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Mistletoe
FROM ALL OF US HERE AT LETTER FROM ELBA.
MAY YOUR DAYS BE MERRY AND BRIGHT.
Posted in Memoir, Tributes
14 Comments
Miracle on West Hallam Street
(Photograph by Mountain Photo)
A Christmas Fable…
This is the photograph that Pioneer Press ran with our wedding announcement when Mike and I got married. It’s a pretty nice picture, don’t you think?
Unfortunately, the ONLY thing I ever notice is the space between my legs.
Now look at Mike’s legs. See a space? Nope, you don’t. That’s because he is a ski instructor, and he was skiing as soon as he could walk. He doesn’t even remember learning how.
He is a beautiful skier. Really poetry in motion.
Meet The Family Sidebar: The first time that my brother Kenny flew out to Snowmass to meet Mike, he was giving a lesson on the mountain. Kenny and I waited and watched as he glided effortlessly down the slope when he spotted us. Kenny turned to me with an envious sigh and said, “Wow. Look at that. If you don’t marry him, I will.”
Somehow this photo ended up in Aspen Magazine- a glitzy but wonderful “lifestyle” publication. I don’t know how or why it got there. I know that I had never given it to anybody.
And I hadn’t started my talk show yet. I wasn’t even a minor celebrity in Aspen’s star-studded firmament.
(Mike, however, was a well-known and well-liked figure around Ski School, and he was coach of the Snowmass Demo team so maybe his celebrity clout got us the ink.)
At the time of our marriage, I had been living in my condo in Snowmass. It was a great place. Good location, adorable decor, handy to the slope, everything you could possibly want.
In a vacation home.
As a full-time residence, however, for three adults (Mike, Nick and I) and two dogs (Andy and Killarney) it left a few things to be desired.
The kitchen was designed strictly for the go-out-to-dinner and carry-out trade, and there was no back yard.
We were smack dab on the fifth tee of the Snowmass Club golf course. Picturesque and educational as this was – many’s the summertime morning I woke up to the sounds of colorful swearing as golfers’ drives sailed directly over the green and into the drink- it meant that we couldn’t just open the door and let the dogs out.
We would always have to walk them, and this really put Killarney in a funk as Siberians need to roam around.
So as soon as we got back from our East Coast wedding, Mike and I started to house hunt.
Quick Guide to Aspen Real Estate: The tiniest, fixer-upper, tear-down dump starts at a million bucks. Then the Rocky Mountain high price tag has NO LIMIT. Houses you would never ever live in, you could never ever afford.
Think Manhattan, and the Hamptons, and Bel Air, and Montecito. Now you’re on the right ski track.
It was discouraging. My townhouse was expensive, too, of course, but still it was only a drop in the bucket- a down payment- on any of the real estate that I really wanted to own.
Mike had a place in Lake Placid he was willing to throw into the pot, but even so, let’s just say the project was a challenge.
We looked and looked. The houses we could afford always had a fatal flaw. The houses we loved… well, I should have married Warren Buffet- not his ski instructor.
And don’t forget Snowmass and Aspen are really small towns. There isn’t a ton of inventory at any one time. Another reason the housing market is always price-inflated.
But the fever was upon me. I was determined to find a bigger house with a gas-equipped kitchen and a yard for the dogs.
We had a patient realtor working with us, but one day, right around Christmastime, Mike and I were driving down West Hallam Street in Aspen and we saw a “For Sale” sign in front of a brand new house.
Mike pulled the car up to a halt and we looked at it. From the outside it had tons of curb appeal. And it wasn’t too near the Music Festival, or on the side of town that gets dark early, or any of the other things that had made us nix other promising contenders.
“What do you think?” I asked Mike.
“Looks pretty great. It must just have been finished. Funny I never noticed it before,” he said.
“Shall I call the realtor and set up an appointment to see it?”
“Sure, why not?”
And so I called. And the listing agent said she happened to be five minutes away, and would we like to see the house right then and there?
We would.
As promised, five minutes later a cheerful lady with a key to the lockbox showed up and let us in.
The house, although new, was not empty. It was staged- furnished within an inch of its life- right down to the Sabatier knives on the never-been-used cutting board.
Every amenity had been thought of by the builders. And what they hadn’t put in was then artfully added by an interior decorator with one purpose in mind.
To make this house so appealing that anyone would be crazy not to envision themselves happily ensconced there.
Pillows and throws were tossed winningly on every conceivable sitting space. Yummy duvets and lacy shams clad every California King bed. Towels in the bathrooms were giant, pastel-colored bathsheets that just screamed “cozy.”
And every flat square inch of surface, from side tables to etagères, was laden with cachepots, bibelots, picture frames, vases, and geegaws that bespoke happy, healthy families and the famously-idyllic Aspen lifestyle that would rightfully belong to the owners of such an enchanting domicile.
Mike and I wandered about taking in all the Architectural Digest charm.
