Letter From Elba

Woof

Posted on August 28, 2014 by Ellen Ross

This past Tuesday, August twenty-six, was National Dog Day. Yes, an entire day dedicated to celebrating the devotion between man and his best friend.

And coincidentally, (or maybe not) there was one of the world’s most famous celebrity canine BFF’s on the front page of last Sunday’s edition New York Times.

Lassie. In all his/her regal glory.

Gender bender sidebar: If you’re wondering why I used both pronouns, it’s because Lassie – though a female fictional dog character- has always been played by a male. Better coat.

Lassie rated the front page- albeit below the fold- because DreamWorks Animation, which gained control in 2012 of the diminished brand, has “unleashed” a comeback campaign to end all comebacks.

Lassie is about to become a merchandising mega-star.

All over again.

This comes as no surprise to me. I have loved him/her since 1954.

I remember being riveted to the tv set on Sunday nights. Lassie was on and nothing in heaven or earth could move me.

And when they held up a Lassie puppy and said you could win it if you just wrote in to the show…

I learned to write. I sent letter after letter in to the sponsors hoping to be the lucky new owner of an adorable collie puppy.

But it was no (flea) soap. And many long years before my dog-phobic mother would allow me a real dog of my very own.

After an eternity of waiting, Beau- a smart, handsome cream-colored miniature poodle- came into our lives during my seventh grade year.

But until then, I would have to content myself with pups of the video kind.

Lassie might have been the first tv dog I loved, but he/she was soon followed by Rin Tin Tin. I loved that regal guy. He was so smart and brave and athletic. I wanted to join B Company just to be near him.

Then there was Yukon King- another magnificent German Shepherd- on Sergeant Preston of the Yukon.

These two shows gave me a lifelong passion for German Shepherds.

And I finally fulfilled my childhood ambition when I bought Fritz and Onda, my two magnificent German Shepherds. (That wish took about forty years to fulfill- but that made it all the sweeter.)

Here’s Fritz.

After Rinty and King came Cleo of The People’s Choice. Cleo was a talking Bassett Hound, and if you’re not old enough to remember this show, some things just have to be seen to be believed.

(Maybe this is why later, after I had grown up, I also had two Bassets- Groucho and Bunny Berigan.)

Then there was Tramp, a mutt I think, from My Three Sons, and White Shadow, a white German Shepherd from Walt Disney’s Corky and White Shadow serial.

BONUS TRIVIA QUESTION: Who was White Shadow’s love interest on the show? (No fair, Rickey Freeman. I’ve asked you this one before.)

There was Asta, the wired-hair fox terrier on the tv version of The Thin Man. He competed for my affection with Peter Lawford. I was mad about both of them when I was a tot.

There was Pete- with the circle around his eye- from the Our Gang comedies.

And who could forget Neil, the ghostly St. Bernard with a taste for brandy on Topper?

I always loved Duke, the bloodhound, on The Beverly Hillbillies. (You could keep Ellie May and her “critters.” I wanted Duke.)

By the time Hart to Hart and Freeway hit the airwaves, I had been a seasoned dog owner.

But years later in Aspen, Robert Wagner and I had bonded over a meaningful moment at a party- we shared the same vet- and later on, he autographed his autobiography, Pieces Of My Heart this way:

“To Ellen and Fritz. With all my love and happiness. Always, Robert Wagner. You wonderful dog lover.

Sigh. I had fallen for handsome R.J. when I saw him in A Night To Remember and Stars and Stripes Forever. He was older now but still a heartbreaker.

And I have a terrific photograph of Nick- then fourteen- and Buck, the Briard, from Married… with Children. As a birthday treat, I had taken Nick on the set and he was grinning ear to ear as he posed with the canine of his tv dreams.

Sadly, for the first time in my adult life, I am dog-less. I’m just too busy at the moment to be owned by another dog.

But still I fight the urge every day not to rush out and get a puppy.

So for now, I’ve got to be happy with Eddie the Jack Russell Terrier from reruns of Frasier and memories of Black Tooth (“the sweetest dog in the United States”) and White Fang (“the meanest dog in the United States”) from the late, great Soupy Sales Show.

But there is always this.

Sending in suggestions to name Rusty’s pony will keep me busy for the next couple of days, I’m sure. I’ve just got to win that contest.

There’s still a Carson’s in Wilmette and a stuffed toy Collie dog with my name on it.

Fetch.

Posted in Dogs, pop culture, Television | 24 Comments

Ice Bucket

Posted on August 24, 2014 by Ellen Ross

I’m sure by now that all of you have heard of the “Ice Bucket Challenge.” It was started as a fund-raiser “dare” for ALS (Lou Gehrig’s) Disease and it has gone viral.

In case you missed it, the idea is you either write a check for one hundred dollars to the charity to help them find a cure for this terrible scourge- or you would get doused in a bucket of ice cold water.

