Letter From Elba

The Pursuit of Happiness

Posted on February 1, 2015 by Ellen Ross

IMPORTANT LETTER FROM ELBA ANNOUNCEMENT: I am taking a winter hiatus, folks. A short break to break up the gray gloomy doldrums. I’m going to travel and chill out. Hence my next blog will be in your email boxes on Sunday, February 15.

And now, gentlemen, in honor of Superbowl Sunday, I am giving you guys the day off. Get ready to cheer on the Seattle Seahawks or the New England Patriots, drink beer, be entertained by Katy Perry at half-time and dig the ultra-expensive commercials. This post is for the ladies.

But before you go…

Personal Side Bet Sidebar: My daughter Natasha lives in Boston. My grandson Sam is a native Bostonian.

However, my son Nick is moving to Seattle right now.

QUESTION: What’s a torn Superbowl Mother to do?

ANSWER: Easy. I love Tom Brady. If I could be anybody in the whole world, he’s who I would be. Yeah, yeah, I know. I could have picked a cancer researcher, or a humanitarian, or a movie star, or a Nobel Peace Prize winner or a Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist.

Nope. Sorry. He’s the coolest cat on the planet. And he’s got a great back story of ambition, determination- and he’s got Gisele, too. Even his ex baby mama- Bridget Moynahan- is an unbelievable knockout.

I couldn’t care less about “Deflate Gate.” I want to be Tom. Deal with it, people.

Okay. Guys, go place your bets. Ladies, let’s get to something really vital.

Purses.

I actually did the math. I have been carrying a purse for fifty-four years. That’s a lot of schlepping.

This is my eighth grade graduation picture. Look closely, and in my hands you’ll see a white beaded and sequined evening clutch. It was from the Paris store Michel Swiss on the très fashionable Rue De La Paix. My great-aunt Caroline gave it to me.

(Historians take note that my mother still has the dress- and I can still get into it.)

But roll back the film. For me, purse-fascination all started in the sixth grade. Up ’til then, no girl at our dorky little Avoca School in Wilmette, Illinois carried a purse.

But one fateful fashion day, Barbara R. moved in.

From Maywood.

And she had a purse.

OMG. It was love at first sight for me. It- and she- were the coolest things I had ever seen.

I proceeded to worship her- and everything about her- for many, many years to come. She was my idol in all things stylish. If she did it, I wanted to do it, too.

And four years later, Barbara still had “it.”

Here’s her New Trier senior yearbook photo. No fair, I know, but still note the perfect blonde flip, the round collar blouse and the terrific pierced stud earring.

And if she carried a purse, well that was the signal to the rest of us girls that is was the “in” thing to do.

The purse du jour of high school- at least for some of the time- was like the one in the photo that opened this post. It was by John Romaine, and I’m sure I bought it at Betty’s of Winnetka.

Ah, Betty’s. The go-to spot for culottes and round collar and “nothing” blouses and preppy Villager everything.

(And I’m trying to remember if they had Lantz nightgowns.)

But they had everything else, and for awhile if you didn’t have a John Romaine purse, you were as good as dead socially.

Until they were replaced by the fad of using eyeglass cases pinned with a long metal clamp-like thing onto the front of your Chandler’s Assignment Notebook.

Huh?

Then there were the colorful neon little Eaton wallets.

They were big for a time with us North Shore gals, too.

And thanks to Ellen Kander, this just in. I had forgotten about those little madras clutch purses. They were hugely popular.

But it seemed that every purse had an expiration date. No sooner had I managed to save up enough allowance to buy the latest “It Bag” than it was declared OUT by style-setters in our grade.

And then I coveted the new, hipper bag badly.

And these days, not too much has changed.

Here’s Vogue’s brief history (with cool pics) of today’s “It Bags.”

(Although Plum Sykes says – rightly so I think- that “it’s an ‘It Bag’ only if you’re unlikely to possess it.”)

Well, I’m still trying. My great-aunt Caroline’s gift may have been my first bag made in Paris but it certainly wasn’t my last. You all know about my slight obsession with Hèrmes.

That’s my every day bag. Oxblood, and I love that bridle bit hardware.

And one thing for sure. Hèrmes is classic. It never will be replaced by a fad.

It’s timeless.

And maybe so is my great-aunt Caroline’s evening bag,

Still got that, too.

Now take a look at the IT blonde of all time and her bag.

(Sorry, Barbara.)

Okay, guys, you can come back now.

See you all on February 15.

And I’ll give Gisele your regards.

Posted in Fashion, Memoir, New Trier High School, pop culture, Winnetka | 14 Comments

I Can’t Tell You Why

Posted on January 29, 2015 by Ellen Ross

Juno Shout Out: I just want to start today’s post by wishing all of my East Coast readers my very best wishes. Hope you’re staying safe and warm- and still have your Internet connections. And Boston, good luck with all that shoveling and snow-blowing.

Okay, back to business….

Have you ever been hooked on a song? You know. You love it so much that you play it over and over again?

GEN X’ER ALERT: Back in the day, if I wanted “instant” replay, I would have to actually get up from my bed, and walk over to the record player, and manually replace the needle onto the exact track I wanted to hear again. This waste of time and energy in today’s era of “press play” does not seem possible now.

