you. You not only have a lousy evening but you run the risk of severing a thirty year friendship.

Meetups just for drinks?  I don’t drink but I kind of like a guy with a glass in his hand.

That being said, I recently went out for cocktails with an attractive new prospect.

You be the judge.

We rendezvoused at a snazzy Gold Coast bar.  Two beers (for him) later, he told me our table was waiting at a nearby French bistro.

Très bien with me.  I was starving.

We walked into the restaurant and I started to make my way to the table.

Silly me.

Romeo ushered me straight to the bar.

“Why rush?” he asked.  “Let’s get to know each other a little better.”

One hour and three double martinis (for him) later and I was hallucinating with hunger.  I caught the maitre d’s eye and he caught my drift.

Finally at the table, my hero proceeded to order two very large glasses of red wine.

At the end of the evening I poured him into a cab and took another one home.

Game over.

But even with non-lushes, there’s the task of making light conversation.  I’m pretty good at it but I’ve come to loathe it.  Somehow being sparkling, scintillating, witty and engaged feels like I’m auditioning for a role I am not even sure I want.

After the tortured small talk comes the bill.

That leads to the paying issue.  I haven’t had to pony up yet but I always offer to pay my own way. The last thing I want to be is some expensive dinner ho.

And speaking of paying, did I tell you about the successful men who are worried that they might fall into the clutches of…

Gold diggers!

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(Over the course of several dates, I had one prominent doctor mention to me that this was his biggest fear.  The THIRD time he said it to me, I had to set the record straight.

“Look, pal.  I am not interested in your dough.  I’ve wasted more money than you have.”)

And then too, I am not exactly geographically set up for dating.

My building has no overnight guest parking and it’s tough to find parking anywhere on the street.

(There is overnight parking available at the building across the street from me but it’s pricey.  And I don’t validate.)

There are other pitfalls.

Like the guys who want you to meet the (adult) kids.

Nope.  Not me, brother.  I was a stepmother to three nice girls for twenty years and I know all the tricks the kids can get up to when they want their dad to ditch the new woman in his life.

Or even worse, they don’t want you to meet the (adult) kids.

Uh oh.

And then there are the sexpectations.

You know, the moment of truth when two adults acknowledge that a goodnight peck on the cheek is no longer a satisfactory ending to a beautiful evening.

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I have issues, man.

My housekeeper comes early in the morning.  What would she think if she found a strange man in my house?

What would my doorman think if a guy in a suit walked out of the building on a Sunday morning?

As to the birds and bees stuff itself, is it like riding a bike?  Would I remember where everything goes?  Has something new been invented since my last marriage?

And then there is the whole new thorny issue of…Viagra.

Belated Author’s Note:  This clip was supposed to be Robert Klein singing his hymn to Viagra.  But I couldn’t find it and this is funnier, anyway.

Recently I had a gentleman ask me how exactly I had handled the issue in the past.

I winced and told him that it had never been an issue in my past.  I had NO idea how I would handle it.  (No pun intended.)

He looked crest-fallen.

I couldn’t help it.  And honestly, I wasn’t too sorry to see him mentally pack up his ED pills and slink home.

I don’t want to sound heartless but this is a very intimate problem. Something best settled between long-time couples.  Not a “getting to know you” problem, at all.

Nothing in my past life would have been of any use to him, I’m sure.

(On second thought, I could bring something to that party.  I bet I could get him a VIP appointment at my ex’s sexual dysfunction clinic.)

Oh well.  I’m resigned.  As Cary Grant said in Operation Petticoat, “When a girl is under twenty-one, she is protected by law.  When she’s over sixty-five, she’s protected by Nature.”

Guess I’m going to die an old maid.

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Posted in Dating, Gender politics, pop culture | 20 Comments

Monkey in the Middle

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A Comedy of No Manners by Ellen Ross

Cast of Characters:  Ellen, a charming divorcée of a certain age, Pierre, a very handsome man of about thirty-eight; Marie, another American Airlines traveler

All the action takes place in Row 19 en route between Logan Airport and O’Hare.

Ellen: (struggling to put her carry-on bag in the overhead bin)  I’m so sorry to bother you but…

Pierre: (gallantly leaping from his window seat)  May I put that up for you?

Ellen: (settling into her aisle seat) Oh, thank you so much.  I can never quite reach the overhead.  I’m too short.  It’s such a pain in the neck traveling alone.  It’s the only time that I really miss having a husband.