And then you challenged more people to give or freeze within twenty-four hours.

Celebrities like Taylor Swift, Conan, Anna Wintour, Jimmy Fallon, Iggy Azalea, Lady Gaga, LeBron James and Justin Timberlake have all glommed on.

And I just saw former President George W. Bush and drippy Laura (pretend) to do it. He clumsily pretended that he was going to pony up and give a donation and she pretended to sneak up on him and let him have it with a bucket filled with freezing water.

Lame.

But some were cute- like Chris Pratt’s from Parks and Recreation. And some were clever- like Dave Grohl’s (of The Foo Fighters) tribute to Carrie. And some were self-deprecating- like Bill Gates’ nerdy drawing board endeavor.

One challenge, however, stands out for me. My heartthrob, Benedict Cumberbatch, really upped the ante here.

But it’s a great cause- even if some wooden ex POTUS’s and FLOTUS’s hoke it up. And the campaign has already raised more than thirty-one million dollars so far.

Click here to learn more.

Meanwhile, I had an ice bucket incident recently. A bone-chilling dowsing in the freezing cold water of reality.

I was idly speculating with a friend about the current state of my love life. Dreary though it is, I am ever hopeful that one day, I’ll meet a great guy who will love me- with all my flaws. And he’ll want to spend the rest of his life with me.

I like happy endings. Especially my own.

But my gal pal was of a different mindset.

Let’s eavesdrop on the conversation, shall we? And let’s call her Debbie.

Roll tape.

Me (with a sigh): Whenever I go for a walk in the park on Sundays, I see couples every where I look. Happy couples out together- with dogs and babies. It makes me feel so alone. Like one of those sad, bitter women in Jerry Maguire’s divorce support group. Sometimes, I think I’ll never find anyone again. And yet…you know, I can’t help hoping that things are going to turn out alright for me. I just can’t shake the feeling that I’m going to get married one last time and live happily ever after.

Debbie (deadly serious): Nope. No way. Never going to happen.

Me (startled): Really? Golly, I hope not. What makes you say that?

Debbie: Well, look. You’re OLD. Take Wanda, my dental hygienist, for instance. She’s thirty-seven and grateful to be finally dating a guy. She told me that he’s fifty-four. Now why would a guy that age take you out when he could date a thirty-seven year old? And look at your track record. You are the worst marital risk I know. Give it up, Ellen. Forget about it. You ain’t never going to find anyone crazy enough to take you on.

Me: Well, you’re right about the precedent. All the female movie stars who married a lot- Elizabeth Taylor, Lana Turner, Rita Hayworth, Ava Gardner- they all died alone. They kept discarding guys like kleenex and then one day, they woke up and found their looks gone and the men all dried up.

Debbie: See? That’s exactly what I mean. The statistics…

Me: But the statistics said that I never should have re-married after Bill and I did. I was old then and yet I still managed to do it. Twice.

Debbie (matter-of-factly): I’m sorry. You’re just going to have to face the facts. You’re through.

Me (plaintively): Oh, I don’t want to believe that. Alone for the rest of my life? That seems so harsh.

Debbie (firmly): The sooner you accept it the better. Get over yourself. You are destined for Stouffer’s frozen dinners for one. Forever. Buy a cat.

I went to bed that night feeling awfully gloomy. Would my side of the double bed be empty for eternity? This was just too sad for words.

But I woke up the next morning to this. Take a look.

Wasn’t that just fabulous? So heart-warming and wonderful. It lifted my spirits and restored my faith.

Here’s to love.

And please donate to ALS. Let’s finally find a cure.

(I told you I like happy endings.)

Posted in Dating, Divorce, pop culture | 20 Comments

Moby

Posted on August 21, 2014 by Ellen Ross

IN TOKEN
OF MY ADMIRATION FOR HIS GENIUS (at seafaring and tax returns)
THIS BLOG POST IS INSCRIBED TO
KEVIN GIBSON

Call me Schlemiel.

Some days ago- never mind how long precisely- having little or no money in my (Hermès) purse, and nothing particular to interest me on shore, I thought I would sail about a little and see the watery part of Catfish Lake.

Whenever I find myself growing grim about the mouth; whenever it is a damp, drizzly November (fourteenth) in my soul…I quietly take to ship.

If he but knew it, my brother Kenny some time or other, cherishes very nearly the same feelings towards the water with me.

And so it began. My year before the mast.

Ship’s Log: Day One.

The wind was lively after lunch and so it seemed like a perfect time to take out a sailboat. Kenny – who hereby shall be known as Queequeg- concurred. Even better, he reassured me that he hadn’t forgotten one ounce of sailing lore that he and his shipmate, Barry Feldman, practiced for many years as campers at Ojibwa.