But when I was young (er) that was the only means available if I wanted to hear my current favorite tune again.

And I did. For a variety of reasons.

Sometimes I just fell for a song- or the singer. I’d be mesmerized by one or the other, and I would have to play that cut over and over again.

Sometimes I wanted to memorize the lyrics if they captivated me enough. Easy with “She Loves You.” Not so simple with “Like A Rolling Stone” or “Samba Saravah” from A Man And A Woman. (It’s in French. I also taught myself the words to “Perifdia” and “Frenesi” this way- and I don’t speak Spanish.)

But my favorite reason to replay songs was to learn and transcribe the lyrics for some of my friends who had garage bands,

They couldn’t afford the sheet music, you see. And they just couldn’t get all the words off the radio. So sooner or later, I’d get this call.

Lead Singer of Local Band: Hey, Roffe. We need the words to “You Really Got Me.” You know? The Kinks? Can you do that? We’re playing at the Rolling Stone (local teenage club) Friday night and we’re desperate, man.

Me : Sure. No problem.

And it wasn’t.

And so I’d listen to the song a few times, write down the words and deliver the pirated lyric to the Lead Singer at school the next day.

But more often than not, it was just a case of endless love.

One Colorado summer, I had it bad for Vince Gill. You know- twenty-time Grammy winning SUPERSTAR country western guitar player extraodinaire who has also been blessed with an amazing set of pipes.

For me, all this talent came roaring together on his cover of the fabulous Eagles’ (Frye-Henley-Schmit) song “I Can’t Tell You Why.”

As good as Timothy B. Schmit’s version was, Vince had kicked it up a notch and made it his own.

And I played it- and Vince’s Souvenirs album- all the time.

That was my view. Nice, huh?

And that album was my song of summer. I would turn on the outside speakers and lay on a chaise on my back patio overlooking that golf course while Vince’s angelic voice would waft gracefully and thrillingly through the ether.

One lazy late morning the dogs and I were outside fooling around. Of course, Vince was on the speakers. But all of a sudden, out of the big, beautiful, blue sky, I heard a voice.

“Where’s that gal who’s always playing me?” it said.

And I looked up and there was Vince Gill dressed in golf clothes walking across my yard.

He was accompanied by a couple of grinning guys- and Mike.

I was shocked. To say the least.

He continued.

“I met Mike here on the golf course and he explained that you’re a big fan. Just thought I’d drop in and say ‘hi’.”

Still speechless, I could only stare.

And then I started grinning like a fool. I felt just like Lucy Ricardo when she bumps into Cornell Wilde or William Holden or John Wayne. Something crazy like that.

“Oh, my God, I don’t believe this. I love you,” I stated with nothing but the truth.

And then he hugged me.

I looked over Vince’s shoulder and there was Mike smiling his head off.

What were the odds?

The Rest Of The Story…

Vince, and his wife Amy Grant, were in town to give a concert for their Challenge Aspen Golf Tournament. Challenge Aspen helps disabled athletes enjoy recreational and sporting opportunities from skiing to rafting to anything else this gem of a mountain hamlet has to offer.

For years disabled vets and physically and mentally-challenged kids have been coming to Aspen to be healed – at least for a little while- by the powers of nature.

And Mike- a Marine and Viet Nam vet himself- taught many adaptive ski classes to other wounded vets. Vince and Amy’s two day tournament/concert was the cornerstone of Challenge Aspen’s all year fund-raising efforts.

So one day, the worlds collided, and Vince Gill walked into my life.

Needless to say, we went to his concert that night. And the next year, I myself volunteered to be a marshall on one of the holes of the tournament golf course.

(I got a pretty nifty autographed copy of Souvenirs, too.)

Well, that’s my story. Now all you have to do is Press Play.

And who knows?

Maybe Vince will come walking in to your backyard, too.

I can’t tell you why.

Posted in Memoir, Music, pop culture | 10 Comments

The Last Supper

Posted on January 25, 2015 by Ellen Ross

My heroine, the late great Nora Ephron once spoke about the importance of one’s last meal.

She humorously – and rightly- pointed out that chances are one wouldn’t know that it was going to be the last meal, and it would be a pity if someone accidentally wasted it on a tuna melt.

(Unless your personal drop dead favorite go-to last meal happened to be a tuna melt.)

Nora’s last meal wish was for a hot dog at Nate ‘n Al in Hollywood. With a little Gulden’s mustard, relish and some sauerkraut. (Clearly my beloved Nora was no Chicagoan. But I’ll let that pass.)

I have given this topic of “last meals” some heavy thought. And I have (arbitrarily) decided that the last meal I would liked served to me could never be from a restaurant that is extant.

In order to be special, and thrilling, and worthy of my dying taste buds, my last supper would have to be resurrected straight from Restaurant Heaven. It just doesn’t feel all that special if I can go there tonight.

So in no particular order, here come my candidates for the meal I would order if I knew it was going to be my last. Some you might agree with. Others are purely idiosyncratic. Even I don’t know why they made the list.

Patriotic Sidebar: Eat America first. I have purposely left off many of my favorite dishes from Italy because A. I think I should eat Team USA for my last tuck-in. B. The restaurants and the dishes I like still exist in Italy. Everything from the Renaissance on is still there.