This house had a lot of promise and maybe we belonged there.
And then we spotted it. On the etagère in the living room. Lavishly framed and prominently displayed.
A photograph of the “owners” of the house happily skiing down the slope.
It was the photograph at the top of of this post.
Of Mike and I.
We were stunned.
But not as stunned as the realtor.
“That’s you!” she said as she followed our gaze to the picture. “What on earth…? Why is there a photograph of you two here? Do you know the people who built this house? Or the designer?”
Mike and I both shook our respective heads. We had NO idea how or why our wedding photo had ended up in a house on Hallam Street.
But we knew at once that it was a sign from the Aspen Real Estate Gods. We were destined to find this house and buy it. Our long search was over.
It was just like Miracle on 34th Street when adorable moppet Natalie Wood’s Susan made Mr. Gailey stop at the house she thought she had only imagined.
All that was missing from our miracle was Kris Kringle’s cane.
(And $2 million.)
Ho ho ho.
Have a Merry Christmas, everyone.
Posted in Aspen, Memoir, pop culture, skiing
9 Comments
Shoe Fetish
A week ago I took a good look. My favorite Frye boots were getting pretty worn at the heels. That meant an emergency visit to Dan, my talented shoe doctor at Broadway Shoe Repair.
“How ya doin’, Hon?” he greeted me. “What’s up with the boots?”
He knew, you see.
“The heels seem shot. Better take a look,” I told him.
“Yep, you need new ones.”
“Do I need new soles, too?”
“Nope.”
“Okay. When I can I have them back?”
“Not until after Christmas, Hon.”
My face fell.
“Really? That long? I love these boots,” I sighed.
“Yeah, I know, but there’s nothing I can do about it. I’m slammed.” He shook his head.
“Here you go.” And I reluctantly passed them over and bid my boots adios for two very long weeks.
As he handed me my ticket, Dan had an afterthought.
“Hey, what’s your cell phone number? I’ll text you if they’re done any sooner.”
“Great!” And I gave him my number.
The next day Dan called.
“The boots are ready, Hon. Come and get ’em.”
Sweet! Dan is The Man.
(And he had no idea that I was going to write this. Letter From Elba has not made it on to his must-read list. Yet.)
You see it’s not like I don’t have any other boots or shoes to wear. I do. It’s just that I am slightly obsessed with footwear.
My footwear to be exact.
I never de-accession them. I keep ALL of my shoes and boots in perfect, pristine, ready-to-boogie condition.
It goes back to my childhood, I think. I wear a size four and a half shoe. Having a small foot might have been a very big deal back in Ming Dynasty China, but it was the very big bane of my North Shore Dynasty existence.
As a pre-teen, of course I dreamed of Dexter penny loafers, Bass Weejuns and saddle shoes like pre-teen girls everywhere. But to no avail. I could never find shoes to fit me. Every time my mother took me to the shoe store, (with one of those X-ray-your-feet machines and cut-outs on the walls of Buster Brown and his dog, Tige) the beleaguered salesman would measure my foot in that silver Brannock device thingy and sadly shake his head.
“Nope, they don’t make loafers that small. You’re going to have to wear an adult size. Next year. Maybe.”
But next year never came.
My feet refused to cooperate, and so even today, finding cool shoes that actually fit becomes a treasure hunt.
And when I find ’em, I never let them out of my sight. Not if I can help it.
Moving Van Sidebar: In my relo from Colorado to Chicago, after the packing crate dust cleared in my new apartment, I was struck by a horrible thought. Where was the box that contained my nifty, over-the-knee black suede, flat-heeled Arche boots? I didn’t remember seeing it.
(It also contained my black and white tiny polka-dotted suede Diego Della Valle kitten heels and super chic Roger Vivier pumps with gold balls at the back of their heels.)
I tore through the house and then called the moving company with my frantic shoe S.O.S.
But to no avail. The shoes are permanently AWOL. Alas.
Back to the shoe counter…
Even with that tragic loss, I’ve still got plenty of footwear that I dote on. Like this honey of a pink and ruby slipper.
These neon lime green ones are fun.
See the padding? Even after two kids, my feet still refused to grow. Size five seems to be the smallest I can find. So most of my shoes have to be stuffed so that they will stay on.
So when I find something great, I just stick with it. To me, there’s no such thing as “old shoe.”
I did some counting. My Frye boots are thirty-five years old. Sold to me by Joe Cotten of the old Joseph’s shoe store in Old Orchard.
If I don’t have to be dressed to the nines, I wear them every day. They get me around town speedily, comfortably, and make me just tall enough to hold my head up high. I’d be lost without them.
So thanks for the quick turnaround, Dan.
Here’s to another thirty-five years,
Hon.
Posted in Fashion, pop culture, Shoes
8 Comments
Enigma
As long-time readers of this blog may know, I am crazy about two things.
Puzzles and Benedict Cumberbatch.
(But not necessarily in that order.)