Commodore Feldman

In a confident mood, I made my way to the waterfront to board our vessel. A mighty Sunfish. Unfortunately, it wasn’t rigged yet and noble Queequeg seemed a tad confused. Luckily for all, Luke, a young lad who works for Glen- the harbor master- knew what to do. In a few minutes, he had our watercraft shipshape and ready to launch.

“Ahoy, Schlemiel! I’ll shove off and you jump in the boat,” ordered Queequeg.

“Aye, aye, Cap’n Sir,” I saluted smartly. And I proceeded to stow myself.

“Not in the bottom of the boat, you landlubber. On the side like me, you scurvy dog,” he corrected.

I took my place on the other side of the boat and braced myself for the zephyrs to carry us speedily away to the far Isle of B.

But nothing happened.

We were becalmed. We just sat there.

“Avast, Cap’n Sir. Why aren’t we coming about or jibbing or tacking or moving or anything?” I queried the old salt.

“Pull up the centerboard, you loathsome wretch, and soon we shall be speeding toward Hispaniola.”

I did as he commanded but still our jaunty ship failed to stir.

“Excuse me, Cap’n Sir, but shouldn’t you be moving the boom around or emptying out the fo’c’sle or jettisoning the ballast or unfurling the spinnaker or something?”

“Huh?” replied the captain.

But suddenly Aeolus, Ruler of the Winds, took pity on us. And before you could say, “Pequod,” we were moving.

“This feels great, Cap’n Sir,” I cried. “How fast do you think we’re going?”

“Don’t bother me, you hawsehole. I’m trying to tiller here. And you can drop the centerboard now. Watch the boom, sailor! Heads up! Oops, sorry.”

I was still rubbing my head when suddenly we found ourselves speeding too near the shore for my liking. The weedy bank loomed ominously close. On the starboard side (or was it the port?) was a docked Chapparal speed boat- sleek and very handsome.

And then Queequeg- with his keen harpooner’s eye- spotted him. Lurking to the the right of the Chapparal.

A gigantic Muskie- silvery, and as large as a sea monster.

Menacing and fierce. A Methuselah of a fish. Really, really old. Really, really huge. And really, really dead.

And here was our gallant, little vessel drifting inexorably ever closer towards Scylla and Charybdis. The Chapparal and the rotting corpse of the muskie were drawing us in with the power of a giant magnet.

“Cap’n Sir. Shouldn’t we come about or lie to or belay or get the heck out of here? We’re going to collide with that guy’s boat or the dead fish any second!” I exclaimed.

“Be quiet, you foul drop of bilge water! I am about to execute an incredibly difficult maneuver to put us right. It’s extremely technical and it requires all my skill to get this galleon going again. Now watch and learn, you NUB.”

And with that, as I looked on in wonder, Queequeg jumped out of the boat and grabbing hold of the line, he schlepped our brave Sunfish away from the menacing shore.

I was agog in admiration.

And once away from the twin horrors, we picked up the Boreas again and quickly made our way to the far shore of Catfish Lake.

“How ever did you manage that, Cap’n, Sir? What was that called? Ow!”

My hero worship was interrupted because Queequeq, in his deft and energetic movements handling the sail, had just trod painfully on my big toe and knocked off part of my brand-new pedicure.

“Sailing is a dangerous game. Not for lily-livered pond scum like you,” he said as he ignored my cries of pain.

“Shouldn’t we signal S.O.S. or fly the ensign upside or something? I need to go below, Cap’n, Sir.”

“Remain at your post, you futtock. Or else you shall face a court martial.”

His threat silenced me. And though my toe throbbed painfully and I knew that Nguyen- my manicurist- would be mightily displeased, I manfully sailed on.

We had been out on our voyage for what seemed like years. I glanced at the sun and did some calculations with my sextant.

“Isn’t it getting time for Eliza to do the rock-climbing wall? You don’t want to miss that, Cap’n Sir.”

“Aye, matey, you’re right there. Time to put in.”

And he turned our brave schooner homeward.

Fortune and fair winds favored us. Except for the part where I had trouble wrestling the centerboard out, we made a graceful landing in port.

As I tripped and fell out of the boat, I, Schlemiel, gave humble thanks that I hadn’t had to float to safety on the Cabin 12 plaque.

The drama’s done.

FINIS.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Sailing, Sports | 34 Comments

Wendy

Posted on August 17, 2014 by Ellen Ross

I’ve just come back from Never Neverland. Otherwise known as “Post” at Camp Ojibwa in Eagle River, Wisconsin. (If you don’t know what I’m talking about, please take a moment and read this.)

The calendar might read August 2014, but up there it’s always summer and it’s always smack in the middle of childhood.

Here boys- and girls- never grow up. It’s an enchanted place where eagles fly to their nest, fish harken to a whistle and camp fires burn forever in the hearts of the young at heart.