So unbuckle your (seat) belt. Here goes.

Ellen Ross’s (Carryout) Bucket List:

1. Chicken Croquettes at Indian Trail, Winnetka

2. The Bar-be-cue beef sandwich and cole slaw at Mary’s Cupboard, Winnetka

3. Roast Beef Hash at Café Des Artistes, New York City

4. Chicken Curry at Chasen’s, Los Angeles

5. Cheeseburger at Hershey’s, Skokie, Illinois

6. Veal Prince Orloff at Maxim’s, Chicago

7. Arancini and the Steak Parmigiana sandwich at La Milanese, Chicago

8. Spanish Meatballs and Rice at Castillo’s Kitchen, Farmer’s Market, Los Angeles

9. Veal Francese, Vincent Capra’s, Miami Beach, Florida

10. Char Crust Rib Eye Steak at Al Farber’s, Chicago

Yum. I’d order any one of those for my last meal here on terra firma.

And Nora, when we meet up in Heaven, I have a request.

Order a hot dog for me, too.

But make it from Fluky’s.

Thanks.

You’re an angel.

Posted in food, Memoir, pop culture, Restaurants | 27 Comments

Rainman

Posted on January 22, 2015 by Ellen Ross

This is a photograph of my brother Kenny and me. We’re in my mother’s Chevy Impala with our Standard Poodle puppy, Caesar. The year is 1959, and so that makes me almost ten and Kenny almost six.

Fred and Adele Astaire Sidebar: Even though Adele was the older of two famous siblings, her younger brother Fred always gallantly maintained the fiction that he was the elder. Over the years, Kenny has tried to say that we are the same age – or that he is older. Sadly, I got the lousy toss of the genetic dice.

Here’s an updated photo of the one above.

That’s us this past Fourth of July. Notice who got ALL the gray hair. (That is if my clingy Polo nautical top- making me look much more voluptuous than I am IRL- doesn’t divert your gaze from my head.)

Hard to pass for the younger sibling these days. Plus Kenny never changes. He is preternaturally youthful. In everything.

Long-times readers and FOK’s (“Friends Of Kenny”) already know about his love of sports. Especially baseball. At sixty plus, he is still competing in national hardball tournaments from Arizona to Florida.

Athletics might be his long suit. But school? Um…not so much.

Kenny never liked to read. It meant sitting still in one place, usually indoors, for far too long a time. Besides, he has always used books for bases.

One day while he was in elementary school, our mother was flabbergasted when stopped by the librarian.

Librarian: Kenny was in the library ALL day today, Mrs. Roffe.

My Mother (shocked) : He was?

Librarian: Yes, he was fixing the shelves.

And if he couldn’t sit still long enough to read, forget writing. I was the go-to on all his homework. Please see my post Ghost if you don’t believe me.

Hey, a guy can’t be expected to be good at everything. And if Kenny was more drawn to the roar of the playing field than the silence of the ivory academic tower, so be it.

After all these years, I’m used to thinking of him as Luis Aparicio. Not Luis Borges.

But lately, Kenny has exhibited a a talent that I had no idea he possessed.

He’s proven himself to be a gifted writer.

In emoji.

You know, those little pictures that come on your iPhone. Like this:

And these:

Kenny has been communicating with me through these cunning little devils lately and his messages are just great.

To be fair, Kenny started with simple emoticons.

Like this 🙂

Or 🙁

But you have to walk before you can run, and through practice, he’s blossomed into a talented author.

It would be plagiarism to print some of his more pithy texts. But here’s an example of Kenny’s brilliant emoji work.

Just last summer, when he watched the Cubs, I got this text novella:

Or after the latest annoying conversation with our mother- a ninety year old hardcore gambler who still goes to the casino every day- this is the four character play I received:

Can you see what he means? Simple, yet eloquent. Wish I could do that.

Gosh darn it, that kid has talent.

When it comes to emoji-writing, he’s gifted, my friend.

He may look like pre-crazy Tom Cruise, but he acts like Dustin Hoffman.

I think he’s a savant.

And I bet there’s a book in him, after all.

Hey, FOK’s. Does anybody have the emoji for “agent?”

Text me.

Posted in baseball, Memoir, pop culture | 16 Comments

Unreal Estate

Posted on January 18, 2015 by Ellen Ross

ICYMI, the Academy Award nominations came out this past Thursday. So first of all, I have to make some predictions. As I had forecasted, my ex boyfriend Benedict Cumberbatch was nominated for Best Actor in The Imitation Game. However it pains me to say it, he will NOT win the Oscar.

I think the battle will come down to Eddie Redmayne as Stephen Hawking in The Theory of Everything and Michael Keaton in my favorite movie of the year, Birdman.

Keaton’s was a bravura performance and I saw saw him get rewarded for it at the Golden Globes. (And terrific though Redmayne’s acting was, didn’t Daniel Day Lewis do the terribly-impaired genius first in My Left Foot?)

I’m voting American. Go Keaton!

Best Actress? This year we have a French actress, two Brits and two ladies born in the USA. But I think this category’s winner is easy to pick.

It’s Julianne Moore in Still Alice. Great performance, and she’s been nominated five times already. Very important in the behind-the-scenes Hollywood maneuvering/campaigning. It’s her turn, folks.

