Private Driver

Posted on December 12, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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Do you Uber?  And don’t you love it?  And if you haven’t Ubered lately, why haven’t you?

If you think I’m speaking in tongues, it probably means that you aren’t real dependent on taxi cabs- or any other form of public transport- to get you from Point A to B. But if you’re a city-dweller like me, (albeit the new kid in town) you gotta download this app and give Uber a ride.

Uber is the livery service for the iPhone generation.  Launched in San Francisco in 2009, it was the brain child of Travis Kalanick, an intrepid UCLA graduate and tech startup whiz kid.  He wanted to invent a better, more user-friendly cab company.

And he did.

Uber is now in more than fifty cities and twenty countries and here’s how it works. When you open the Uber app, you get four choices: Uber X ( more about that in a minute) Uber taxi, Uber black car (a limo) and Uber SUV.

You’ve already entered your credit card and home address info when you signed up.  All you have to do now is click on the what you need vehicle-wise to get you to the ball park, the airport, the luncheon, the restaurant, the movie theater, the doctor’s office (poor you) or any of the million city places to which you don’t want to drive- or they have no place to park when you get there.

(Or you’re too darn lazy to walk.  Or, in my case, if the weather is become less walk-friendly with each passing chilly day and long walks are impossible in the Jimmy Choos I put on my feet anyway.)

I always click on Uber X.  It’s a fleet of cars- not cabs- that are owned and operated by people- not cabbies.

They all have GPS, and an Uber meter.  They track you to your location-  pre-set by entering it in, or by moving a little pin icon if you don’t start at home and want a pickup anywhere else.

The moment you set your pickup location and click, they locate you by your smartphone’s GPS, text you a picture of the driver, his car description, license plate number, a way to contact him and an ETA.  (In my case, usually three minutes.  I must live in Uber Central.)

And then they text you the arrival countdown…three..two..one…Your Uber Has Arrived!

You can track them on the app in real time, too.  You can watch as a little car icon makes its way up a tiny street map to find you.   (This year, on Halloween, btw, the little car icon was adorably replaced by a witch’s broomstick.  Aww.)

No more standing on street corners desperately peering in the darkness to see if a cab is empty or not. No more taking your chances the next cab you hail will be driven by a moron- or a maniac.

Once I had one cab driver here who did nothing but apply hand lotion (and if it wasn’t hand lotion, please God, don’t ever tell me) to his hands and arms the ENTIRE time he drove me.  And he talked to himself as he did it.

The Silence of the Lambs’ Buffalo Bill lubricating his victim’s skin was only one of the horrible images that unwillingly leaped to mind before I jumped out of that ride from dark side.

And on the flip but-no-less-uncomfortable side, I had one limo driver who, upon depositing me safely back home from O’Hare, promptly turned around and said,”You very pretty lady.  How old and will you go out with me?”

(The answers were “None of your business” and “No.”)

But here’s the billion dollar Uber IPO pay-off.

They’re cheaper than conventional taxis because their fare is calculated on a mileage basis- not by time.  With Uber X, it still might be a pain in the ass to be caught in a traffic snarl-up, but at least it won’t be a pain in your wallet.

You’re also not paying for a taxi medallion or any of the other overhead big cab companies run up.  It’s just guys with their own Priuses and Civics who are driving for Uber as independent contractors.

And the second best part?  You never have to pay cash. The fare goes directly on the credit card you have pre-registered.

And the tip is included.  (Unless you choose the taxi option.  But I never do.)

For that reason alone, I am all about Uber.  I am so math-challenged that figuring out the tip always makes me hyperventilate.

And before you’ve even sashayed into your destination, your receipt is on the way to your email box.

And even if you don’t sashay- but merely walk confidently- your receipt is still there waiting for that next meeting in your accountant’s office.  (Who, if he’s anything like mine, will be thrilled that you have opted for a more economical mode of transportation.)

It wasn’t ever thus.  In New York City for instance, I have a driver, Bernardo, who makes my life in the Big Apple a better place to be.  (Thank you, Betsy.)

Bernardo and I have been through many adventures together.  Like the time when Nick- then probably eleven- wanted a Sabrett’s hot dog.

On a Sunday morning.

That doesn’t sound like much of a culinary challenge, does it?  But trust me.  New York’s antiquated blue laws still forbade the hot dog carts from making an appearance before noon anywhere in Manhattan.

But Nicky really wanted that hot dog, and Bernardo was determined to get it for him. Natasha, Nicky and I cruised around town for forty-five minutes and then, finally, on Wall Street, we spotted a lone, rogue Sabrett’s vendor brave enough to flaunt the law.

Nick got his Sunday morning dog.  Bernardo had saved the day.

He also would take me on outings and excursions when I had NO idea of where I was going.  Cabs in NYC can be a problem when you know where you’re headed.  I have had many a white knuckle, hair-raising ride at what-seemed-like-ninety miles an hour down Park Avenue at the hands of guys who spoke no English into their cell phones the entire trip.

So it was always a relief to get into a car with someone I liked and trusted as Bernardo and I would head into out-of-the-way boroughs and byways in search of another obscure art gallery or  teensy antiquarian book store I just had to scope out.

He’s the greatest and btw, my relationship with Bernardo has lasted through several husbands.  In fact, in 1996, he was at the “changing of the guard ” as he drove me back and forth from New York City to Highland Falls*** several times.

(***If you don’t know what’s happening in Highland Falls, google it.  That’s not a blog post.  That’s a book.  Or better yet, a movie.)

But I digress.  Simply put, I hate trying to hail a cab and I love summoning up Uber.

Every ride I’ve taken has been terrific.  Clean car, nice driver, no nonsense.  Done.

What could be better than that?

So if you live in a big city and you haven’t installed that app yet, do it now.  One night, as you’re standing on some wind-whipped city street corner freezing your behind off, you’ll be SO glad that you did.

The preceding message was NOT brought to you by your friends at Uber.

But one day Uber just might bring you …

Me.