Pierre: (smiling as he resumes his window seat)  The only time…?

Ellen:  Well…may I ask where you’re from?

Pierre:  I’m from France. I came here ten years ago and I work in Boston.

Ellen:  Très intéressant.  Are you going to Chicago on business or pleasure?

Pierre:  Pleasure.  I have never been there and I thought I’d take this three day weekend and meet up with some friends.

Ellen:  You’ve never been to Chicago before?  You’ll have a wonderful time.  People from Chicago are very friendly.

Pierre: (smiling appreciatively) I can see that they are.

Ellen: (warming to her task) You know the weather in Boston was delightful but my brother and my son were both out west skiing this holiday.  I had a wonderful time visiting my daughter and my grandson but I was terribly jealous.  I love skiing and I wish I could have been out there.

Pierre: (also warming to the conversation)  I’m a skier, too.  Where do you ski?

Ellen:  I love Aspen.  Well, Snowmass Mountain, technically.  That’s my mountain and they had record snow this Christmas.  Gosh, I wish I could have been there.  Where do you like to ski?  Courchevel?

Pierre:  I love Zermatt.

Ellen:  I’ve heard that it’s fabulous.  But I’m afraid to ski in Europe.

Pierre: (looking concerned)  But why?

Ellen:  I lived in Italy.  Have you ever seen how they drive?  A red light is an insult to their manhood.  They ski just the same way.

Pierre: (laughing) You’re right about that.

Ellen:  Dites-moi.  What’s lunch like on the mountain in Zermatt?  Is it incroyable?

Pierre:  It is.  The food is fantastic.

Ellen:  Have you ever skied St. Moritz?  Have you been to the Corviglia Club?  I heard that it’s the most exclusive club on earth.

Pierre:  Oui, chère madame.  It’s too rich for me.  But Aspen also has a wonderful scene, n’est-ce pas?

Ellen:  Yes, the people-watching at the Aspen Mountain Club can get pretty amusing. Have you skied Cortina d’Ampezzo?

Pierre:  Yes, the Dolomites are fun and…

Suddenly this fascinating conversation is broken when Marie, an awkward heavy-set girl wearing shorts (!?!) barges up.

Marie: (wrestling with her shapeless down coat and her bulging backpack)  Excuse me but can I get in there?  I have the middle seat.

Ellen: (shifting in her seat to make room) Can’t you get in?  No?  Ok, I’ll get up.

Ellen gets up.  Marie plops down and immediately pulls out odoriferous McDonald’s from her backpack.

Marie: (chewing noisily) Sorry, you guys, but I’m hungry.  Didn’t have a chance to grab any lunch.

Ellen is getting queasy but Pierre tries to pick up the conversation with her where it had left off.

Pierre: Do you fly to Denver and then on to Aspen when you go?

Ellen: (brightening under his renewed attention)  You can, but in the winter there is a direct flight from…

Marie: (interrupting) Gosh, the plane tickets to Denver from Boston are so expensive.  I have a sister who lives out there and a plane ticket from Boston to Denver can be over $800.  Why is that?

Ellen: Well, it’s high season and maybe they are still trying to pay off the cost overruns at DIA or…

Marie: (interrupting) This trip I’m going to visit my other sister.  She lives in Chicago.  Do you live in Chicago?

Ellen: Yes

Pierre: No.

Marie:  Where do you live?  My sister lives in Logan Square.  Do you live anywhere near Logan Square?

Ellen:  No, I live in Lincoln Pa…

Marie: (interrupting) I LOVE Lincoln Park!  I am such a big Frank Lloyd Wright fan.  I try to go there every time I see my sister so I can take a tour of his houses.

Ellen:  I think you mean Oak Park.  Oak Park has a lot of fine examples of…

Marie: (interrupting) Oh, that’s right.  Oak Park.  I always get those two places mixed up.

Pierre: (over Marie’s head) Is there anything special in Chicago you would recommend doing this weekend?

Ellen: (over Marie’s head) I’m not sure how your buddies would feel about it but if it’s raining and you can’t be outside, the Art Institute has just opened a fabulous new contemporary art exhibit.  It’s a must-see.  The Warhols and the Lichtensteins and the Jackson…

Marie: (interrupting) I LOVE contemporary art.  It’s my favorite art.  Where is this exhibit again?

Ellen: It’s at the Art Institute….