Best Supporting Actor? As much as I would like to give it to Edward Norton, I have to say it’s going to go to J.K. Simmons. This wonderful, old school character actor blew me away in Juno. His performance as the low key, ironic, supportive father was dead on. Haven’t seen Whiplash yet, but if he’s half as good, he should get the Little Gold Man.

(Btw, if he wins, he could be the first Farmer’s Insurance spokesperson to win one.)

Best Supporting Actress is going to be Patricia Arquette in Boyhood. All the buzz tells me so.

Best Picture? Me: Birdman. No contest. Voting Members of the Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences: Boyhood. I think they’ll want to reward the mastermind, Richard Linklater, for perseverance. And for employing the same actors for twelve years.

Best Director? This really is the cliff-hanger. Two directors absolutely broke the mold this year- Linklater and Alejandro Gonzalez Iñàrittu. I’m leaning towards Linklater.

Okay, the crystal ball portion of the post is over. But let’s stay in a cinematic frame of mind, shall we?

And go house-hunting.

Although Fate has allowed me to have lived in some very beautiful houses, I still hanker after some domiciles that exist only on celluloid.

Here are some dream houses that dwell in the eye of the set designer. But you can hand me the virtual deed to any of these babies any time.

Let’s start in California. I wouldn’t want to be poor tormented her, but I’d live in Mrs. Evelyn Mulwray’s Chinatown hacienda mañana.

Although this casa linda is actually in Pasadena, it’s a perfect period stand in for Noah Cross’s cross (and who can blame her?) little girl.

Now let’s file a flight plan and take our G-5 straight to New York. I sure do like that media tycoon William Parrish’s penthouse in Meet Joe Black. Anthony Hopkins may not know Death when he first sees him, but boy does he have an eye for a great interior designer.

And a view.

The penthouse at the Pierre doubled for the Parrish mansion in the sky. Breathtaking, but what I really envy is his library.

Widow’s walk, shelves lined with vellum and calf-bound first signed editions. For me, the library is the most important feature in any house. You can keep Brad Pitt- although he never looked better.

I’ll take the apartment any day.

Now I’m going to grab the Concord (this post defies all laws of time, space and reality. It’s strictly wishful thinking, so I’ll take an SST if I want to.) and cross the pond. Hmmm. Where do I want a fabulous European vacation villa?

I think I’m going to have to vote with the Riviera.

More specifically, John Robie’s spectacular hill top hideaway in To Catch A Thief.

True, it was bought by ill-gotten gains. But in this real estate case, crime certainly paid. Handsomely. All that Côte d’Azure glory- and the fabled Hôtel Du Cap just a diamond’s throw away.

But one can’t spend all one’s time sunbathing around the Eden Roc. You know how I like to ski. So next winter I’ll need to helicopter over the Dolomites to Cortina d’Ampezzo.

There I’ll cozy up for some champagne and après-ski in the chalet from The Pink Panther.

Oh, and while we’re at it, I’ll take Yves St. Laurent’s couture wardrobe for Madame Clouseau, too. Classics never go out of fashion. All the clothes are still picture-perfect.

But I can’t be an ex pat all my life. The lure of my home country is too much for me to resist.

When I’m tired of all this European decadence, just give me some good old Boston domestic architecture.

In case you don’t recognize it, that’s Mt.Vernon Street in posh Beacon Hill.

And that’s Thomas Crown’s town house.

I’m done with my shopping spree. Time to be a homebody. Think I’ll curl up with a copy of Architectural Digest.

Or maybe just play a little chess….

There’s no place like home.

Posted in Architecture, Interior Design, Memoir, Movies, pop culture | 12 Comments

Wanna Bet?

Posted on January 15, 2015 by Ellen Ross

I seldom make bets. In fact, the last big one I made was in 1988. It involved my son Nick- then aged eight- and the World Series.

In the spring of that year, I had flown out to Oakland, California. I was playing on an old pal’s trivia team at the King’s X bar.

Bar Stool Sidebar: The King’s X was a famous watering hole. Sadly, it was sold in 2005 and has become a Tiki bar. But up to then, it was known for two things- great trivia players and as the birth place of fantasy football.

Back in 1988, I wasn’t into fantasy football but I did play in an exciting trivia tournament in the joint. Then we followed this up by taking part in an entertaining (at least to us team members) radio interview gig.

And while I was in Oakland, the new baseball season had just started. Jose Canseco was THE superstar of the Oakland Athletics. (Hard to believe now, I know, but that was his year of his “triple triple.” Before he got permanently tarnished and lost his reputation- and later his finger.)

And when I came back, I had morphed into a serious Oakland A’s fan.

So now, home in Winnetka, I started following the team.

At precisely the same time in the season, my eight year old’s big league baseball affections landed on the Los Angeles Dodgers. Nick had gotten badly bitten by the skateboard bug and had subsequently fallen hard for all things California.

To that end, he decided to root for this faraway club. He became a rabid Dodgers fan.

So here we were, two hometown Winnetkans enthusiastically cheering on two California clubs.

Neither one of us envisioned that these would be the teams destined to meet in the October Classic.

But against all odds, Nick and I found our teams pitted against each other in the 1988 World Series.

There was only one thing to do.

“Hey, Dude,*** do you want to make a bet?” asked my son, Nick (The Greek.)