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Posted in pop culture | 18 Comments

H

Posted on December 8, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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Author’s Note:  The following post contains absolutely NO redeeming social content of any kind.  In fact, it is reportage of an entirely shallow and shameful incident.  To that end, all of the names have been changed to protect the not-so-innocent.

(Except mine.  And Bill’s.)

For what turned out to be my very last birthday that I ever spent with my then-husband, Bill asked me what I wanted for a present.

That was easy.

An Hermès bag.

So he took a stroll over to their boutique on Oak Street and then strolled back.

Bagless.

“I couldn’t believe it,” he reported back to me. “They showed me a purse and said ‘$5000, please.'”  So I said, “There had better be $4000 in cash in there because, if not, I’m not paying that.”  ***

*** This incident happened in 1995.  You have to adjust the price for present value.

This made me laugh.  For two reasons.

First, this was so out of character for him.  Normally, Bill was a sport when it came to material things.  He seldom balked at an item merely because it was expensive.

And second, because it is the ONLY funny thing I can ever remember him saying in the twenty years of our marriage.  He was a lot of things- tall, handsome, a business whiz- but funny he wasn’t.

Hong Kong Sidebar:  That same birthday we took a long-scheduled trip to Hong Kong.  I had decided to go to say “thank you” in person to a very big “whale” who had more-than-generously donated to the St. George’s School fund.  (SG was my kids’ boarding school. and I was the parent representative that year)

Once there, it was like a state visit.  Every minute was chock full of fabulous agenda items.  We were wined and dined and fêted like honored dignitaries.

One of the events was a cocktail party gala given by and for…there is no other way to put this…very rich Hong Kong people.

To amuse them, the hosts had flown over from Paris an ENTIRE Hermès workroom.

The artisans and craftsmen set up a workshop right in the party and showed us all how to make an alligator bag- from the dying of the skin to the hand-riveting of the gold hardware to the finished product.

It was a cradle-to-grave enterprise. They did everything there except shoot that gator.

Bill was impressed.

“Now I know why that they wanted so much money for that thing,” he told me.

But he still never bought me that bag.  He ending up buying me one from Louis Vuitton- black leather without the LV logos all over it- that cost $1200.  I still use it.

But …fast forward a few years later, and I bought one myself.

And another.

And another.

And scarves, ties, clothing, jewelry, shawls, luggage, watches, scent.  Well, you get the million dollar picture.

J’adore Hermès.

Je suis folle.

And today, the bags and I are still going strong.  I trot them out all the time.  They’re so timeless that they never go out of fashion and they don’t scream “I’m a designer purse.”

They’re beautifully designed and artfully subtle.  You don’t know they’re by Hermès unless you know Hermès.  It’s like a little club.

Judgement Day Sidebar:  I can just hear the tongues clicking all over the place as I type this. And I know what you’re thinking.  “Shame on her!  What a waste of money!  How dare she?  How could she be so materialistic?”

Hey, didn’t I warn you that this post wasn’t going to be about Mother Teresa?  And let ye-who-have-never-wasted-good-money-on-something-dumb-but-ye-just-had-to-have-it cast the first stone.

Jump Cut to the other evening.

The Time: Eight p.m.

The Place: A chic Chicago holiday party

The Guest List:  People who can well afford Hermès anything

The Bag:  A chocolate brown leather sac with a regal, burnished gold “H” as its closure

The Incident:

So this old friend of mine,”Jonathan,” strolls up and sits down to talk about current events, politics, the Obama healthcare plan, the meaning of Life and is there a God?

(Nah.  He came over to shoot the bull.)

And he noticed my bag at once.

“Very nice, Ellen,” he complimented me.  “And I’m sure the ‘H’ stands for ‘Home Depot,’ right?”

We both laughed.

“You just gave yourself away, my friend,” I told him.  “I bet there’s not another man in this room who knows what the ‘H’ stands for.”

“No way.  You’re wrong.  Every guy in this room knows what it means.”

“Want to make a bet?” I said casually.

The gauntlet was tossed.

“Sure I do,” he responded gallantly.

“Okay.  You pick out ANY guy in this room.  Take a good look. Take your time.  And I bet you he will NEVER know where I bought this purse.”

It was game on.

My friend Jonathan surveyed the room and finally his gaze alit upon a likely candidate.

“Alright, I chose Larry.  He’ll know where you bought it.  I know he will.”

“Are you sure?” I said gleefully.  I knew I had this one won already.

“Yep, I’m sure.  His wife spends money.  He’ll know.”

“Okay, but you’re going to lose.  You’ll see.”

And so we made our way over to Larry and Jonathan said, “Ellen and I have a bet.  Can you tell me where she bought her purse?”

I dutifully showed it to him front and back like a “Price is Right” model.  He looked and looked and then said, “Nope. I have no idea where she got it.”

Ha!

And Jonathan, if you’re reading this (and I know that you are) you never asked me what I want for my winnings.

That’s a real no-brainer.

Just meet me at 25 East Oak Street.

One hint.

It ain’t Home Depot.

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I never promised you a rose garden

Posted on December 5, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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I got these crimson beauties a couple of weeks ago from my buddy, Kevin. Thanks, Big K. You really know how to spoil a girl.  And their intoxicating fragrance instantly triggered a memory of my own rose garden.  And so…

Back in late 1978 when we first saw our house-to-be in Winnetka, it was wintertime.  But no matter the weather.  For me it was love at first sight.  And luckily, the most important man in my life agreed.

No, not my husband.  Our designer, Bruce Gregga.

On his recon visit, he declared it a “mini mansion,” and assuaged my fears that the property was set way too close to a busy street for parental comfort.

“Lots of kids have been raised on Locust Road,” he soothingly reassured me.  “And grab that eagle console and the Regency settee in the hall that they’re selling, too.”

So we bought it all.

Thus in March of 1979, Bill, baby Natasha, Arno- our apricot standard poodle- and I moved in.

And in April came the thaw.

And a revelation.

In our back yard was a rose garden.

We hadn’t seen it under all the snow and it hadn’t been mentioned in the real estate listing, either.  But there it was.