And the new movie, The Imitation Game, showcases both of them.
It’s the true story of codebreaker and mathematics genius Alan Turing, whose brilliant insights and incredible “universal machine” cracked Germany’s Enigma cypher code. The Bletchley Park codebreakers probably shortened World War II by two years.
And they saved millions of lives with their heroic and top, TOP secret mental efforts.
After much anticipation, I saw The Imitation Game on Friday.
And I’m sad to report that I didn’t much care for it.
It’s just ok- kind of a mash-up of Masterpiece Theatre meets Revenge of the Nerds.
In the filmmakers’ zeal to do right by the legacy and burnish the luster of Alan Turing, its tone was positively reverential.
And ponderous.
(And the soundtrack was off-putting. Soaring, majestic, ominous. It put in mind of those old-time piano players in the silent movies days. Ok, I get it. I don’t have to be prodded into feeling scared or uplifted. Let me do the emotional work myself, ok?)
I’ll not quibble here with all the movie’s historical inaccuracies. A laymen would never know fact from fiction, and it doesn’t really matter. Poetic license and all that.
(Although it was kind of World War II For Dummies.)
What matters is that the moment I read that the beauteous, luminous, ultra-adorable Keira Knightley had been cast as Joan Clark- math and crosswords wiz and Turing putative love interest- I knew we were in for it.
The Hollywoodization of a true story that is far more compelling. If you just let it alone.
Turing’s life is one of secret triumph and very public persecution. His torment at the hands of the vile and inhumane anti-homosexual laws in England is truly terrible.
And my screen idol, terrific actor Benedict Cumberbatch, was hamstrung, too, by the fact that he was portraying an icon.
He’s very clever of course, and will probably garner an Oscar nod. But to my mind, Derek Jacobi set the Turing bar in the movie Breaking the Code. I think his portrayal serves the man much better.
Here’s a clip. You can watch the whole thing on Youtube.
If you’re on the fence about The Imitation Game, go see it. You could spend your time and money in worse ways. But this will never win Best Picture Oscar.
(And Birdman blew my mind. Emma Stone and Edward Norton just killed me. Way more fascinating flick.)
But The Imitation Game did put me in mind of an incident I hadn’t thought about for years.
It was 1995, and my son Nick- then about fifteen- was a big fan of the band, Rage Against The Machine. And he was excited because he was headed out to their concert that night.
I happened to see him before he left the apartment. He was all dolled up wearing his favorite shirt- a blue and white striped auto mechanic’s work shirt with the name “Chuck” embroidered in script over the pocket in heavy red thread.
(In fact, it might have said “Joe” or “Aloysius” or “Nigel,” but if I text Nick to ask him what name the shirt bore, he’ll know instantly that I’m writing about this, and that will lead to an unpleasant conversation, and that will lead to an ukase, and that will lead to me flaunting his authority, and then Nick will want to put me in the Bad Mother gulag, and so for the sake of this post, let’s all agree that the name was “Chuck.”)
“Have fun, honey,” I called as he strode out. “Enjoy the concert.”
What did I know? When it came to rock concerts, I automatically thought back to some of the great ones that I had attended in my youth- the Beatles, the Stones, Bob Dylan, the Temptations, the Four Tops, the Supremes, Simon and Garfunkel,
And the two that I memorably didn’t attend. Gerry and the Pacemakers with Billy J. Kramer and The Dakotas, and the legendary soul man Otis Redding.
I missed out on Gerry and the Pacemakers (“Ferry Cross The Mersey” was their big song that year) because on the way to the Arie Crown theater, my boyfriend Bruce’s car hit a guard rail and we never made it to the show.
A huge cover-up then when into play. Not with the cops- with my mother.
If she had ever known that I had been in a car accident, she would have reacted with her usual understanding by grounding me forever immediately. I had to make up a whole song roster for her when I came home that night.
I missed out on Otis Redding because of another kind of an accident. A fatal one.
After a fancy steak dinner at Smoky’s in Madison, Wisconsin, my boyfriend Jon and I hurried over to hear him. We were summarily told that we were too late. Otis’s plane had just crashed into Lake Monona, killing everyone except one member of the Bar-Kays.
There would be no concert that night.
But in the main, my memories of the concerts I had seen were happy ones.
True, Brian Jones had given the audience the finger and had stormed off the stage, and you couldn’t hear one note that the Beatles played because of all the girls screaming, and the audience booed for awhile when Bob Dylan plugged in his electric guitar, but even so, this was pretty tame stuff.
So I wasn’t prepared for Nick’s appearance when he came back in that night.
(In those days Nick and Natasha went to boarding school in Newport, Rhode Island. Because he wasn’t home in Chicago much- he preferred to spend all his vacay in Colorado- Nick’s bedroom doubled as my office.)
I was working late on my computer when he staggered in.
Sweaty, bleary-eyed, bleeding…
And shirtless.
I mean starkers from the top up.
I was alarmed at his appearance. He looked awful.