***My name change from “Mom” to “Dude” came in with the skateboard.

The gauntlet had been thrown. Of course I rose to Nick’s challenge. But there was one sticking point.

Nick never had any money. Ever.

He went through it like a hot knife through butter. I- sure of the magic and invincibility of my team- wanted a payday.

I gave it some heavy thought.

“You’re on. But let’s not bet for money. Let’s have some real skin in the game. If YOU win, I will be your slave for a week. I will do anything and everything you ask. Homework, clean your room, no nagging, you don’t have to be nice to Natasha, anything you want.

But if the A’s win, you have to be MY slave for a week. You have to do everything I ask. Brush your teeth, drink orange juice, make the school bus on time, no whining allowed.

Are you game?”

He was.

Game on.

Game One of the series was exciting. A real cliffhanger. And thanks to the relief pitching efforts of closer Dennis Eckersley, it looked like the A’s would take it.

And then, in the bottom of the ninth, with the winning run on base and everything riding on him, a badly-impaired Kirk Gibson hobbled up to the plate for the Dodgers and fouled them off, and fouled them off, and finally on the three-two count…

Home run.

Even I had to admit that watching the heroic Gibson grinning and gamely gimping around the bases with a torn hammy was inspirational. Kevin Costner couldn’t have starred in a better movie moment.

Nick just looked at me. He didn’t say a word.

The A’s folded like a deck of cards, lost all their momentum, and the Dodgers went on to win the Series.

I went on to do a week of third grade homework, chauffeur Nick to school in style, and fulfill other tasks too horrible to mention.

But I had learned a valuable lesson. I never made a bet again.

Until today.

Are you ready?

I bet that after you read the following vaudeville sketch- written by a very young William Claude Dukenfield, and performed in the 1928 Earl Carroll’s Vanities- you will laugh out loud.

Are you ready to take the bet?

(I only have your word of honor that you will report honestly. But I am willing to trust you.)

It’s entitled “School Days,” and it’s brought to you courtesy of Simon Louvish, author of The Man On The Flying Trapeze. (The punctuation and italics are the original.)

Scene: Interior of schoolroom. Three children’s desks and chairs strung out right facing left. Platform with small table and high stool stage left. Just behind the desks, blackboard about three feet by five. Cat, dog, and childish figure of a man adorn blackboard.

Characters:

Teacher: Unnamed woman actress

Pupil: Richard Bold (An actor I have never heard of.)

Pupil: Gordon Dooley (Ditto)

Pupil: Bill Fields (Heard of him.)

At opening, children are seated. Teacher is on platform, ruler in hand.

Teacher: Now children, to what kingdom does the peanut belong, animal, vegetable or mineral?

Bold (raising hand): I know teacher. Animal.

Teacher: No, you are thinking of the horse-chestnut. (Drops ruler, stoops to recover it with her back to the pupils.)

(Bold laughs heartily.)

Teacher: Well, why do you laugh?

Bold: I saw your stocking garter.

Teacher: Well I never. Leave the room. Go home and do not return to this school for a week. Do you understand, a week.

(Bold leaves room exit right, snickering. Teacher leans over again with back to pupils and this time recovers ruler. Dooley laughs unrestrainedly.)

Teacher: Well, what are you laughing at?

Dooley: I saw your bare leg.

Teacher: Merciful heavens! What next- Gordon Dooley you leave this room and do not return for a month. Do you understand? Do not return for a month.

Dooley leaves room exit right grinning with hand over mouth. Teacher mounts stool, placing her feet on rungs, arms akimbo and surveys room defiantly. Fields tries to suppress laughter by placing hand over mouth.)

Teacher (yelling): Well, what is the matter with you?

Fields (starting to leave): My school days are over.

The End

So come on, admit it. You laughed. And as far as the wagering went, I’m still willing to take it out in trade.

You’re all my slaves for a week!

Task Number One: Here’s the master at work. Watch it.

And Task Number Two: Take a gander at this.

My little chickadees.

Love, The Dude

Posted in baseball, Comedians, Memoir, Movies | 8 Comments

Shuteye

Posted on January 11, 2015 by Ellen Ross

(Design by Bruce Gregga)

This post is dedicated to Sandman Extraordinaire– Jimmy Feld. Thanks, Doc. For everything.

It all started with a Christmas present. From my two BFF’s, “Charlotte” and “Miranda.”

The box was beautifully wrapped, (natch) swagged within an inch of its life and encased in a gorgeous gift bag. And there was a heavy, elegantly-engraved card that read, “Since none of us have been doing too much of this lately, we thought this was perfect.”

I shut my eyes and prayed.

“Oh, please, dear God, let this be sleeping pills.”

It was this instead.

Cute. And I certainly loved the sentiment. But let’s be frank.

I need some sleep.

I haven’t had a good night’s sleep since…

Forever.

It probably started back in 1978. This was the reason.

My note on the back indicates that this is Natasha at two weeks old. She looks like a little Infanta of Spain, right?

In her nocturnal habits, she was a whole lot closer to Count Dracula.

Promptly at 5:30 p.m. she would conk out. And then promptly at 2 a.m. she was up and at ’em.

The baby book assured me that most babies knock off the 2 a.m. feeding at around four or five months old.