One circular bed filled with hybrid teas.

I was enchanted.

And it hooked me on a passion and addiction to gardening in general and roses in particular, ever since.

I started out easy.  I quickly learned that you looked for the stem that had at least five leaves on it before you cut a rose.  (Any leaf count less means that stalk might never bud again.)

I learned that there were thousands of varieties of hybrid tea roses.  But the darker the color the stronger the scent.

I learned that the key item with good rose maintenance- beside bug vigilance- is DRAINAGE.  Roses do not like wet feet.

I learned the names of the roses in my garden- Mr. Lincoln, Chrysler Imperial, Lady X, to specify just a few.

And I learned that a rose is a flower that looks better (to my mind at least) when it’s planted in a vase rather than growing wild.

The moment I cut them and brought them inside, my roses went to work- adding sensuous beauty and fragrance to every room in my house that they graced.

But most importantly, I learned that along with the need to garden I needed to cultivate a close relationship with a good gardener.

Again Bruce Gregga- and the evil sway under which he held both of us- was responsible for this necessity.  I had thought that our beautifully-landscaped back yard- almost an acre of venerable old trees, charming flowers, verdant shrubs and well-manicured lawn- was stupendous.

But Bruce- with his keen decorator eye and a much fancier frame of reference- knew that it needed tweaking.

So he set about to do that just.  A blue stone chip driveway, seat walls and blue slate granite patios started to spring up.  And Arno needed a fence.  

The only kind Bruce would countenance was a black, almost-invisible chain link kind- with a gorgeous black wrought iron gate.

The Price is Right Sidebar: I remember Bill calling me for the estimate on that fence.

“How much?” he wearily asked.  (Bruce’s improvements were fabulous, true, but so astronomical in price that Bill had become shell-shocked.)

“Umm, TruLink said forty-six,” I informed him.

“FORTY-SIX THOUSAND DOLLARS FOR A FENCE!??!! I WONT PAY IT!” he screamed.

“No, forty-six hundred,” I reassured him.

But that was on me.  I should have been careful to clarify because, by now, Bill had been conditioned to only think in BG thousands.

Anyway, after the hardscaping came the new “green” plan.  Enter John and Frank Mariani, of Mariani Landscaping.

Mariani is an old-line- like fourth generation- landscaping company in Lake Bluff.  They are terrific.  Pricey but worth it.  And so booked up that new clients like the Ross family never had a prayer of getting them to come out to do the lawn and gussy up the rest of the joint on Fridays.  There was too much competition for that slot from all their other clients of much longer-standing who wanted to show their houses off at weekend parties.

I think the best we could get was Wednesdays.

John drew up a marvelous scheme- with yummy things like ornamental Bradford pear trees, boxwood, (I am crazy for boxwood) beautiful ground cover, an all-white garden, and another circular bed of hybrid teas to give symmetry- a Bruce Gregga must- to the one we already had.

This Capability Brown-like endeavor cost the earth and took forever.  But patience is a gardener’s best friend.  And Mother Nature, Father Time, and Banker Bill all worked in harmony to create a lush, tranquil oasis of calm, color, shade and scent.

(While all this outdoor work was going on, Bruce hadn’t neglected the inside of the house. That was undergoing a major facelift, too.)

Finally- after many years- the whole project was coming together.  The new gardens had been finished, the new kitchen wing done.  (Well, 99% done.  There was still a short punch list of minor additions and corrections for the contractor to finish up.)

And now, all that was needed was a final coat of new white paint and for that I turned to Frank Mariani again.  He had the guy who could do the job.

On Frank’s recommendation we hired him.

So this guy and his crew showed up and started torching off the old layers of paint that had accrued on the exterior over the last twenty years.

And they set the house on fire.

The fire took out the roof and my brand-new kitchen wing- right down to the punch list.

My head is in my hands even now.  You’ll have to forgive me if I can’t go into details.  I simply can’t relive the nightmare.

Frank had gotten called by one of the guys at the scene and he stood with me as we both watched in horror as my lovely dream house turned into a blazing inferno.

After we moved back in (five months later) he called me.

“Ellen, I feel just awful,” he started.

“It wasn’t your fault, Frank.  Don’t worry about it.  You didn’t set it,” I reassured him.  True enough, after all.

“Well, you’ve been such a good sport about all this that I’d like to make it up to you.”

Needless to say we got Mariani to do the landscaping on Fridays from then on.

Every cloud of smoke has a lawn-green lining.

So remember to make a little time to stop and smell the roses- wherever and whenever you can find them.

(And send some my way.)

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Posted in gardening, Memoir | 6 Comments

Darn it

Posted on December 1, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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Congratulate me, guys.  I just got finished darning a sock.  It was cashmere and I loved it and I couldn’t bear to throw it out.  I felt just like Meg from Little Women.  (No, I didn’t have a darning egg but I used a Limoges oval-shaped snuff box instead.  It worked great.)

This is truly blog-worthy, because, trust me.  The odds on this happening were slim to none.

I am the most UN-domesticated creature on the face of this planet.  (I am including all you men readers in this statement, too.)  I loathe and abominate ANY form of domestic arts and I stink at all of them- in spades.

(Except cooking.  I do love to do that.  Yes, I know my way around a kitchen- but that’s where it begins and ends for me.)

I have never had any interest in cleaning or OMG ironing- 0r folding for that matter- or dusting or mopping or sweeping or vacuuming.  Boredom- combined with terminal klutziness- sets in, my eyes glaze over, my attention wanders and I immediately halt any household task that I even thought about doing.

Luckily for me there’s always been someone around who actually likes this kind of mind-numbing drudgery.  A great housekeeper or a multi-talented husband whose mother raised him right.

But most of all I hate sewing.  This phobia goes all the way back to my Girl Scout days.

I was a member of Wilmette, Illinois Troop 110.  I was there, btw, under the deepest of protests.  When Avoca School started this scout thing in my third grade year, I wanted to join the Cub Scouts.  That’s where all my real friends were.