“What happened to you? Where’s your shirt?” I cried.
“It got ripped off,’ he snarled.
“Well, for heaven’s sake, why did you take it off and let someone steal it? It was your favorite shirt,” I countered logically.
“I didn’t take it off. I was in the mosh pit and it got RIPPED OFF of me!”
Uh oh. Times had definitely changed since Billy J. Kramer.
“And I need your help with something, Dude,” he went on to say. “I met this really cool girl at the concert tonight and she wrote down her telephone number. I want to call her right away and I can’t.”
“You’re right. It’s way too late to call her now. Why don’t you wait until the morning…”
“No, you don’t get it, Dude. She wrote her number on my arm and I sweated off the last three digits. I need your help trying all the combinations. Will you do it?”
He held out the runny ink stain for me to see.
Do you have any idea how many telephone number combinations that is?
(And no fair, George. You probably know.)
But my son looked at me with such pleading eyes…and besides, I couldn’t resist the challenge.
For the rest of the night, we tried various different sequences.
Without any luck.
Paging Alan Turing.
(And welcome to the mosh pit. Shirts optional.)
Posted in Memoir, Movies, Music, pop culture
14 Comments
Lobster Trap
Remember the episode on the Dick Van Dyke show when Laura was peeved that Dick always grabbed the check? She accused him of wanting to buy peoples’ affection by constantly picking up the tab.
Good guy Dick countered by saying that when women went out to lunch, NO ONE paid the check.
“You had the chicken salad, and you had the fruit plate, and I had the tuna on whole wheat…,” he mimicked the women trying desperately- but equally- to split the check.
I always laugh when I see this. Dick might have been on to something.
These days, I go out with women a lot. Not a man in sight. And if we’re sharing, the dining ground rules are pretty clear. We all order entrees around the same price.
And even though I don’t drink anything harder than a Diet Coke, if the girls want to have a glass of wine or a dirty martini, of course they can.
The meal usually comes to an end with one dessert- and a couple of forks.
Then the check is evenly split.
Easy enough.
And if I’m treating, you can have anything you want. That’s it.
To date, no one has tried to stick me with a pricey bottle of vino. So far so good.
When I was married to Bill, our dinner social life was pretty much based on the “your turn to pick up the check/my turn” maxim. We had a close group of friends with whom we would trade off paying for the dinner.
Our go-to couples ate and drank about the same amount as we did. Both food-wise and dollar amount wise. The wife was usually good for one glass of white wine, the husband a cocktail or two. Nothing much more.
And if someone wanted to order an expensive bottle of wine, they would tell us upfront that they were going to pay for it themselves.
Fine.
Those were the guidelines, and everyone seemed pretty comfortable with them. It had nothing to do with solvency. All the men were well-heeled.
It was more like a dining fairness doctrine.
Mooch Sidebar: Once upon a dinner time, a glitzy Chicago couple decided that they wanted to get to know us better. The wife called me and set up a dinner date. We went, they ordered a $300 bottle of wine (which they consumed à deux) and when the bill came, they wanted to split it.
50-50.
As the men paid up, one of them made an allusion to “next time.”
There wasn’t going to be any next time.
Bill didn’t appreciate getting stuck with their expensive drinking habits.
And don’t get me wrong. He was a sport when it came to hosting. If he was treating, the sky was the limit. He just didn’t like being made to feel like a sap.
My “Separate But Equal” rule didn’t just apply to the bar tab, either.
Many years ago, we attended some black tie gala event. (I don’t remember which one. In those days, we were always going to black tie charity events. Bill had six tuxedos, and he used to joke that if his business failed, he could always find work as a maitre d’- or a magician.)
Anyway, it was de rigueur not to eat much at these affairs. The luke warm tenderloin and so-so salmon combo was usually indifferent, and it was much more fun to table-hop, dance or just make small talk with your table mates. Food really never entered the picture.
Afterwards, a few of us might adjourn to a nearby restaurant for a late supper. Always better eats- and a way to keep the fun and glamor of the night going.
After this particular soirée, Bill and I decided to grab a bite before heading home. Along with my brother Kenny and my sister-in-law, Mary Lu, Neil B. and his then-wife Barbara, and another couple.
For the sake of this post, I’ll call them “Ted” and “Alice.”
The eight of us headed to the Palm– then located in the Mayfair Regent Hotel on East Lake Shore Drive.
I had the Gigi Salad. It was by now 10:00 p.m. and I didn’t feel like tackling anything heftier. The other ladies did the same, as I recall.
The men went a little heartier. Pasta, I think. Or they shared an entree. At least three of then did.
Ted ordered a lobster.
A whole one.
For himself.
It was $85- even back in those days.
And when the waiter brought the check, and the four guys threw their plastic down on it, Ted made no mention of the fact that his entree was triple the price of anyone else’s.
He counted on the fact that there was crustacean safety in numbers, and that guys will be guys. And, of course, the three non-lobster-consuming men just dutifully paid their portion of the tab.
