Move Over Susan Boyle

Get some tissue before you watch this.

Didn't I tell you?

One of my Favorites: Mythos Greek Taverna

Check out Mythos. Go for the amazing food and the cozy ambiance, and then you'll keep going because you'll feel like you're home.
This is one of my favorites, a BYOB Greek taverna at 3947 W. Montrose, just west of Damen. The owners are two sisters; Vicki (right) does the phenomenal cooking and Toni (left) is front of the house; greeting customers, making sure everyone's happy, introducing customers to each other. If you're there more than once she'll remember you and it'll feel like family. I love this place!
(left, the chicken regante) Go, you won't be disappointed.

Faith in Humanity

Last Saturday I got home from Santa Barbara at 1 a.m. and took a taxi from O'Hare. Later that morning (after only about four hours sleep - whats up with that?) I went for a run and then I went to get my wallet so I could go to the farmer's market and my wallet was nowhere to be found. Crap! Then I remembered taking it out of my purse, taking out some money and leaving the wallet out so I could put the change away. But apparently I left it in the taxi.
So I called the cab company to see if it was found, but no luck.
Fortunately I only keep money and my drivers license in that wallet so I didn't have to worry about credit cards. So, writing it off, I got a new drivers license (and wasn't charged for it because I'm so old!).
And what do you know, today, voila! I got a FedEx envelope from L. Kevin Green, Director of Accounting for Load Delivered, with my wallet, everything intact.
What a great guy. Validates your faith in humanity, doesn't it?
Some months ago I was taking Metra out to Itasca to have lunch with my best friend, Judi, and when I got to the ticket window I didn't have my purse. I'd left it on the damn bus. Jeez, what the hell is wrong with me these days?
So I went tearing back out to the street to see if the bus was still there - thank god it's the end of the line so it sits there a while and it was there and the bus driver had my purse (intact) and I ran back inside and still made my train.
Amazing.
I'm a very lucky girl, aren't I?

The Dream Keeps Getting Better

My lovely editor at St. Martin's Press asked how my edits were going on Mr. Right-Enough (now called What More Could You Wish For). She said she wasn't trying to rush me but they’ve had a couple of requests from foreign publishers wanting to see the manuscript and she wanted to be able to give them some sense of a time frame.
Yippee! This dream keeps getting better and better.
So, here's the revised first chapter. Take a peak and let me know what you think.