But no.  Title Nine hadn’t even been dreamt of and so the sexist powers-that-were press-ganged me into the Brownies.  I hated the dung-brown dopey uniform, I hated the name and I hated the dumb things we were supposed to do after school.

This enmity didn’t die when I “flew up” to the Girl Scouts, either.  My troop leader was Mrs. Redlich, Cathy’s mother.  (Help me out, Ellen Kander. Who was her assistant?  Mrs. Rasmussen?  Your mother?)  She was very sweet and I liked her.  ***

*** Instant Update:  Ellen Kander just emailed me and said our assistant troop leader was Mrs. Cooper, Marilyn’s mother.  Bless you, neighbor!  It was driving me nuts.

But all my close gal pals were in Troop 111.  (I think we had been divided geographically or something.)  And I had gotten gerrymandered right into cookie-pushing Hell.

Round the Old Campfire Recipe Sidebar: We learned how to cook s’mores.  (Yuck.  Just the sickeningly-sweet memory sets my teeth on edge.  But I did love a nice char on my marshmallow and the graham cracker.  You could keep that Hershey chocolate glop in the middle.

And we also mastered a camp-fire cuisine called “Hobo Stew.”  You would dump some Campbell’s vegetable soup, ground burger and some catsup and mustard into an aluminum packet, toss the thing into the camp fire and sing jolly Girl Scout songs as the slumgullion of a mess cooked merrily away.  Roll back the tinfoil and serve.)

But I hated to sew even then and the very first badge the troop went for was…

The Sewing Badge.

To earn this, every scout in Troop 110 had to make a dress for a Barbie doll.  Surprisingly enough, I did have a Barbie Doll.  The very first that came out.  She had a striped bathing suit, I bought her one outfit that had a hoodie and then I lost interest in her.  I’m much more a “Steiff” kind of gal.

I had no aptitude or desire in sewing this thing but every girl had to make this doll dress or the whole troop wouldn’t be awarded its badge.  The pressure was on.

I gave it some thought.  I gave it a lot of thought.  And then I knew what I had to do.

I took some fabric and cut two holes in a square.  Then I cut off a small strip of the same cloth.  This was the tie for the blouse I had just designed for Barbie.

Then I cut out a circle of the same fabric and another thin strip.  Voilà!  Now she had a skirt.

It didn’t look half bad, and proudly I presented my doll to our fearless leader.

Mrs. Redlich blanched.  She didn’t quite know what to do.  After all, I hadn’t sewn one single, solitary thing on that dress.  She just couldn’t decide if it met any specifications outlined in the GSA handbook.

Our two scout leaders conferred and cool heads prevailed.  My Norma Kamali-like achievement was taken downtown to the Juliette Low Board for the local GSA mavens to assess it and decide if our troop was indeed badge-worthy.

And the whole troop held its collective breath while we waited and waited for the Board to decide my/its fate.

And then the decision came down from Low.

In their infinite wisdom they decided that if I sewed a snap or a button hook and eye anywhere on this shanda, I would have fulfilled the minimum requirement and thus the troop could get the sewing badge.

All eyes were on me as the troop urged me on.

“You can do it, Ellen!” they cheered.  “Just sew a snap for pete’s sake.”

It took forever but I did it.

And Troop 110 got its badge.

I vowed never to do anything that terrifying again.

And I haven’t.  Until today.

And that reminds me…

“Make new friends but keep the old

One is silver and the other gold.”

To all my silver and gold friends I wish you a very happy holiday season.

And remember.

Be a good scout.

Now where did I put that embroidery hoop…

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Over the river and through the woods

Posted on November 28, 2013 by Ellen Ross

First, dear friends, let me wish you a very happy, healthy Letter From Elba holiday.  I hope you’re surrounded by loved ones- and a great turkey.  And now a Thanksgiving memory of many years ago…

“Over the river and through the woods to Grandmother’s house we go…”

We sang that song in the third grade and it still brings to mind wonderful Currier and Ives prints of sleighs, snow, and rosy-cheeked Granny bringing in a succulent golden brown turkey to the approbation of her smiling, WASPY New England family.

Ah, Thanksgiving.  Because it’s my favorite holiday of all, I always like to get as close to that dreamscape of the holiday ideal whenever possible.  But for many years, my folks spent their winters out of the Chicago cold and out of town. So when the kids were small, we took them to Grandma’s other house.

A very American celebration was at hand- but I’m not sure that you can make a Currier and Ives print out of it.

Here’s how it went…

Early in the morning we bundle the kids up and have the sleigh merrily dash us to O’Hare Airport.  The pilot knows the way to Grandmother’s house.  No, it’s not in Massachusetts- or any other spiritual home of Thanksgiving celebrations of yore.

This plane touches down at McCarran International Airport, Las Vegas, Nevada.

Ah, can you feel the bracing fall nip in the air?  (It’s 78 degrees at eleven a.m.)  Breathe deeply.  Really fill those lungs.  Is that the cleansing scent of pine woods I smell?  (No, it’s Tropic Tan suntan lotion.)

And wait!  Is that Grandmother’s cap I spy?

No.  Moo Moo- as she was indelibly dubbed by her first grandchild, Natasha- is at her usual morning poker game at the Golden Nugget. We’ll see her later- probably.

The Ross family is whisked to our home-away-from-home by a taxi -that festively displays a sign reminding all passengers that there is a $20 penalty if they throw up in the cab.

And we now check into our holiday digs- a quaint and cozy New England inn with a thousand rooms.

Santa’s helpers- cleverly clad as bellmen- aid us along our merry way.  We love that our rooms are festooned with such quaint Pilgrim touches as giant jacuzzis in the bedrooms and mirrors on the ceilings.

How Captain John Smith would have felt at home.

Grandmother and Grandfather live in the same apartment complex as Moe Dalitz- famous bootlegger/racketeer, now turned casino owner/philanthropist- so Grandfather has carefully checked underneath his Cadillac Seville for car bombs using a broom handle with a mirror stuck to it.  Now he can drive over to the inn to welcome us.

He can’t wait to see us.  (Grandfather.  Not Moe.)  And he couldn’t get a golf game this morning. (Grandfather. Not Moe.)