By now Marie has forgotten her question and has pulled a laptop out of her backpack. She fires it up and is immediately engrossed in a game of video poker.   Pierre gives Ellen a look of despair and plugs in a set of headphones into the console.  Ellen pulls out a crossword puzzle, fills it in and then dozes off.

Two hours go by.

The pilot makes the landing announcement.

Ellen:  This is a very Chicago question.  Where are you going to eat while you’re there?  Do you know?

Pierre:  Yes, my buddies have already made reservations at Chicago Cut, Fig & Olive, Gib…

Marie: (interrupting) I like deep dish pizza.  And Portillo’s.  I always go to Portillo’s whenever I visit my sister.

Ellen:  Portillo’s is a very Chicago experience.  You should try a Chicago hot dog and an Italian beef sandwich, if you get the chance.

Pierre:  Is that the sandwich that…

Marie: (interrupting)  I’ve never had one of those. They do look good, though.  What do you guys do?

Ellen:  I’m a writer.  I have a blog.

Pierre:  I work for Cisco Systems as a …

Marie:  A blog!  What’s it called?  Maybe I’ve read it.

Ellen:  It’s called “Postcards from The Edge.”

Marie:  I’ve heard of that.

The curtain falls as Ellen and Pierre exchange one last meaningful glance- and smile.

Finis

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Posted in pop culture, Travel | 12 Comments

Postcard From Boston

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Hello, Mr. and Mrs. America and all the ships at sea.  This is Sam Tofias, your roving cub reporter, checking in from Boston, Mass.  I’m writing this blog post today because my Gran is still recovering from her whirlwind Christmas trip.

It all started the moment we picked her up at Logan Airport.  I had caught forty winks in the car and I was rarin’ to go… to lunch.  And what do you know?  My favorite pizza place is conveniently located right near the airport so…

It was off to Santarpio’s for us.

My celebrity status as a star journalist rated us a very good table in the bar.  As we were waiting for our pizza, two men next to us starting talking in a funny lingo.  I’m seventeen months old now and I promise you, I have never heard such noises in all my born days. But my Gran understood it and guess what?

She started talking it to them.  And soon the two men came over to our table to continue this conversation.

I was confused.  My Gran did seemed pleased, though.

(It’s my duty as as reporter to tell you that one of the gentlemen kissed my Gran’s hand as he said something to her in the strange language.)

When they left, she told us that he had wished us all a very merry Christmas and a happy and healthy New Year.

They were real Italians from Italy, Gran said.  Not from the North End.

Gran said their sudden appearance made her think of one of her favorite movies.  She wanted you all to see this clip.

After lunch, we headed back to my house.  Gran hasn’t been here since March, and of course I had to show her my new car.

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We played soccer for a while and then we did some yard work.

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Did I mention that weather was balmy? Not like December at all. That was okay with Gran. The last time she was here she got evacuated two days early due to blizzards. She felt that Mother Nature owed her one.

I felt convivial until about five.  Then it was time for my dinner and a bath.

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And so to bed.

(A little birdie told me that later that evening, Gran and Mom were spotted at Casey’s Diner.  As it only has eight bar stools and is not high chair friendly, I can’t feel too badly that I was not included.)

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Day Two found us bright and early at the Discovery Museum in Acton.  This place was neat.  It had everything!

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You could say it was right in my wheel house!

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All that playing gave me quite an appetite.  Gran and I agreed that our next stop should be  Zaftig’s Deli.  She loves their turkey and I like everything on the menu.  (Especially if it has catsup on it.)

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After lunch, it was back to the family manse for more soccer, block-building, driving, a couple of episodes of Daniel Tiger and a light dinner.

And so to bed.

The rest of the visit went swimmingly.  The time just flew by.  On the second-to-the-last day of Gran’s visit, we all went window-shopping on Commonwealth Avenue.  Mom wanted to go to Flour and we heartily concurred.

Yum.

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Gran had their special Christmas gingerbread.  Very tasty, she reported.

I just love strolling around downtown with Mom and Dad.

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Yes, I know, this whole visit seemed to revolve around me- and eating.  Well, it’s true.  I won’t apologize for the fact that everybody was on my timetable.

Gran assured me that is was ok by her.  She’s been to Boston lots of times.  (Besides, she’s a good sport.)

Well, I feel a nap coming on.  Sure hope you had a swell holiday wherever you were.

Happy 2016, Mr. and Mrs. America.

Next time, you’re in my neck of the woods, give me a call.

Best, Sam.