It’s become an annual ritual for me and for so many of the Ojibwa families. Here at Post, it’s not what you’re doing- water skiing, sailing, fishing, playing tennis, hiking, biking, lazing away on the pontoon boat- it’s what you’re not doing that’s so important.

In Eagle River I never:

1. wear a watch.

2. worry

3. hurry

4. think

I go up with my brother Kenny. This is his forty-eighth consecutive summer there and so far, he’s still sixteen – and holding. Here’s Kenny.

(The night vision goggles belong to his granddaughter Eliza. Or so he says.)

This year I moved out of the Dads’ Lodge and into posh digs. My very own cozy, one bedroom apartment- complete with private bath en suite. Take a look at some vital camping equipment.

And here’s my fellow camper- rooming in the condo behind me. Her name is Daphne Kramer and I couldn’t have asked for a sweeter neighbor.

The weather is always perfect in Eagle River. Sunny, clear blue skies by day. Chill, crisp, “good sleeping” weather after dark.

And this year Mother Nature outdid herself. She thoughtfully provided all of us with the one rainy day. The damp leaves smelled exactly like the north woods of camp seasons long ago.

On that rainy Monday, Kenny and I took a break from the activities and went to the town of Minocqua. An adorable toy town with a beautiful water front about thirty minutes from Eagle River. As we drove there, Kenny laughed and reminisced about the Ar’Ber’s long-gone great hamburgers, Spang’s pizza and how awesome it tasted late at night, and the “kahula” typo on Mulgard’s Supper Club drinks menu.

He waved a salute to the cemetery- home now to Otto, legendary camp baker and good friend. And we took a little tour of the back roads and scenic byways.

At dusk one night I got a text inviting me to a singles’ cruise on Catfish Lake. It was so beautiful- a super moon over the horizon held us in thrall- that I wasn’t even miffed to find out that the only other singles aboard were Eliza age six, Susannah age four and Delia age one.

There are several ways to get to Eagle River from here. You can take 94 to 43 to 29 to 45 to Meta Lake Road to Camp Ojibwa Drive.

Or just think of lovely things and your heart will fly on wings.

Second on the right.

And straight on ’til morning.

With love from ER from ER.

Now here’s your map.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Sports | 25 Comments

Message From Elba

Posted on August 3, 2014 by Ellen Ross

VERY IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT: PLEASE PRESS PLAY.

Posted in pop culture | 29 Comments

Date Night

Posted on July 31, 2014 by Ellen Ross

The other night I went out on a date. It was a blind date. My first ever, I believe, in a long history of dating. But the guy came properly vetted by two friends that I trust, and so I thought, “What the hell? It’s only a dinner. How bad could it be?”

You be the judge.

Author’s Note: The following story is true. I did not make up or exaggerate anything.

Promptly at 7:30, he pulled outside my building- as we had pre-arranged.

Except that he didn’t pull into my driveway/cut-in that runs along side the entrance. He stopped his car in a “live” left hand turning lane and proceeded to get out of it to walk around and open the car door for me.

Now ordinarily, I’m all in favor of the Sir Walter Raleigh treatment. But his inability to follow simple instructions and pull his car into the driveway was causing complete chaos on Wellington. It was Saturday night and he was backing up traffic the whole city block.

Cars were honking and swerving because it was taking him awhile to go from his driver’s side around the front of the car to hand me in. Which I do not love.

Because he was slow.

Which I do not love.

Because he was old.

Which I really do not love.

This is not an anti-senior, ageism post. I have friends of ALL ages.

But when it comes to my love life, readers of this blog are well-acquainted with my little romantic quirk. I only date men who are younger than I am.

In fact, my next husband probably hasn’t even been born yet.

There are two reasons for this. First, all the great-looking, happy, funny, solvent guys my own age are married. (If they’re my age and they’re still single, there is something wrong with them.)

Second, ever since Bill, I avoid older men like the plague. They scare me, and I have never dated a guy my own age since. (Let Dr. Freud work that one out. I’m too busy going to raves, A.T.V.ing in Moab and skiing to worry about it.)

Any way, back to this old coot who got out of the car. To my horror, I took in a bad toupee- with an even worse dye job. Somewhere between Rupert Murdoch Red and Sumner Redstone Russet.

Working my way down, my glance took in the fact that he no longer had a neck. It had sunk out of sight between his shoulders. Gravity- or osteoporosis- had won that battle.

As I was forcing myself not to turn around and run back into my lobby, he was still wrestling with the car door. He couldn’t quite get it open. The word “frail” sadly leapt to mind.

But I promised myself that I would be a credit to the couple who had fixed me up. He was a friend of theirs and I wanted to behave like Jackie O. the entire evening.