But he is happy, and as he hugs us, he tells us that Moo Moo is playing “Pan” at the Desert Inn.  We will see her later- probably.

We’ve already unpacked and now it’s time to venture forth and explore the winter wonderland that is the casino.

You can just feel the holiday magic all around you as men are swearing and smoking cigars.  Tired-looking bottle blondes are pushing 7 and 7’s on everyone in sight. And instead of stuffing turkeys, little old ladies are feverishly feeding their slot machines.

The craps tables are laden with turkeys and hams, too- of the human variety.

The casino is brightly decorated with joyous signs of the holiday season.  As the Keno board lights up and reminds you to “place your bets with the Keno Girl,” it says “Happy Thanksgiving.”

And when the neon ticker flashes the winners of the dog races in Miami, it pictures an illuminated roasted turkey, as well.

Nothing says “Thanksgiving” as much as a neon turkey.

The noise is deafening, the lights are blinding, but somewhere in the distance, bells are ringing.  Could that be Santa’s reindeer I hear?

Nope, some lucky bastard  has just hit the Big Bertha Jackpot.  My nine year old, Nicky, is enchanted with this charming holiday scene. He thinks that he is in a giant Nintendo game and he’s mesmerized.

We spend the rest of the afternoon watching from a distance as dear Dad plays craps.  I explain the fundamentals of blackjack to eleven-year-old Natasha and listen to the nine year old crying and begging when he realizes that he can not play roulette- no matter how surefire his system.

(Btw, the nine year old is not the only person heard crying and begging in the casino.  It’s all so darn holiday festive.)

Grandfather leaves us now with a kiss- and a reminder that our traditional family Thanksgiving dinner is all set for six o’clock.  Promptly at six o’clock we all reconvene at the most New England spot in town- Château Vegas.

Our maitre d’, captain, and waiter- Vinnie, Vito and Guido- certainly look authentic and “Chistmassy” in their dingy black tuxedos and grimy, red cummerbunds.

Service is a bit slow tonight- this being a big holiday and all- and the wait for our table is interminable.  And when we are finally seated, they have run out of turkey and we have to settle for calamari instead.

And even though our Coke glasses have cigarette butts floating in them, and Nicky won’t touch the calamari and wants a cheeseburger, who’s complaining?  We’re a family, right? We’re all together on this wonderful occasion, right?

And as Grandfather happily pays the incorrectly-added-up bill, we all give thanks that we can celebrate together. He also explains that Moo Moo is now playing Texas Hold ’em at the Flamingo.  We will see her tomorrow- probably.

Next morning we’re all awake bright and early.

The time change has goofed up the kids, but that’s the great thing about holiday vacations in Vegas.  We can all go to Circus Circus and play arcade games.

Who cares if it’s only seven a.m.?  C.C. is open twenty-four seven.  That’s the beauty part.

Look, any family can toss a football around in the backyard as they get ready to watch bowl games.  The Ross clan is now shooting water from a giant gun into a clown’s mouth. We also knock over bottles, flip stuffed frogs into garbage cans and waste hundreds of dollars in quarters.

My children feel that it was a day gloriously spent- and want to relive it every year from now on.

At dinner the kids regale their grandfather with adorable tales of their fascinating and educational day.

Nicky tells Grandfather that his breakfast Keno card had ten winning numbers on it!  And Natasha is all wide-eyed with wonder at the sight of hundreds of pan handlers lining Las Vegas Boulevard.

This is so special.

And even Grandfather gets an extra holiday treat.

All our traditional Thanksgiving steaks and shrimp cocktails have been comped by Management.  Our dinner is “on the pencil,” and he doesn’t have to pay.  Ho ho ho!

Grandfather now tells us that now Moo Moo is playing Five Card Stud at the Stardust. We’ll see her later- probably.

And before you can say “Craps,” it’s time to go back home.

We all pack up- weary but warm with the memories of good food, good fun and good feelings.  We kiss Grandfather good bye and he tells us that Moo Moo is now playing Red Dog at the MGM Grand.

We’ll see her next Thanksgiving.

Probably.

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Who Loves You?

Posted on November 24, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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Do you know that great Four Seasons song “Who Loves you?”?  I’ve got it playing on my iPad right now.  I’m crazy about this mini-symphony.  In four short minutes it limns out my definition of love.

At least the way I understand it now, anyway.

I’ve been thinking a lot about love lately.  In all its forms.

Past, present and hopefully, future.

When I was in high school I liked it when I was the love object.  It was cool- and powerful- to have boys at my feet begging for dates, kisses, other more advanced sexual favors, and time just spent in my company.

I didn’t necessarily love them back.  Or even like them in some cases.

In fact, immature as I was at fifteen or sixteen, I kind of sneered at them.  How good could they be, I thought?  I’m not so hot, and if they were willing to jump through hoops, well, what did it say about them?  It diminished their coinage in my juvenile mindset.

But all these declarations of undying love and devotion did give me the upper hand- at least temporarily.  And I loved that position.  Inviolable, untouched by messy human emotion.  Couldn’t be hurt.

Safe.

And I repeated this pattern over and over again.  It was familiar and it brought certain rewards.

But it wasn’t much fun.  And emotionally it left me bereft.

I was a selfish bitch through most of my “belle of the ball” years.  Unrepentant and unremorseful.

And unhappy.

I don’t know when the switch was flipped.  Maybe when I had my kids.  I started to find out that it truly was more blessed to give than to receive.  My kids’ agenda always came first.  Period.

And my definition of love changed.  It became all about doing unto others.  Not what was in it for me.

From the time Natasha let out her first wail, I was there ready, willing (but not always able) to comfort, nurture, encourage and cheer her on.

Same thing with Nick.  Whatever the kids wanted I’d try to get for them. (I’m not talking about material things here.  If I was, Nick would have been the only eight year old with his own Porsche and that jet fighter they flew in Top Gun.)

My needs didn’t even make it onto the radar screen.  I just wanted whatever they wanted.