(I do remember Kenny slyly giving me a wink when the waiter brought the credit cards back. He showed me how he had deftly pulled back Neil’s credit card toward him- and pretended to stash it in his own wallet.
Since Neil B. is tied with Mark Cuban at number 222 on the Forbes Rich List, I could see that his credit card limit would be way more than Kenny’s. It was a funny sight gag- although Kenny did eventually return it to its rightful owner. Good one.)
But the next day Kenny was livid- and as red as a lobster.
“The nerve of Ted,” he fumed. “He knew we would have to pay for his meal. How dare he order a whole lobster when everyone else was having a salad?’
“Why do you think he did it?” I asked. Ted, after all, was a friend of Kenny’s. Not mine.
“He’s a cheap s.o.b. He liked the idea of scamming us into paying for his meal.”
“Well, I hope he enjoyed it, because it’s the last lobster he’s ever going to get out of us,” I stated firmly.
And it was. We never went out with Ted and Alice again.
The dining rules of the game take no prisoners.
Now order me a bottle of Möet & Chandon Bi Centenary Cuvée Imperial 1943 and we’ll call it a day.
Cheers.
Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Restaurants
14 Comments
Arts and Sciences
When I was in college, I majored in English literature. And even though that it meant sweating through Chaucer and ploughing through Milton, I loved (almost) every word of it.
Shakespeare, Donne, Austin, Galsworthy, Donne, Pope, Swift, Blake, Shelley, Keats, Byron, Shaw, Yeats, Eliot, Lawrence. Gods, geniuses. What was not to like?
Besides, what choice did I have? I really stunk at math, and as far as science went…
Let’s climb into Doc Brown’s DeLorean time machine and set the dial for 1965. Sophomore year New Trier High School, Winnetka, Illinois. Miss Crotty’s three level biology class.
Class Notes Sidebar: Blonde, blue-eyed, pretty and young, Miss Crotty was the first teacher I had ever had to whom I could relate. She didn’t seem that much older than the rest of us, and because of her youth, sweet nature and winning personality, all the kids tried hard in her class. She was sincere and so darn cute-looking that even the smart aleck, goof-off boys were disarmed by her.
Okay, now back to class, kids.
Up until this point in my academic career, I had always harbored the sneaking desire to be a vet. I loved animals- especially dogs and horses- and fancied myself a modern day Dr. Doolittle.
I had done fine in my science classes at my junior high, and I saw no reason that I couldn’t continue the Madame Curie thing right through veterinary school.
So when it came to biology, I breezed through the book part. I was good in the classroom. Gregor Mendel and his peas and that dominant and recessive gene stuff was a snap. Book test after book test I got A’s.
But then came THE LAB.
OMG. I was terrible. Klutzy with scalpel, bored by the bunsen burner, loathed the “bangs and stinks.”
I wouldn’t touch the frog, was grossed out by the formaldehyde-embalmed poor little fetal pig, and generally used the lab time to flirt with Jimmy E. and gossip with my girlfriends.
But even with those social distractions, the lab seemed like an amalgam of everything I hated about home economics- measuring, cutting, heating, testing, recording notes, graph paper.
YUCK.
Luckily, we were assigned lab partners, and I drew red-headed nice guy Bob Field as mine. I shamelessly played the “I’m so helpless and you’re so smart” card, and whether batting my brown eyes at him had anything to do with it or not, night after night, Bob patiently filled in his “frog notebook”- and more importantly, mine.
Thanks to Bob, I breezed through biology with great grades, and then blithely signed up for chemistry junior year.
What had I been thinking? A week in, I was the biggest bomb since Fat Man and Little Boy. I don’t recall one thing from that class but my rush to drop it before it sunk my GPA.
As a sigh of relief engulfed me and my drop slip, I also bid adieu to the picture of me as vet. Goodbye to all that. It was strictly the liberal arts for me from then on.
So imagine my surprise when I ended up in Natural Selections, the Rockefeller University monthly newsletter.
In case you’re not familiar with Rock U. allow me to explain what it is. (I’m quoting from their site here.)
“Located in New York City, the Rockefeller University is a world-renowned center for research and graduate education in the biomedical sciences, chemistry, bioformatics and physics. The university’s 75 laboratories conduct both clinical and basic research and study a diverse range of biological and biomedical problems with the mission of improving the understanding of life for the benefit of humanity.”
It was founded in 1901 by John D. Rockefeller, and throughout its history, 24 of its scientists have won Nobel Prizes, 21 have won Lasker Awards and 20 have garnered the National Medal of Science, the highest science award given by the United States.
And now I was in Natural Selections, newsletter of interest to Field’s Medal winners and distinguished scientists.
Gosh.
I owe my by-line to George. Better make that Dr. George Barany, Distinguished McKnight University Professor of Chemistry at the University of Minnesota.
(And brainiac Rock U. alum.)