I’ll skip over the fact that he got lost on the way to the restaurant. A 4.3 mile drive took him thirty minutes. Not to mention that he missed the entrance to their parking lot.

Twice.

I won’t discuss the dreary litany of the many diet do’s and don’ts he had to adhere to before he even opened the menu. For the record, I loathe that trait in a person.

TMI.

Order anything you want. Just don’t tell me that you’re a vegetarian and you “can’t eat white” and “your latest EEG was bad” and you “had a roller blade accident many years ago that put you in the hospital with a concussion and now you can’t smell anything,” and you “don’t drink,” and you “can’t have whole milk” and…

Shut up! Now I have lost my appetite.

He ordered the wrong thing.

Naturally.

And I had to come to his dinner rescue and change it with the waitress. Another thing I hate to do. I am not his mother. But if I had let his slip of the tongue go, and they had brought him the (meat-filled) ravioli he ordered instead of the (cheese-filled) sacchetti he meant to, the dish would have had to go back, and this dinner- which was already an eternity- would have taken even longer.

And here’s some sample dinner dialogue…

He: You write a what?

Me: A blog. I’m a humor columnist.

He: Well, I have to be honest. I read one story and I didn’t think that you were very funny.

Me: Really? Which one did you read?

He: The one where your father died.

Me: Yeah, you got me there. That wasn’t a real laugh riot, I must admit. But they are not all about that. Did you happen to read the one where they lost my dad’s body?

He: No. I didn’t read any more.

What a charmer.

There were complaints about eating in restaurants. (He didn’t think it was a good form of entertainment. He stays home a lot.) There was some kvetching because his grandchildren were growing up and weren’t that interested in him any more. There were the obligatory references to his late wife and gripes about tattoos. He asked me if I had any. (No.)

The restaurant was too noisy for him. And his incessant coughing, wheezing, throat-clearing and nose-blowing accompanied all of this carping. (The humidity level outside that night was a little too high for his incipient allergy problems.)

I will also tell you that it took him twenty minutes to pay the check.

Twenty minutes. I looked at my watch.

You see, he had this gift card, and since the bill was a whopping $45, he couldn’t quite figure out how to put it on the card, and/or put it on his Amex, or how much was left on the gift card, or how the tip wasn’t included on the gift card and maybe they should just charge that to his Am Ex, or maybe they should just put the whole thing on his Amex, and what was his balance on his gift card, or maybe..

I finally pulled out my wallet to throw down on the bill already.

And he dropped the check on the floor.

Just like your poor, befuddled, great-grandpa would do.

And just when I thought the evening couldn’t get any worse, he had to pull over in the parking lot because he was having chest pains and shortness of breath.

That’s when I stopped being Mr. Nice Guy.

“Look, are you having a heart attack or what? I don’t want to die here if you pass out behind the wheel.”

No, he assured me. It was just hard for him to breathe (as if that was reassuring) and that he would just take a pill and his airways would clear.

Sooner or later.

And then we drove home.

Locally. Down Clark Street. Because he doesn’t like to take the Outer Drive.

WTF?

We are not talking the Brickyard at Indy or Le Mans here. It’s Lake Shore friggin’ Drive.

But no, he took Clark Street through Wrigleyville on a hot summer Saturday night.

At nine miles an hour.

Muttering to himself, “Are my lights on? Are my lights on?” in a little chorus.

The honking, the guys leaning out of the cars screaming at him and giving him the finger the ENTIRE ride home, made for some real fine dating memories.

(Btw, I wanted to be in the cars with the guys who were hanging out of the window screaming at him. It looked like a lot more fun.)

Finally, we made it back to my house in one piece. I showed him how to put the car into the driveway and then he got out, wrestled with that pesky, heavy car door again and held out his hand to me.

I gave him my leftovers.

He staggered a little under the burden of the chicken piccata. But he righted himself gamely, and reached in and helped me out.

He leaned over to peck my cheek. I feinted. He missed.

“Good night,” he said, stifling a yawn. It was, after all, 11:00 pm. Way past lights out for him, I’m sure.

“Good night. Thank you,” I said politely.

And then I darted into the haven of my building.

The whole thing was quite a depressing experience. It wasn’t that he was so dilapidated.

It was that he was such a yutz.

But don’t feel too bad about the guy.

He will never read this.

He said he doesn’t “believe” in the Internet.

That’s ok.

I don’t “believe” in blind dates.

I know just how Bruce feels.

Posted in Dating, Memoir, pop culture | 60 Comments

Player

Posted on July 27, 2014 by Ellen Ross

In the New York Times Travel section recently, I came upon an article in “Heads Up/London.” The writer, Christine Ajudua, reported on the latest and largest project from Secret Cinema. This group puts on all-immersive audience participation experiences and their next production is a screening and recreation of the beloved movie Back To The Future.