And if our hearts desires conflicted, well it was too darn bad for me.  The kids weren’t here to act out my agenda or unfinished Life business.  I felt that I was put in the role of “Mom” (or “Dude” in Nick’s case) to find their way and help them live up to their own private promise.

I’d like to think I’ve done this.  But it’s been at a real cost to myself.

No, I don’t love the fact that Natasha lives in Boston.  Just 2.5 miles from her in-laws house- as she was at  great pains to tell me.  (Therein beats the cold heart of an actuary. She had to put in that “.5 miles” bit.)

I don’t get out East too often and if/when there are grandchildren, I’m resigned to the fact that I won’t get to see them much.  (And vice versa.  Instead of “Granny,” they’ll probably call me “Mrs. Ross.”)

But Natasha was born a Boston schoolteacher- despite her 60093 zip code- and I facilitated her finding her way back “home.”

And Nick?  With his wife in Los Angeles and his heart in Colorado, who knows how much longer he’ll hang around here?  I’m living on borrowed time where he’s concerned, too.

But don’t get me wrong.  I’m not a martyr.  I found out one more important thing about love as I’ve aged and mellowed.

The French have a wise proverb: Il y en a toujours l’un qui baise et l’autre qui tourne la joue.  (Translation: In love there is always one who kisses and one who offers the cheek.) And the French also know that it’s way more fun to be the lover than the beloved.

It’s heady and intoxicating to just let yourself go and make a fool of yourself.  And yes, it can hurt like hell when you’ve been rebuffed or dumped or passed over for another candidate in the passion stakes.

But it sure beats feeling empty.

So let me just say to my future leading man I’m here if you need me.

Who loves you, pretty baby?

Who’s going to help you through the night?

Me, baby.

That’s who.

Now take it away, Frankie!

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For Joe

Posted on November 21, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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Snowmass Mountain opens for skiing and snowboarding season this Saturday.  I was checking out my gear (making sure my ski pants still fit) in anticipation of a great season when my son Nick called me.

“I just got some terrible news,” he told me.

My heart stopped.

“My buddy, Joe was killed in an avalanche in Loveland Pass this April.  I didn’t know.  No one told me.”

“Oh, Nick, I’m so sorry.  That’s awful.  How did you find out?”

“I had emailed him in April and he never got back to me.  I didn’t think anything of it but with the mountain opening again, I wanted to touch base with him.  You know, Joe and I always did a trip to ride the back country every year.  Jackson Hole, Silverton, you remember.  And it was so great.  I didn’t hear anything back again and that was strange. So I googled him and saw it.”

I could tell that he was deeply shaken.  Sudden death is always shocking and Nick was stunned.

Joe Timlin was thirty-two years old when he died.

He left behind  his parents, Michael and Joy, two siblings, Chris and Kelly and his wife, Krissy.

And hundreds of friends.

He was a great guy, an intrepid snowboarder and he really knew his way around a mountain.  He and Nick had spent countless days riding uncharted terrain.  He wasn’t careless, reckless or fool-hardy.  It just happened.

Joe was killed- along with four other young men- in the worst avalanche disaster since 1962. According to the Colorado Avalanche Information report, the crown face of the slide was 500 feet wide and four feet deep.  All the men were wearing avalanche beacons. It didn’t matter.

One guy survived and called for help. That’s the only way their poor bodies were discovered.

My heart goes out to my son- and everyone who knew and loved Joe.

He was the Rocky Mountain rep for several snowboard companies and so this was his life’s work- as well as his life’s passion.  He died doing what he loved.

Out in Colorado we always say that when something like this happens.

Chip Johnson, my good friend from Aspen Sports, was killed in 2000 in a back-of-Ajax avalanche one beautiful day.  I saw him right before he headed out.

“Where are you going?” I asked him as I saw him loading his skis into his car.

“Going to the back of Aspen.  I hear the snow’s good there,” he said.  He smiled and he was gone.

He was thirty-seven.

My dear friend Weems Westfeldt lost his beautiful son, Wallace, in 2008.  He was killed in a snowboarding accident in the Tonar Bowl near Aspen Highlands.

Wallace was twenty-two years old.

You probably didn’t know any of these wonderful guys.  But you might have known someone special who died way too soon.

For them- and for us- I now turn to Robert Frost for help.

“Nature’s first green is gold,

Her hardest hue to hold.

Her early leaf’s a flower,

But only so an hour.

Then leaf subsides to leaf,

So Eden sank to grief,

So dawn goes down to day,

Nothing gold can stay.”

Take a run for Joe, Chip and Wallace this season, guys.

They were golden.

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The G Spot

Posted on November 17, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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I haven’t written a movie review urging you all to see a new flick since Daniel Day-Lewis’s tour de force in Lincoln but I had to hit the computer to tell you about the space walk I just took with Sandra Bullock and George Clooney in Gravity.

To get me in the proper NASA frame of mind, I just fished out my program from the AFI 1983 film debut of the The Right Stuff.

I was at the Chicago premiere because, not only do I dig outer space movies, I helped dig at the groundbreaking for the Henry Crown Space Center here at the Museum of Science and Industry. (They gave us mini shovels and scarves as souvenirs of that day.  It was COLD.)

The movie was terrific, the party afterward was extra-terrestrial, and the coolest thing? Buzz Aldrin signed my program.  Yep, Edwin Eugene Aldrin- in 1969, the second guy to walk on the moon.

(In 2002 Buzz also had the distinction of punching out a jerk who had lured him to the Beverly Hills Hotel on an interview pretext.  This moron- a conspiracy theory nut- wanted him to swear on the Bible that the moon landings were not faked.

Buzz clocked him.  Nice.)

And I just looked over at a battle jacket I own. It’s covered in patches that men who have served in the armed forces have bestowed upon me over the years.  Two of those patches now marched forward front and center.

Both were given to me by astronaut John Grunsfeld.

The first one says “Astro 2,” and it commemorates the 1995 sixteen day mission when the NASA crew conducted round-the-clock observations and collected data on ultra violet light given off by hot stars and distant galaxies.  (How Star Trek is that!?!)