I rode in on George’s puzzle-making coattails when our puzzle, “Over The Moon,” was chosen to be featured in the November issue of the newsletter.
(And if you’re not curious enough to click on the crossword puzzle link above, take a look at the fan letter that George and I just got from a very famous crossword aficionado.)
Nice, huh? A presidential seal of approval, no less.
(Btw, the “Vic” it’s addressed to is Victor Fleming- fellow crossword constructor, judge and home boy of WJC. Vic sent it on to him, and then forwarded the former CIC’s reply back to us.)
Rock U. has the highest number of Nobel Prizes in relation to personnel involved in research in the world. Thus I’m honored to be read by such high-falutin’ company- as well as former POTUSes.
And I’m amused at the thought of all these math and science wizards wrestling with the clues that this English major thought up in her bedroom.
“Scientia Pro Bono Humani Generis.”
“Science for the benefit of humanity.”
That’s the Rockefeller University motto.
“Cruciverbia Pro Bono Humani Generis.”
“Crosswords for the good of humanity.”
That’s my motto.
I hope Miss Crotty would agree.
Now put this under your microscope.
Posted in Crosswords, New Trier High School, pop culture, Science, Teachers
18 Comments
He Said, She Said
Back in the 90’s, this is the photograph that used to run in my weekly column,”Social Studies.” (Sorry about all the cracks. I actually found this copy in a cook book.)
I wanted you to see it because the current Cosby rape allegation scandal has brought a certain delicate matter to my attention.
It’s the question of victims of sexual abuse worrying that no one would believe them if they go public with their disturbing experiences at the hands of a famous, powerful man.
I get where they are coming from.
Here’s why…
In the mid-nineties, I was the happily-married (or so I thought) humor columnist for the Pioneer Press. We were owned at that time by the Sun-Times, and there were forty-six weekly papers that went all throughout the Chicago suburbs.
If you lived in Winnetka, or Lake Forest, or Park Ridge, or Evanston, or Skokie, or Highland Park, my column came to your mailbox every Thursday.
The Pioneer Press had a big circulation, and I was read- happily, I hope- by thousands of people every week.
Two of those people reached out to me because of two different columns that I had written. Both had enjoyed the column, thought I was talented, and wanted to meet me.
At least that’s what they told me at the time.
Two different columns. Two different men.
And both were famous, powerful and could help me with my career. And both offered to mentor me.
Case 1:
This reporter and very successful author called me and suggested I come to his office in the Chicago Tribune building. On a Saturday at one in the afternoon. He told me that he could help me, and would I be interested in meeting with him?
Of course I was interested. He had made a big name for himself doing exactly what I was doing. He knew all the right people, had all the right advice, and he was taking an interest in my work.
Great.
Of course I told Bill. His reaction was exactly the same as mine. “He can help you. Go meet with him.”
So arrangements were made and I drove in from Winnetka for the meeting.
(I remember that I was late- a rare occurrence for very-prompt me. But a bridge was up and I got stuck waiting for it to go down before I could cross Wacker or something.)
Finally, I parked and ran into the Tribune Tower. I had expected a scene right out of The Front Page or All The President’s Men. You know, bustling, busy, noisy, phones ringing, people running and yelling, “Get me a copy boy!”
But there was dead silence. There was nobody in the lobby save one lone, bored security guard at the sign-in desk.
Strange, I thought. The building was deserted. But I had an appointment to keep and I signed in. The guard directed me to the floor and said, “You can’t miss it. He’s got a glass office.”
Ok. That sounded pretty harmless. After all, what could happen in a glass office?
From the moment I sat down in front of my idol, I knew something was up. The very first question he asked me was, “What does your husband think of you coming here?”
I was really taken aback. What did that have to do with writing a newspaper column? Every time I tried to deflect his personal questions to more appropriate work-related subjects, he would just go right back to intrusive questions and comments.
(To be fair, he did give me two decent pieces of business advice: Write a book and syndicate. That’s where the money was back in those days of print journalism.)
Finally he cut to the chase. Would I join him now in a nearby hotel for a little afternoon delight?
Hell no. Let me repeat that. HELL NO!
Do I have to tell you guys why? First of all, I was married. I had a handsome, successful, powerful husband of my own back at home, and a meaningless tryst with a horndog of a stranger was not at all what I had in mind when I drove in that morning.
Second, I was truly shocked. This guy had made big bucks writing books about his wife and kids- and how much he LOVED them. His image could not have been more squeaky clean.
And even though I am not naive enough to confuse the artist with his work, I could not believe his bold-as-brass proposition.
I got up to leave.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“I’m going to Ultimo. They’re having a sale. Then I’m going home and going to a movie with my husband. ”
“Why don’t you come back after you’re done shopping? I’ll be waiting for you.”
“Don’t bother. I’m not coming back,” I said.
And I left.
(I bought a very cool greige-colored coat with a faux leopard collar at Ultimo that day. Don’t remember the movie.)