Thirty years after this adorable time traveler hit the theaters, as of July 24, you too can visit California’s Hill Valley circa 1985.

Somewhere in modern day Merry Olde England.

Via a secret location, an elaborately-decorated set, a cast of clever improv actors, and unlimited imagination, you can actually become part of the movie. You can hang out with Marty McFly, foil bad boy Biff, go to the “Under The Sea” dance and maybe help Doc Brown install the flux capacitor.

Tickets starting at $90 were sold out in the first four hours.

This got me thinking. What classic movie would I pay to be in- and act out?

Some old favorites were eliminated right away.

Casablanca? Woody’s been there and done that.

Gone With The Wind? Sure, the first fifteen minutes. But after the Civil War is declared, I’m waving the white flag. (Not to mention having to confront the slavery issue. Too sad.)

Jaws? Oh, HELL no.

Hmmm. What about a visit to La Belle Epoque? Movies like Gigi and Cheri? Love the costumes, wouldn’t mind a trip to beautiful Paris, and the food at Maxim’s suits me down to the ground.

Some Like It Hot? The Roaring Twenties would be fun. My Man Godfrey? The Bullocks weathered the thirties in sumptuous Art Deco Style. Same for Swing Time, Top Hat, Shall We Dance, The Gay Divorcee, Topper, The Thin Man, The Lady Eve, The Palm Beach Story and Bringing Up Baby.

I would love to be plunged head first into the satin, slinky, cut-on-the-bias world of Carole Lombard, Fred Astaire, Cary Grant, Asta and Preston Sturges.

Just for the clothes and the penthouses alone.

But did I just want to wear satin, drink champagne, dance the Continental and trade bon mots with Eric Blore all day? I thought about it some more.

Nope, I decided. If I could be set down in just one film-as the heroine, of course- this would be it.

This is my movie. What’s yours?

Posted in Memoir, Movies, pop culture, Theater | 43 Comments

A Perfect 10

Posted on July 24, 2014 by Ellen Ross

I love manicures. They are my not-so-secret indulgence. And I have the world’s greatest manicurist.

Yes, yes, I know that every gal thinks that hers is the best. But mine, darling Nguyen, (pronounced “Win”) actually is.

Nguyen is Vietnamese. She is tiny, delicate, very soft-spoken and sweet. And she has the gentle touch of a butterfly as she goes about her business making my hands look swell. I never even feel her caressing touch.

And yet she is a stern perfectionist when it comes to her nail art. I watch as she carefully files or as she gives the tiniest of frowns when she detects a polish imperfection not visible to my naked eye.

Nguyen cares about her work. Her standards are strict and when she does say,”All done,” I leave the salon feeling no less than a beautifully-sculpted piece of precious Bonsai art.

And it is precisely because Nguyen cares so much that I leave all mani decisions in her clever hands. True, every once in awhile, I’ll require a certain color, but usually Opi’s Big Apple Red is my solid, go-to choice. (This summer I love “Gossip Girl” hot pink, too.)

Every now and again, however, I do like to mix it up. To show my support for the Denver Broncos in this year’s Superbowl, I sported a very jaunty orange.

A lot of good that did, btw. The Broncos got creamed. (Bruno Mars was terrific at half-time, though.)

But for the most part, I leave color selection up to Nguyen. She’s always excited to try out new ones, and I’m happy to (hand) model them for her.

I have fun with her choices. I never thought I’d sport sea foam green fingernails but it’s cool and I feel so with it.

But just to douse me in a bucket of cold, hard water reality, I found out just exactly how un-happening I really am.

A pretty young girl -mid twenties I should say- sat down next to me at last week’s appointment. And I overheard her to say to her manicurist, “Party nail, please.”

Her manicurist replied, “Okay. Ring finger?”

“Yes,” was the answer.

This cryptic conversation intrigued me. And I glanced over just in time to see her manicurist pull out two bottles of polish.

Now I was really fascinated. I had a glimmer of an idea about what was going on next door, but I had never heard the expression “party nail.”

“Excuse me but I couldn’t help overhearing. What is a ‘party nail?'” I asked.

The girl smiled at me- and my ignorance.

“It’s when you decorate one finger differently than the others. It’s fun.”

I felt as old as Methuselah. Here was cool nail art, and I had never even heard of it.

“That does sound fun. May I see the finished product?” I asked.

“Sure,” she smiled. “I’ll show you when I’m done.”

Wow! Party nail? How long had this phenomenon been going on?

Miami Vice Sidebar: Once upon a time, I had heard of a “coke nail.” In the early seventies, I had spent one winter in decadent Miami Beach. This was not my grandmother’s Miami Beach of the kitschy Deauville and Eden Roc Hotels. No, this was New Age Miami. All pink champagne and pink crystal rock cocaine.

Done quite openly at clubs and restaurants.