Natasha kept up the middle of the night wake up call for SIX years.***

***In fact, she was so old that she still remembers the “star chart” I had made for her. I would paste in a gold star in the calendar if she slept through the night.

OMG.

As she grew a little older, I could coax her back to sleep until 5 a.m. And then it was rise and shine.

For the rest of the day.

After five years of comatosely watching It’s Worth Knowing and Sunrise Semester, I finally collapsed with early morning exhaustion. I was ready to make a devil’s bargain with my little lark.

“Natasha, IF you stay in your room until Bozo’s Circus, I will buy you your very own tv.”

She mulled it over and decided she could live with that.

And she remains an early-to-bed-and-early-to-rise bird to this day.

My daughter came by this infernally-early internal alarm clock naturally. She inherited it from her father.

For the twenty years we spent together, Bill’s sleeping habits were dicked up. (Correct medical term, right, Jimmy?) He would awaken at 2 a.m. exercise, do paperwork, shower and then be downtown at the East Bank Club at 5:20 when it opened.

On the other end, if we weren’t scheduled to go out out that night, he would come home, eat, and collapse by 7 p.m.

This meant that for twenty years, he had to have his own room.

Very Downton Abbey, but not great on the intimacy side of things.

And his routine never varied. When we went out of town, the lights would go on at 2 a.m. no matter what.

Not fun in Readfield, Maine or Newport, Rhode Island or anywhere else that didn’t have a 24 hour gym so he could vamoose.

For twenty years, I got used to sleeping (mostly) alone in the bed, so it was an adjustment when the next couple of husbands actually wanted to get in it with me.

Kinda nice, though. A girl could get used to it.

And I did.

Which brings me to today. Or should I say “tonight?”

I can not sleep.

I read, email, watch Netflix, catch old British serials on YouTube, (The Pallisers is currently binge-playing on my iPad. Fun to see a pre-Brideshead Revisited Anthony Andrews and Jeremy Irons together as pals at Oxford) make notes for a new blog post, chat on the phone, text, check my email again, message friends on the West Coast, and then when my eyes get weary and I finally feel the wave of sleepiness come over me…

I shut off the lights and…

I wake up the minute my head hits the pillow.

I think, and fret, and think, and toss and turn, and plan tomorrow’s dinner, and look at the clock, and toss and turn, think about how cute and smart the new Cumberbaby will be, google old boyfriends and make imaginary ski runs down from Gwyn’s and…

You get the idea.

If I ever do get some sleep, I wake up looking like a hag.

This has got to stop.

Maybe 2015 will bring me some z’s.

I’d better knock this off now.

But fingers crossed that tonight will be different. (Even though there is Brideshead to be watched and sheep just dying to be counted.)

Yawn.

See you in my dreams.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Television | 10 Comments

Be-yatch

Posted on January 8, 2015 by Ellen Ross

When I was a student at New Trier High School in Winnetka, Illinois, I was popular.

Real popular.

Boys have always liked me. Even as far back as the third grade, most of my best friends batted for the other team- the Cub Scouts.

By fourteen, I was a fetching little thing. By fifteen, I was riding a popularity wave.

By sixteen, I was solidly enjoying my fun with the opposite sex. Never a Friday night or a Saturday night alone and dateless. My powder blue princess telephone was alive with one endless ring.

I was besieged with offers to dances, movies, football games, swim meets, parties, concerts, pizza dates at cool downtown Chicago restaurants.

By seventeen, I was a big selfish asshole. I thought nothing of breaking dates- and hearts- at will.

I had it all. The fistfights over me. The suicide threats if I wouldn’t go out with someone. The fun secret dates after the dates to official functions like prom.

And there were lots and lots of tears.

And they were never mine.

My four year high school social life was grand opera- with Clearasil.

I was an opportunist without a conscience. If a guy had a faster car or a bigger house, I was instantly ready to make a boyfriend swap.

And somewhere all this success turned my head and by senior year, I couldn’t get over myself. Just like Scarlett O’Hara, I fancied myself “the cutest little trick in shoe leather.”

I was used to playing with boys’ hearts as if they were cat toys. And woe unto him who really liked me. I was Ming the Merciless if I thought you were silly enough to fall for my bullshit.

One day, a boy in my history class approached me with a “problem.” I had known Frank since freshman year. He was from Glencoe, assistant sports editor for the New Trier News, smart, sweet, kind of shy- and a twin.

He had been in my English and history classes and we were both student tutors. I saw him at least once a day every day for four years.

Mobile Classroom Sidebar: We were the last undivided class before New Trier West was built. In 1967 we had forty-seven hundred students in the school. Our class alone had twelve hundred kids. Thus it was not always easy to know someone. You could go through all four years and never once meet a kid in your same year.

But as I explained, common classes threw us together, and one day, Frank took me aside and asked if I could give him some advice about his social life.

I was willing enough. What was the problem?

“Well, I like this girl and I don’t know if I should ask her out. I’m not sure if she’d date me and so I wanted to know what you thought I should do.”

Hmm, I thought smugly. That old chestnut. “Some girl.” I knew perfectly well that Frank meant me. After all, who wasn’t dying to ask me out?

But if that’s how he wanted to play it, I was willing to go along. I’d humor him.