I was pissed. I had wasted an entire afternoon on this, and came away with nothing but a bad taste in my mouth.
But I want to make one thing perfectly clear here. I also knew in my bones, that this had NOTHING to do with me or the way I looked. This guy had done it all before.
Lots of times.
It felt practiced, rehearsed, polished. I just knew- from the moment he started in on me- that he would have done it to any woman who showed up in his office that day.
When I got home, Bill asked me how it went. I told him.
His reaction was one of disappointment that the guy wouldn’t be mentoring me after all. (He wasn’t particularly het up about it. But that could have been because he had no idea of this guy’s rep as a big family man. Or perhaps it was just that he didn’t care two pins about me any more and so it was no biggie. I’ll never know, and now it doesn’t matter.)
But precisely because I got no change out of him, I told my very dear friend, Henry.
Who did NOT believe me.
He just couldn’t get past this guy’s public image of a devoted husband and family man.
Henry scoffed, laughed, made excuses, thought I had misread the signals.
And as hard as I tried- and he knew I was no liar- I could never get him to buy my story of the inappropriate, sexually-charged personal questions and the follow-up icky proposition.
Until years later. When this exposé came out.
Then I got a whopper of an apology from Henry. But still, if my best male friend wouldn’t believe me, how could any woman in a case like this think she will be believed by total strangers?
As for Case 2:
Nah, you wouldn’t believe it.
Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Television
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Tradition
You’re looking at a photograph of (my pre-divorce) Chicago co-op. It’s all set for Thanksgiving dinner. I had done the tables up à la chinoise because all my Thanksgivings had themes and I had just gotten back from Hong Kong.
I remember that holiday vividly- even without the aide-mémoire of this photograph.
At the end of the evening- after all the guests had gone- Bill and I were doing a recap of the dinner. Who was there, how the food was… You know, the usual post-party post-mortem.
“Well, we had three old ladies here tonight,” I remarked. “Your mother, Mary Lu’s grandmother and my grandmother. They’re all well into their nineties. I wonder which one of them won’t be here next year?” I said idly.
“Yeah, who knows?” Bill agreed.
The ironic fact was that the next Thanksgiving, ALL of the old ladies were alive and kicking, and I was the one who wasn’t at my house for Thanksgiving.
That was the last Thanksgiving that I would ever spend with my own things at my own table with my own nuclear family.
The next year found Nick and I in Colorado, Natasha in college in Connecticut, and the rest of my extended family scattered to various dinner winds around Chicago.
Divorce is a cruel thing. It is no respecter of long-held cherished family traditions. Twenty years of siting at my own table, eating a meal that I had lovingly prepared, and watching the faces of beloved family and friends as they ate, and laughed, and shared stories went right down the family court drain.
Traditions that I had held inviolate? Hah. Now deader than the turkey.
Over the course of the decades of Thanksgivings to come, at least Nick was a constant. He wasn’t all that devoted to his mother, but he liked my cooking.
And he loved the fact that Snowmass Mountain usually opened for snowboarding that week. Hence my son was always at my Thanksgiving table, no matter what.
Natasha was a different kettle of fish. Some years she would make it out to Colorado. Some years, it was too hard, or the winter weather too dicey to justify such a short trip.
I was disappointed, but I’d fill my chairs with friends of Nick’s, or the Snowmass demo ski team, or just about anyone we knew that had no family to turn to for the holiday.
It wasn’t the same as my old Chicago Thanksgiving, but I enjoyed it. One year, after dinner, Nick and my last husband- the Kid- jammed away on guitar and drums for awhile. Much to the head-shaking amusement of my other guests.
No time for old traditions now. There was an ever-changing cast of characters each year.
(And sometimes that included the husbands.)
When Nick got married, all that ended. His wife Missy’s family is from Arizona, and for some arcane reason, she preferred to be with her mother and father rather than her husband’s mother on the holiday.
Nick preferred whatever Missy preferred, and I preferred to be on speaking terms with Nick, and hence that was the end of him at my Thanksgiving table.
And when Missy moved out to Los Angeles, all bets were off. Nick was working in Chicago, and going out to see her every other week and on all the holidays. That really was the death knell for Thanksgiving with me for sure.
I called him on his very first SoCal Turkey Day.
“Happy Thanksgiving, sweetie. Do you miss my stuffing? I know you love it, and I don’t want you to feel sad that you’re not with us today, and you’re not getting a home-cooked meal and…”
“This is the greatest Thanksgiving EVER, Dude!” Nick interrupted my sad repining. “I surfed this morning! I’ve never done that on Thanksgiving before. It was awesome!”
He was bravely soldiering on.
Over the next several years, Natasha would make random guest star appearances, but for the most part, she stayed on the East Coast for Thanksgiving.
So this year, with Nick doing his Jan and Dean Surf City thing again out in L.A. and Natasha a brand new mother, I was resigned to the fact that I was going to be child-less at the holiday table once again.