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Posted in Boston, Grandchildren, Grandparents, pop culture, Restaurants | 10 Comments

But Is Is Art?

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(Andy Warhol Liz #3 1963)

Author’s Note: I’m taking off for the Christmas holidays, Dear Readers.  This will be my last post of the year.  I hope you thought this year’s Letter From Elba has been naughty and/or nice.

I’ll be back in your email box on Sunday, January 3.

Until then, I wish you all a very happy, healthy 2016.

Now on with the art show…

Last Saturday afternoon, I was invited to a members-only premiere of the new Stefan Edlis/Gael Neeson Collection galleries at the Art Institute.

That’s because I’ve had the great good fortune to be friends with Joan Arenberg.  Since 1988, knowledgeable Joan has given fascinating tours to the Art Institute- as well as escorting people all around the United States wherever there are great works of art to be seen- and appreciated.

Here’s Joan with her favorite work of art- her grandson, Julian.

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During the course of her distinguished career, Joan has given countless learned and entertaining lectures on her passion- contemporary art.  Thus, she was the perfect guide to the museum’s fabulous new acquisition.

OMG!

There are forty-four works- valued at some $400 million.  They are by the superstars of the contemporary world- Jackson Pollock, Jasper Johns, Robert Rauschenberg, Cy Twombly, Takashi Murakami, Gerhard Richter, Damian Hirst, Richard Price, Cindy Sherman, Jeff Koons, Roy Lichtenstein and Andy Warhol.

There are other major art works now being shown that belong to the Art Institute’s own collection, as well. Some of these pieces have been in storage and are out again for the first time in years.

Curator’s Sidebar: If you want to tell the players without a scorecard, remember this.  The Edlis/Neeson Collection has been mounted on light gray walls.  The museum’s original holdings are on the white walls.

An hour in and I was swooning with Stendhal’s Syndrome.  My senses were overcome with the likes of these.

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(Jasper Johns Target 1961)

Rauschenberg_Untitled_1955 THIS
(Robert Rauchenberg Untitled 1955)

Twombly_Untitled-Bolsena_1969 THIS
(Cy Twombly Untitled 1969)

And the Warhols have their own room.

They deserve it.

I couldn’t get over Andy Warhol.

I mean he is today.  Forget about his fifteen minutes.  He couldn’t be more NOW.

His work spoke to me about the nature of notoriety and tragedy.  How he would have loved the shameless cravenness of the Kardashians, the self-aggrandizement of Face Book, the immediacy of Twitter, the dangerous buffoonery of Donald Trump.

The Roman Circus spectacle of it all.

And sadly, I think he would have understood Newtown and the recent terrorism in Paris.

After all, he too, was a victim of horrific gun violence.

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(Andy Warhol Twelve Jackies 1964)

As I said, Joan was a wonderful Cicerone.  She explained some works to me.  And she solicited my opinion on others.

As I toured the rooms, I tried to put my finger on the emotion that the art had wrought in me.  I thought and thought… and then I had it.

This exhibit was sexy.

Yep, sensuous and fun and visceral- and it turned me on.

But all that passion had made me…hungry.

Joan made an executive decision and we adjourned to the cafeteria and shared a chicken wrap- and a table.

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The wrap was delicious.  The table was fun.  Two other ladies who had come to the opening added their p.o.v.’s to the proceedings and a most lively conversation ensued.

Caught up in the Pop Art frenzy, I even captured a photorealistic moment of my own.

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And now it was time for a lecture by the head of the department of Contemporary Art- James Rondeau.

Another OMG!

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Handsome, urbane, witty, his lecture brilliantly limned the arc of modern movement- from Pollock to Johns to Lichtenstein and beyond.  He explained the correlation between gesture and feeling.  He made me understand the terms “action painting” and “all over’ painting

And he slyly explained that the Twombly painting shown above was sneakily Rated X.

Calling Dr. Freud Sidebar:  Gosh.  I have been out of the dating game too long.  I thought it was just one giant doodle.

It was a scintillating lecture and I never wanted it to end.

But when he finished, I knew why this was art.

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(Jackson Pollock Greyed Rainbow 1953)

And this was not.

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(Ellen Ross Farmhouse in France 2014)

So thanks, dear Joan, for a memorable afternoon.

Btw, I read that the exhibit is going to run for three years.

Wanna go again?

(Next time the chicken wrap’s on me.)

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Posted in Art, Art Institute, pop culture | 10 Comments