My second patch bears the words “STS-81.”  This patch marked the 1997 space shuttle Atlantis’s ten day mission to dock with the Russian Mir shuttle.  John was the flight engineer of that crew.

(As a prank, John called NPR’s “Car Talk” and described a problem he was having with his “vehicle.” The experts were baffled- and then relieved- to find out that the “vehicle” in question was the space shuttle.)

Ok, I was now in the proper AOK mindset to write about this movie.

It was out-of-this-universe awesome.

And it restored my faith in going to the movie theater and actually forking over hard-earned cash.  Nowadays, I watch practically everything on my iPad on my own timetable and it takes a serious leap of faith to get me to an actual movie theater.  (Or Anchorman 2.  I will see that when it comes out.)

Alfonso Cuarón, the director and co-screenwriter, has used every tool in his talented box to come up with a breathtaking, thought-provoking, uplifting, stunningly beautiful and empowering movie.

No spoiler alerts here.  I don’t want to say too much about the film itself.  But it’s not about outer space.

It’s about the inner space between our ears.

My takeaway was that even though Life can be arbitrary, unfair, uncaring, cruel, stupendous, glorious, random and inexplicable, it’s up to us as individuals to fight for it.

Sure, we need all the help we can get from friends, family and Mission Control.  (Fill in your personal blank here.  This could be God or Karma or Fate -whatever you believe.)

But in the end, we all wage the twin battles for survival and existential meaning alone.

Scary, isn’t it?

And the hero of this movie?

A woman- played with the charm and vulnerability by the adorable Sandra Bullock. Sandy’s Our Girl In Space, and we worry and wince and cheer her on as each new threatening piece of jagged metal cosmic junk comes hurtling at her.

3D Glasses Sidebar:  I did NOT see Gravity in three D.  That experience gives me vertigo, so no thank you.  One D suited me to a one T.

I urge you all to see this film.  And be sure and take the youngest daughter, granddaughter, niece or goddaughter you can (it’s rated PG-13) with you.

Every girl should see this movie when she is at an impressionable age,

Including this girl.

Copy that.

I hope you’re out there, guys.  And listening.

Is anybody listening?

Okay, Houston.

Roger that.

We have contact.

Mission accomplished.

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Posted in Movies, pop culture | 9 Comments

The Awful Truth

Posted on November 14, 2013 by Ellen Ross

Letter From Elba Announcement:  I hereby now declare the winner of last week’s “Fill in the Blank” Contest to be my friend, Joan, AKA “The Optimizer.”  (If you haven’t had the pleasure of her company, please read Sui Generis.)

It wasn’t that I didn’t love all your answers- whether by comment or email.  It’s just that she is a force to be reckoned with.  And she used the carrot/stick method on me.

The carrot?  She’s coming over today and redoing all my lingerie drawers.  (They will look so unbelievable that I am drooling in anticipation.)  The stick?  She declared herself the winner- and who am I to argue?

This is Chicago, guys.  Did you expect a fair contest?  Grow up.

Back to today’s program…

Thirty-eight years ago right now -on November 24, 1975- my new boyfriend Bill told me that he loved me.  We had been dating exactly eight days.

On the night he first said it, I had already pre-determined that it was to be our last date.

Not that I didn’t like him, mind you.  I did.

But I was broke and clothes-less- courtesy of an unscrupulous current Baltimore husband- and in our whirlwind week of marathon dating, Bill had seen my entire date-worthy wardrobe.

Best-Dressed List Sidebar: This was a guy who always looked like he had just stepped off the pages of GQ. In fact, when I opened the door to him on our very first date, he was so gorgeously turned out that I quickly shut the door in his face. He had to knock all over again as I decided if I should let him in.

And because Bill always looked better than me, I had decided that the time had come to end our affiliation. But when we met up that would-be final evening and gazed into each others’ eyes, we simultaneously said, “I have something to tell you.”

“You first,” I said- ever the gentleman.

“I think I love you,” he said.

That was a surprise.

Hmm.  Plan B.  I thought.  No reason to break up with this dreamboat now.  If he loved me…well, anything was possible.

He continued.  “Yes, I think I love you but I need to date others.  I haven’t been a bachelor very long.  (He had dumped his mistress of long-standing only a month earlier.) I’m not ready to settle down yet.”

Okay by me.

The next night Bill amended his amendment.

“I love you and I don’t need to date others any more.”

Okay by me.

And the next night…

“I love you and I think we should get married in a year.”

Okay by me.  I was still married to that louse from Baltimore, after all.

The next night Bill tweaked it further.

“I love you and I think we should get married on Valentine’s Day.”  (This was November, remember.)

Okay by me.

And the next night he updated it once more.

“I think we should get married as soon as your divorce is final.”

Okay by me.

And that’s exactly what we did.

I was divorced on January 20th, 1976.  And that was my wedding anniversary for twenty years, too.

Over the course of the next two years I am sure that he said it once in awhile.  Not a lot though. That just wasn’t his style.

He bought me things instead.

Great things, expensive things- designer clothes, jewels, paintings, cars.

But more importantly, I felt loved.  He smiled whenever he saw me.

But if I can’t remember now the few times he actually said “I love you” after we were married, I can sure remember the day that he stopped.

Although Bill had three semi-grown daughters when we met, he made it very clear on our first Coke date that he wanted more children.

I wasn’t real keen on the idea but I hadn’t ruled it out completely.

And two years later, when a glorious Mauna Kea second honeymoon was cut short by what I thought was a terminal disease, we abruptly flew home. (He- first class.  Me- first class toilet.)

I rushed to see my doctor expecting the worst.

Turns out I was just expecting.

“I have something to tell you,” I said shyly when he came home that night.  Now that the big moment was at hand, I was at a complete loss for words.

“What is it?” he said suspiciously.  “A bill?”

Not exactly the reaction I was looking for, but oh well..

“Well, sort of.  In a way you could say it is a ‘Bill.’  I’m pregnant.”

He cried.

And not in a good way.