(And no, I didn’t do the coke. The only coke I do is Diet Coke.)

But this was a wild and crazy group, trust me. One of the guys had fathered an out-of-wedlock baby right before I got down there. Back in those days, this was a very big disgrace for all concerned. Today this same baby is a very successful Hollywood movie director. O tempora O mores.

Back in Chicago 2014…

When my neighbor’s mani was finished, she leaned over and showed me.

There it was- nine of her nails purple, and her ring finger nail all sparkly with twinkly silver polish.

It looked festive and celebratory. Just like it was supposed to. And I thought about it.

For one second.

Nah, I’m just too old to go to this party.

But maybe powder blue next time.

And guys, check out the manicure on this babe. Just a little reward for a trip to the nail salon.

Party on, people.

Posted in pop culture | 6 Comments

Hall Pass

Posted on July 20, 2014 by Ellen Ross

CAUTION: This blog post is rated “S” for Steamy.

I’m well aware of the fact that many of you read me in bed on your phones and tablets early in the morning. And I’m very grateful that you have made Letter From Elba an integral part of your twice-a-week a.m. routine.

And forgive me, ladies. I always joke that on Sunday and Thursday mornings, I’m in bed with half the good-looking men in Chicago.

So given that this is probably pillow talk, let me ask you a personal question. Come on. Cuddle up a little closer. Let me whisper in your ear.

You know what a “hall pass” is, right? It means the one person in the world- usually famous and glamorous and not in your car pool or bowling league- that you have long admired from afar. That “certain someone” who just does it for you.

And that you’d love to go to bed with.

(I know. That’s ending a sentence with a proposition. I mean a preposition.)

The tacit understanding being that, because of your historical preference for that person, coupled with the highly unlikely eventuality of you two ever meeting IRL, that your spouse would turn a just-this-once blind eye and not hold it against you alimony-wise in family court.

Okay. So who’s yours?

In case you’re hesitant, I’ll go first.

Easy. In a walkover, it’s Alain Fabien Maurice Marcel Delon.

No contest.

All-time, Hall of Fame, DROP DEAD GORGEOUS French actor. And major heartthrob.

Over the course of his film career Monsieur Delon has worked with the likes of such great directors as Visconti, Godard, Antonioni and Malle. He produced and co-starred in one of the biggest French box office hits of all time- Borsalino– with another hunk, Jean Paul Belmondo

Zut alors! Mon Dieu! (And in case you don’t speak, French: Ooh la la.)

And he’s not just a pretty face. I’ve seen him interviewed many times and he is smart, witty, charmant- and dangereux. Just how I like ’em.

Monsieur D. has also notched his bedpost with some of the most glamorous Grade A+ international movie beauties of all time.

Take a look at him with just one of my predecessors, s’il vous plait.

I’d like to think that she has kept the bed warm for moi. (Alain was often called “the male Brigitte Bardot, btw.)

This relationship was on screen.

Off screen, his love life is even more compliqué than mine.

The list of his romance partners would include Romy Schneider (so beautiful, so tragic) and actress Mireille Darc. During the Schneider liaison, he fathered a son during a flyer with German singer/model Nico.

He then broke off his engagement to Romy and married Nathalie Barthelemy- with whom he had another son.

Then years later, he married Dutch model Rosalie van Breeman and had two more kids with her. (Or he didn’t marry her. Wikipedia is très fuzzy on this relationship.)

He ended the relationship with Rosalie in 2002. He currently lives in Switzerland with his two youngest (beautiful) children- Anoushka and Alain-Fabien. Who, perhaps, need a step-mama who is très sympathique?

Now, that’s my “hall pass.”

Who is yours?

(And don’t be shy, ladies. You can answer this one, aussi.)

You can confide in me. I’ll never tell.

Cross mon coeur.

Posted in Memoir, Movies, pop culture | 30 Comments

Apt

Posted on July 17, 2014 by Ellen Ross

With summer finally upon us, I needed some air-conditioning in my new apartment. So naturally I called Abt.

(For all of you non-Chicagoans, Abt Electronics is a huge, family-owned, independent retailer of consumer electronics, major appliances and furniture. Founded in 1936 by Jewel and David Abt on $800, it now reigns supreme on thirty-seven acres out in Glenview. It’s got a sixty-five thousand square foot sales floor and eleven hundred employees.)

As Jackie Mason would say, Abt is not a business. It’s a gold mine.

I knew exactly what I wanted, and on the appointed day, two very nice guys with some very big boxes walked in. I showed them where to install the units (this is a vintage apartment building. Window units only. And that’s ok with me, btw. I am ALWAYS cold. I despise a.c. and only use it when the humidity threatens to turn my digs into a terrarium.)

Then I got out of their way. Or at least, I started to.

Before I could exit the premises, the younger of the two service repair guys said matter-of-factly, “My iPhone is dead. Do you have a charger?”