“Who is she?” I asked innocently.

His eyes dropped and he mumbled, “I’d rather not say.”

Ha! Of course it was me. I knew it. Still, I wanted to be sure before I gave him dating advice about the perils of liking me. So it was on to “Twenty Questions” for the process of elimination. I’d get the truth out of him sooner or later.

“Is she in our year?”

“Yes.”

So me.

“Is she in one of our classes?”

“Yes.”

Me.

“Is she a brunette?”

“Yes.”

Me me me.

“Is she pretty?”

“Yes.”

What can I say? Me.

“Does her first name start with a letter in the first half of the alphabet?”

“Yes.”

Is there any question who he is talking about? Answer: Me.

“Does her last name start with a letter in the last half of the alphabet?”

“Yes.”

OMG! This girl was SOOOO me. But whoever doubted it for a second? Wasn’t I the genuine belle of Four Level? This was so cute. Frank was so shy. I just loved watching him get up his nerve to ask me out. But maybe he could used a little nudge…

“I’m sure whoever she is, the young lady in question would be happy if you spoke up. You’re a great guy, Frank, and I think anyone would be flattered if you liked them.” (Secret, conceited private little smile.)

“Wow! That’s great! Thank you so much, Ellen.

And do you really think that Barbara Rockelmann would go out with me?”

Oops.

Not me.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 27 Comments

Chinatown

Posted on January 4, 2015 by Ellen Ross

It’s Sunday. And that means it’s time for Chinese food.

That photo was the old Hoe Kow. Now gone, but in its heyday, the famous restaurant of Sunday choice for many Chicagoans. It seems like everyone I know ate here with their grandparents at one time or another. (The best fried rice.)

And who could forget Pekin House on Devon Avenue? Their egg rolls tasted like peanut butter- and I was crazy about them.

Closer to my suburban home there was- and is- House of Chan in Wilmette. Strictly for the carry-out trade, but my kids were wild about their beef and peapods and sweet on their sweet and sour chicken.

And speaking of kids, when we were kids, didn’t we once take a field trip to Chinatown? I have NO idea why we did this, but I do remember where we ate- Chiam on Wentworth Avenue.

It’s been closed for a long time, but take a look at it and see if you went there too.

In 1975 Peking Duckling House on Howard Street shanghaied me away from Cantonese and brought the joys of Mandarin cuisine into my life. Their steamed “pearls” and pork buns were out of this world. First time I ever tasted hot sour soup or moo shoo pork, either.

And ducklings were known to fly all the way to Evanston to be roasted and stuck between pancakes painted in delish plum sauce by the chef’s feathery scallion brushes.

Sadly, Peking Duckling House is kaput. A big loss as far my dim sum life went.

Black Pearl, Far East, Abacus (huge egg roll) – all gone and all great.

Arigatou Gozaimasu Sidebar: Although Japanese, Nokanoya in Lincoln Park was a favorite of mine. It too is “Sayonara,” but because I loved their “twice-baked” little lobster appetizer, I had to give them a shout out.

On Sundays, we used to take Nick and Natasha to the original House of Hunan on Michigan Avenue. But later we switched to Pine Yard in Evanston. The kids and I continued to love their apps and chicken soong until just last year. Then a grease fire in the kitchen wiped it out.

Chicagoland does not have the corner on great Chinese food. (Although it does win “Best Sweet Sauce Category” anywhere in the world. Except for Blaine, Missouri.)

Out of town Natasha turned me on to dim sum at Boston’s fabulous China Pearl.

New York had some legendary places like Oh Ho So and Oriental Pearl’s on Mott Street. (Both now shuttered.) Shun Lee Palace on 55th Street is pretty fabulous. They’re pricey but still selling their wares like hot onion pancakes.

Even my old amico italiano, Paolo, introduced me to the Eastern culinary delights of Fior di Loto in Florence. No way could it stand up to Pekin House. (The only “Fail” in gastronomy during my whole viaggio there. It was just così così.)

But i fiorentini feel exactly the same as we do about their Chinese food. They are wild about it- and think it makes a great change from their day to day cucina.)

Now let’s talk about some Chinese food that you can order tonight.

These days for me it’s all about Ping Pong on Broadway for Mandarin fusion. Terrific hot sour soup, yummy onion cake, spicy Bang Bang noodles and fabulous shrimp egg foo yung.

And a clever chocolate-dipped fortune cookie for dessert.

If that’s not enough for your sweet tooth, you can always stroll next store to Windy City Sweets. Wonderful, old-time sweet shop and candy store. They have everything from hot fudge sundaes to Pez.

And now whenever I crave old school peanut buttery egg rolls, I wing it to Wing Hoe.

Really close to Pekin House’s efforts. And their won ton soup is good, their portions enormous, their prices dead cheap and they give you a scoop of chocolate chip ice cream for dessert. (Weird, I know. But somehow, it works.)

And the service?

RAPID.

Whether you eat there or order in, you’ll be done in a flash.

I finished this post an hour ago and you know what?

I’m hungry again. Now where’s that delivery menu….?

In the meantime, look at what I opened just for you.

Zài jiàn, everyone.