And then I got a phone call from Natasha. And she was excited.
“Zach’s got to come to Chicago on business! He’s got a meeting at the mayor’s office and we are going to be in town for Thanksgiving. I’m coming home for the holiday!”
I never thought I’d be personally grateful to Rahm Emanuel for anything. But boy, am I.
We had a whirlwind few days as Natasha introduced Sam to the Chicago branch of his family.
She also had an important eating agenda: Portillo’s, Beinlich’s, Joe’s. Here we are at Portillos’s.
(Photograph by Zach Tofias.)
I had already accepted a gracious invitation from my darling friend Joan A. to be an honorary member of her family at the club for Thanksgiving dinner. And since the baby tends to conk out around six o’clock p.m. these days, we decided that Natasha, Zach and Sam should come over to my house for a Thanksgiving lunch.
My holiday was really looking up. There was only one challenge left.
Question: So what do you make for lunch on Thanksgiving when everyone is headed to a turkey dinner fours hours later? (My son-in-law is not particularly crazy about the traditional dinner, btw.)
Answer:
The pizza was terrific- and now Natasha had successfully completed her Taste of Chicago tour, too.
And, as she wisely pointed out,”Who says traditions can’t be new ones?”
Hope your day was wonderful.
Now go out and make some new traditions for us.
With love from the Ross/Tofias clan.
(Photo by ZT)
Posted in Memoir, pop culture
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The Whole Truth
IMPORTANT LETTER FROM ELBA ANNOUNCEMENT: I am taking this Thursday, Thanksgiving, off. My grandson Sam is coming to visit, and I’ll be busy discussing world events, the thrill of fast cars and the novels of Colette with him. So have a wonderful holiday with your loved ones and see you all again on Sunday, November 30th.
(Photograph courtesy of Natasha Tofias.)
Now because today is Sunday, I’d like to say good morning. And let’s talk about doughnuts.
Let me state for the record that I am not a doughnut expert. I’d say the honors have to go to Mike, my ski instructor husband. He loved them, and he tried to introduce me to as many of his favorites as possible wherever we found ourselves.
If we were on the east coast in upstate (WAY upstate) New York, bright and early on Sunday morning we’d go to The Donut Shop in Eagle Bay.
And then there was Hemstrought’s in New Hartford, New York. Although they are famous for inventing the black and white “half moon” cookies so beloved by New Yorkers, Mike was cuh-razy about their doughnuts.
Out west, whenever we drove the dogs from Aspen to Chicago, we would always make our first eastbound stop at the Morning Gold Bakery in Idaho Springs.
I liked all these places. But I wasn’t hooked, by any means. I just didn’t see what the big doughnut deal was.
And then one fateful Sunday morning in Denver, we went to…
OMG. One bite of their basic, simple glazed number and I was a goner.
Crack cocaine could not have been better than this.
Or more addictive.
And, like all junkies, I wanted everyone sharing the doughnut monkey on my back. That is why I sent anyone heading to Denver to two must-see places.
One is The Tattered Cover Book Store.
Great.
The other is Lamars.
Better.
See for yourself. I sent my Chicago buddy, Macario, there. This is what Macario sent me.
He is smiling because he’s on a Rocky Mountain sugar high. The doughnuts there are just sick.
Closer to home we have our very own version of Doughnut Hol(e)y Wars going on right on Damen Avenue.
That’s because California-based Stan’s opened up across the street from Glazed and Infused.
G. & I. is probably best known for their Maple Bacon Long John and Vanilla Crème Brûlée numbers.
(I’m kind of into their red velvet doughnut- too much cream cheese icing- but still, it’s pretty darn yummy.)
But give me their apple fritter any time.
Stan’s makes a mean chocolate and banana pocket doughnut and they make something called a Maple Caramel Pecan Bacon Bar that raised my cholesterol just by typing its name.
But their fritter is nothing to sneeze at. In fact, I think it gives Glazed and Infused a run for its apple cinnamon money.
(Although to be fair, G&I’s fritter is larger. Not always a good thing if you want to fit into your jeans.)
My gal pal Abbie is ALL about Glazed and Infused’s fritter. I vote for Stan’s. Things got so heated between us, as we vigorously debated the merits of our respective fritter choices, that my brother Kenny- no slouch in the doughnut department himself- had to step in and break the tie with…
Bob’s in Farmer’s Market.
He assured both of us that their apple fritter is the bomb.
‘Nuts Sidebar: Have you seen the prices at these two Chicago places? Ouch. If you have to ask, you can’t afford one.
But you can keep Dunkin’ Donuts and Amy Joy.
I’m bundled up and ready to head out in search of the world’s best glaze this side of the Rockies. I’m in a careless mood and ready to throw diet caution to the winds.
I bet you dollars to doughnuts you can guess where I’m heading.
Who wants to join me?
Posted in food, Memoir, pop culture
31 Comments