And any love he had ever felt for me died along with the rabbit.

The next eighteen years of our married life were just end game.

In 2004 I heard that Bill was getting married again.  Naturally I was curious.  I wanted to see my successor so I took to the Internet.

I expected younger, hotter, prettier.

What I got was older, frumpier, plainer.

And plain meaner.  A divorce attorney, for pete’s sake.

(That’s where I got the “Cruella” nickname for her, btw.  I didn’t think it up, darn it.  I found it already on the Internet.)

I was confused.  Bill put such great store in appearances (“I’m in packaging,” he’d always say) that I didn’t get the attraction at all.

But I did hear that she was quite the little wage-earner.  A sure road to Bill’s good bookkeeping books.

And to be fair, Cruella did try to make a valiant effort when I glimpsed her at Nick’s wedding in 2009.

(For a San Diego summer afternoon outdoor lawn wedding, she wore a spangly, bright RED cocktail dress, stiletto heels and diamonds.  She stood out like someone’s old, thrown-away Christmas tree- complete with Italian twinkle lights.

You couldn’t miss her if you tried- and believe me, I tried.)

But like I said, after vetting her on the Internet, I was confused.  I just had to ask him.

So on the one occasion I had reason to telephone Bill before they were married, I did.

“Do you love her?” I enquired.

He thought for a moment.

“I don’t believe that I can love anyone,” came his answer.

Bingo.

The truth at last.

All those years later.

But it was worth the wait.

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Fortune’s Cookie

Posted on November 10, 2013 by Ellen Ross

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Do  you believe in astrology?  Or fortune tellers?  Or horoscopes?  Or sooth sayers? Or palmists?  Or tarot card readers? Or the psychic ability to predict the future?

I do.  Because I can do it.

Yep, I can be pretty spooky that way.  I inherited the ESP gene from my mother.  Who is descended from a long line of Romanian gypsy fortune tellers.  (And card sharpers.)  My mother has put hers to good use vis-a-vis the stock market, btw.  I seem to be able to use it for less profit-turning enterprises- like my love life.

When I was a kid, I couldn’t even be in the same room if I had a secret I wanted to keep from my mother.  I couldn’t think of something if I didn’t want her to know it.

And sometimes even long distance was no guarantee that she couldn’t read my mind, either.

Jeanne Dixon Sidebar:  I vividly remember the exact moment in college when my phone rang, and my mother said,”What are you worrying about?”

It just so happened that I had just opened a massive phone bill and was fretting over how I was ever going to pay it on my less-than-princely allowance of fifty bucks a month.

(Needless to say, my mother and I didn’t need to waste too much money on long-distance phone calls.  Ma Bell was for amateurs.)

I’ve recognized future husbands at first sight.  Sometimes across a crowded room.

And I usually know when something bad is going to happen to me, too.

But like any good (witch) doctor, this second sight business has never stopped me from seeking out another professional opinion.

Over the years I have consulted with:

1. A Baltimore tea room tea leaves analyst (who told me that I would NOT be having any kids with husband number two and that he was soon going bye-bye.  Two out of two for the tea leaves gal.)

2.  A Renaissance Fair fortune teller who did drop the baby bombshell on me- emphatically predicting a girl and then a boy.  (Correct.  Ok, she didn’t have too many genders to chose from.  But I was not sure at that point if I wanted any kids- and she did get the birth order right.)

3.  A  Chicago tarot card reader who sadly reinforced that I would NEVER ever set eyes on the “one who got away”  ever again.  (So far, she’s spot on.)

4.  A  California psychic who “read” me over the phone and put it all on cassette for posterity.  She said that I would end up living in some place where I had a great view over water- which baffled me greatly as I was living in Colorado at the time. Mountains, yes. Pacific Ocean, no.

She also told me that Nick would get married way before Natasha.  (Correct there, too.) And she prophesied that I would come into a huge fortune.  Hmmm…. That hasn’t happened yet but, hey, I’m a believer.

(And that’s REALLY good news for all my clothing, car and book pushers.)

5.  And I had my last brush with para-normal prognosticators just this summer.  In August, I bumped into a medium- who, btw, seemed surprised to meet up with me.

(I, however, wasn’t at all surprised to run into her.  I had been expecting it.)

And so when we did hook up in the physical and non-astral plane, I immediately asked her for an appointment.  I had burning questions to be answered like: “Where should I live?” and  “When is Mr. Right going to show up?”

These really were issues of major concern, and I eagerly awaited her Ghostbusters assistance. I hate to self-predict.  It’s like self-medicating.

Although these queries were of the utmost importance to me, they didn’t seem to carry much psychic weight with her.

“I’m sorry but I can’t really help you at the moment.  I’m all booked up.  My next available appointment for a reading is in December.  And my fee is $90.”

WTF??!!

I didn’t cavil at the $90, but December?  I had to make a major housing decision NOW. Not six freakin’ months from now.

And that Mr. Right thing was getting me down, to0.  I had the strangest sensation that he was due in any minute.  I just couldn’t shake the feeling that he was close by.  And I wanted to be romance-ready when he did make his grand entrance.  After all, it had been seven years since I had even thought about letting a man into my life.

“It must be nice to be popular,” I told her.  “But I just can’t wait that long.”

And so I opted for a little do-it-yourself divination.

I sprung into action.

Heck, I could do this.  I had been dreaming about a certain kind of apartment for a long time now.  I could actually see it.

So the next call I made was a randomly-chosen real estate agent.  I had never heard of the guy but my spirits made me dial him.

And lo and behold he had THE VERY apartment that I had been “seeing.”

(From whence I’m typing this now.)

It’s perfect for me- and it had been on the market exactly one hour when I called him.

As to the other burning question of Mr. Right….

He’s out there.  I know it.

Hurry up, honey.  You’re late.

Btw, how should I best spend that $90 I saved by doing this prognostication myself?  My mother would put it the stock market, but I think I’ll put it toward a bottle of Veuve Clicquot La Grande Dame.

Vintage- like me.

My crystal ball predicts that Mr. Right is going to love it.

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