I was a little surprised.

It seemed a tad unprofessional- both the dead phone and the casual request for a jump start. But hey, I aim to please. And so I dug out another power cord and plugged it in for him in the kitchen.

By this time, the more senior of the two was hard at work. But he couldn’t find some important missing piece, and so he asked his helper to find it for him. It couldn’t be found.

Then the two of them then went out in the service hall to continue the hunt, and as they came back in, I heard the magic words, “In-N-Out Burger” cross Younger Serviceman Number 2’s lips.

I was riveted. What did a Chicago guy know about In-N-Out?

“Excuse me. I couldn’t help overhearing. Did you just say ‘In-N-Out Burger?'”

“Yeah,” he grinned. “I’m from LA and I love it.”

“Animal Style?”

“Yep. And Animal Style on the fries, too.”

“What’s that?” I queried.

“Onions and sauce on top and really well done,” he graciously filled me in.

Okay. I had just learned a helpful fry tip.

“Where do you stand on Apple Pan?” I wanted to check him out further- burger-wise.

“It’s my favorite. And their banana cream pie is the best!” he assured me.

We then exchanged photos on our phones of Apple Pan hamburgers. Mine being the classic. His- the hickoryburger.

“Where do you live in LA?” I now wanted to know. “My son lives there.”

“Where does he live?” the kid asked me.

“Right now he and his wife are in Studio City. But they lived in Palos Verdes and would love to go back there.”

“PV! I go to school there. Marymount College. Have you ever heard of it? This is just my summer job.”

“Oh sure. My daughter-in-law had a best friend who went there. I know exactly where it is. It’s gorgeous.”

By this time, as you can probably gather, Service Guy Number 1 had moved to the next unit. And I was getting nervous. Service Guy Number 2 hadn’t done a tap of work. I didn’t want to get him in trouble, but somehow he didn’t seem real worried.

Our talk then turned to pizza. Me- Gino’s, Due’s, Pizano’s. Him – Mozza in La, Pequod’s and Lou Malnati’s in Chicago.

For the pie record: LA pizza fails. I don’t care how much smoked salmon or sea urchin roe they put on it.

Then more hamburgers. Me- Superdawg and Beinlich’s. Him- Au Cheval.

Hold up!

Au Cheval?

No offense, but it’s hip, hard to get into and very happening. I can’t get a table any time I want.

I didn’t want to be a snob or a conclusion-jumper, but something was not making sense with this guy. Why would a kid from LA have a summer job in Chicago? And how did this blue collar gig pay for all these pricey eats?

But soon the talk turned to the music scene. Another favorite topic of mine. The Grammys? Cool. I’ve been. He’s been. The Coachella Music Festival? He told me that I would dig it. I bet I would.

Steak houses? No problem. Mastro’s (the one in LA that was formerly Chasen’s. MY all-time favorite restaurant. He’d been to both, too. Naturally.)

Gibson’s? Joe’s? He liked them both.

Then on to Aspen. He prefers to ski the Highlands. I ski Snowmass

Meanwhile, ALL the a.c. was now installed and the it was time for clean up.

I was sorry to see him go. I was really interested in getting his take on the Brooklyn hipster scene and his opinion on the pool at the Eden Roc. (The one in the south of France. Not Florida.)

“Thanks, guys,” I said. “You did a great job. Here. (proffering two ten dollar bills.) Go and buy yourself some beer.”

“Thanks, ma’am,” said Repair Man Number 1 graciously.

“Oh, thanks,” added his (non) helper.

“And you both did such a good job that I’m going to tell Bobby Apt. I’ve known him forever. He was my ex husband’s roommate at college, you know.”

“He’s my grandpa,” said Service Unrepair Guy 2.

Ah.

The light came on. All became crystal clear.

Now I got why a Cali kid had a summer job in Chicago. Why an overall-clad, table-hopping, non-installing, personable young man wasn’t afraid that he was going to get fired if he chatted up the lady of the house and never wielded a wrench.

And why he led a more jet set life than Charlotte Casiraghi.

I certainly hope he put my ten spot to good use towards his seafood tower at Gibson’s later.

And I’ve got my fingers crossed that he filled out a good service report about me.

Abt Service Report

Date of call: 7/7/14

Name of customer: Ellen Ross

Time of call: 2 hours

Service completed: Yes

Was customer prompt?: Yes

Did customer offer cold beverage?: Yes

Was customer courteous?: Yes

Was customer a good tipper?: Yes

Was customer a fair restaurant reviewer?: Yes

Would you recommend this customer to other repairmen in the area?: Yes

Overall Performance Rating on this customer: A

Btw, do you think the assistant needs an assistant?

I’m calling Bobby.

Posted in Memoir, pop culture, Restaurants | 14 Comments