Posted in food, Memoir, pop culture, Restaurants | 28 Comments

Let There Be Light

Posted on January 1, 2015 by Ellen Ross

I went to a holiday party a few weeks ago. Lots of friends, food and fun. And I bumped into my old hairdresser- or should I say “former hairdresser,” John Lanzendorf?

Hairdresser du jour (and de luxe) of Chicago’s top models, celebutantes and rich old Gold Coast widows. I’ve known John forever. I met him through famed fashion photographer Victor Skrebneski.

Shampoo Flashback: In 1980 I took a good look at my fifteen year old step-daughter, Patti, lying around my house in Winnetka. She was bored, beautiful- and five foot nine. So I took another look. Yep, the bone structure was definitely there. Along with the pouty lips, unusual eyes and a beautiful nose.

She looked just like this.

Hmmm. I bet…I wonder…?

So I put her in the car and drove downtown to Victor. I wanted to see if she had what it took to be a high fashion model. After all, nobody in Chicago was better-qualified to make that call than he.

Victor looked Patti up and down. He had her walk across the room. And then he pronounced.

“Yes, she could do it. She has all the right raw material. But remember one thing. Pretty girls quit the business every day. It really becomes a matter of how much she wants it. Does she want it badly enough to stick with it? It’s a hard, critical business.”

I looked at Patti. She looked at me. It hadn’t been her idea, after all. But in that moment, she decided to go for it. She nodded her head,

“Alright, then,” continued Mr. S. “I want to get her started in runway work before I photograph her. It will give her poise and a little experience on the cat walk. But first thing, take her to John Lanzendorf. She needs a haircut, and all the models use him. Tell him I sent you.”

We did as we were bid and soon we found ourselves in a beauty salon with Patti booked in with the master himself. Even back in 1980, John was famous for the price of his introductory haircut. Your first one with le maître would cost you $500.

But models- even models-in-training- got a deep discount, and that’s how Patti started going to John. I was just the chauffeur. She wasn’t old enough to have her driver’s license yet.

So month after month, we’d make the Winnetka-to-Chicago run to his shop. And then one day, John took a hard, critical look at me. And my long hair.

“I want to give you a haircut,” he announced.

I was flattered, but a little concerned about his steep first-time price.

“Oh, don’t worry about that,” he airily waved side my fears. “You aren’t like a first-time client. I’ll charge you my normal rate.

And with that, I became a Lanzendorf Girl, too.

Over the course of the next several years, I went from long hair to medium hair to a short bob until one fateful day…after six hours…

I kept my hair short for the next fifteen years. Until one day in 1995, Nick (now a teenager) took a hard, critical look at me and summarily announced, “Grow hair, Dude.”

And so I did.

To this day.

Meanwhile back at the holiday party…

“You look gorgeous,” John told me, taking in my hair in at a glance.

“No, I don’t. I’m the old gray mare now,” I said, self-consciously turned his compliment aside.

“And I’m the old gay mare!” he hooted.

And we roared. John was always a stitch.

But he has a serious side too, and I knew in his line of work there was one occupational hazard.

Gossip. He hears everything from his Girls. The good, the bad, and the (very) ugly.

We chatted about this and that, and finally I said what has been on my mind for the past few months.

“You know, I’m always always shocked at the cruelty of the ‘mean girls’ we know. Really, there is no end to their lack of decency and unkindness.”

Libel Lawsuit Sidebar: No, I’m not going to name names. But I guarantee that every one of you must know somebody who engages in despicable behavior towards their fellow man. Or woman.

John looked at me meaningfully.

“You’re absolutely right,” John said. “And I know plenty of them. But you know what? My mother had an expression. She always said, ‘Be light- or be gone.'”

Wow.

“Be light- or be gone.”

My new mantra- and resolution- for 2015.

I don’t want to get all Pollyanna about it, but from now on I’m going to take a leaf out of my friends’ books and do unto others like they do.

Life is short. I’m going to take a moment to pass on a compliment- like my sweet friend Lori does.

I’m going to try and make everyone laugh a little more- like my funny friend Steve does.

I’m going to try and dress up a room just by regally gliding into it- like my elegant friend Joan does.

I’m going to cut to the chase and tell the truth more- like my straight-shooting friend Abbie does.

I’m going to be more considerate- like my wonderful friend Kevin is.

I’m going to invite more people out- like my generous friend (another) Joan does.

I’m going to be more of a mensch– like my kind-hearted friend Jimmy is.

I’m not going to take myself too seriously- like my clever friend Norman does.

I’m going to wear a smile on my face more- like my beautiful friend Karen does.

I’m going to include EVERYONE- like my loving friend Lili Ann does.

I’m going to know the right thing to do – and do it- even if it’s hard- like my loyal friend Herbie does.

And I’m never going to whine or complain.

Ever.

Like my father did.

So here’s a toast to 2015. May it be exciting, happy and healthy for all of you.

And if I didn’t namecheck you, I’ll catch you next year. My list of good examples would be longer than this post. No one has had a better set of friends. Or readers.

My new year will probably be another roller coaster.

But I’ll get by with a little help from my friends.

Thanks, Mrs. Lanzendorf.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture | 22 Comments

The Pursuit of Happiness

I Can’t Tell You Why

The Last Supper

Rainman

Unreal Estate

Wanna Bet?

Shuteye

Be-yatch

Chinatown

Let There Be Light

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