Chapter 1
Sometimes people throw out the question, “If you could turn back the clock what age would you go back to?” and I would always say, “I wouldn’t...I love the age I am.”
Well, fuck that. Ask me now.
When you're 20 or 30 or even 40 you can't imagine being 50. But all of a sudden there it is, smacking you in the face and you think, "Holy shit, how did that happen?" It's better, as they say, than the alternative but really...holy shit.
I thought if I ignored my fiftieth birthday it would go away but Michael, my significant other, called on his way home from work, bursting my balloon of denial.
“Happy birthday, sweetheart,” he said. “Let’s go to that new sushi restaurant for dinner. What do you think?”
“We don’t have to go out tonight,” I said, thinking that crawling into bed and pulling the covers over my head would be the preferred alternative. ”We’re celebrating at my folks’ tomorrow.”
“I know, but it’s not every day you turn fifty.”
“Thank god,” I said, examining myself in the mirror on the wall of my workroom and face-lifting sagging skin with my free hand.
Michael and I had been together nearly two years. We didn’t live together but traded off staying at each other’s house several times a week. It was a nice arrangement and we had a sweet, comfortable relationship, far more peaceful than any relationship I’d been in before, including my two marriages.
Michael and I had planned that he’d stay at my house tonight but I was thinking we’d spend the evening quietly at home with a nice bottle of Malbec and take-out from my favorite Szechwan restaurant. But he sounded so pleased with his sushi idea that I agreed. It was just dinner out, after all, not, I knew, a surprise party. I’d made him swear more than once that he’d never do that to me and Michael was a man of his word.
I finished hemming one of the purple satin bridesmaid dresses I was working on for my best friend Sophie’s daughter’s wedding. There were four duplicates hanging on a rack and I was anxious to finish them and get that purple extravaganza out of sight. It clashed with the décor.
My workroom, which was in the finished basement of my Chicago-style bungalow, was painted soft pale yellow and had nubby Berber navy blue carpet. The windows were small and high up on the walls but there was a fair amount of natural light, and lots of indirect lighting in the drop ceiling with spot lights for specialized work.
In one corner there was a big, soft two-person chair and ottoman that were upholstered with striped yellow and navy fabric and next to that was my desk, computer and some bookshelves. The room was bright and crisp, but cozy and snug. I loved the look of it but I especially loved what it represented: my independence from the sterile corporate world I used to inhabit.
Now, while I waited for Michael to return phone calls and take a shower, I turned on my computer, double-clicked the AOL icon and heard, “Welcome! You’ve got mail!” I loved that. It was like winning a little prize.
An email from my mother said, Happy birthday, Libby. I can’t believe you’re 50! It makes me feel so old.
Tell me about it, I thought.
I’m making some of your favorite things for dinner tomorrow. Come over about 6.
By the way, I saw this article and thought you might be interested.
She’d attached a link to an Internet article titled Retirement Planning for the Single Woman.
Jeez, AARP was already sending their damn magazine, wasn’t that enough? Did I need this from my mother, too?
My parents couldn’t grasp why I’d quit my job as a graphic designer six years ago and went into business for myself as a dressmaker/tailor. I think they worried my clients would dry up and I’d end up living in a cardboard box under an expressway. Or worse, at their house. But the fact was my business was thriving. It had taken a few years but I’d had some money saved. It’s not as if I didn’t plan the transition. Didn’t I get my resourcefulness from them? How could they not appreciate what I had done, how hard I’d worked at getting the word out about the new business; going to networking events, doing mailings to large apartment buildings in high-end neighborhoods, sending out eBlasts. And now I had a nice client list that kept my hair stylist in business, stocked my cupboards with smoked oysters and champagne, and paid for some nice vacations. And I was even putting money into a retirement fund, which I guess I needed to tell my mother.
I answered emails from clients, checked an eBay auction, looked at some fashion sites, and then just browsed, checking out the AOL welcome box with news briefs and weather forecasts and “Best Cities to Retire In.” God, more retirement stuff. It was everywhere.
At the top was a hyperlink for SearchForSchoolmates.com, and a picture of a girl who could have graduated in my high school class in the seventies. She wore a dark turtleneck sweater with a locket on a small gold chain, and had long straight hair parted down the middle. It was exactly like my own senior picture, and I smiled, thinking of my high school days. So I navigated to the website. I had to select my state, then the city, then my high school, and finally I could enter the years I attended and my own name, Elizabeth Carson. And voila! a list of 104 alumni from my graduating class came up. I laughed, looking at the familiar names; Mary Blevins, Susan Caldwell, Danny Schultz. I could picture Danny’s blond hair and dazzling smile and wondered if he was still cute or if he was now sporting a comb-over and forty extra pounds.
Page two was more of the same and vague memories swam through my brain, memories of walking the locker-lined halls and sitting in various classes passing notes to my friends. And homecoming and prom and the gymnastics competition. It had been thirty-two years since I’d seen any of these kids. The thought that these kids were all fifty now was unimaginable.
I was on page three when I saw a name that made me sit back in my chair. Patrick Harrison. Wow. That was a name that hadn’t surfaced in my brain for a hundred years. Patrick had been my first love, the one I thought I couldn’t live without. He was the bad boy with long hair, the one my parents didn’t like and I couldn’t resist. I remembered how we’d walk the tiled halls hand in hand, how he’d drop me at my classroom and give me a soft kiss before he’d walk off to his own class. My heart would just about beat out of my chest and I thought I’d never survive until the hour passed and I could see him again. I clearly recalled that sweet terror, the heart palpitations, the blush that started at my chest and infused my whole body when I saw him walking toward me. Was it possible to feel that way at fifty or was that territory reserved for teenagers?
“Libby,” Michael called, “you about ready?”
“Be right there,” I said and saved the SearchForSchoolmates.com website to my Favorite Places.

Michael seized a piece of sushi with chopsticks and popped it into his mouth.
“Raw fish good,” he said in his best caveman voice.
While we waited for our dessert of green tea ice cream Michael told me about his new listings and a high-maintenance client he’d just started working with. Michael was one of the top real estate agents in the city and I admired his dedication, I really did, but he always gave me more details than my attention span had room for. So now I nodded and smiled and thought about Patrick Harrison, wondering what he was doing now, what he did for a living. I couldn’t imagine him an attorney or an accountant. Definitely not a real estate agent. I could see him as a forest ranger or maybe something in non-profit. Or maybe he was a fifty year old bike messenger pouring himself into spandex and still wearing a ponytail.
I knew I was going to send him an email and thought about what I’d say. Hi, remember me? Remember when we slept together on New Year’s Eve when we were seventeen?
The waitress brought two tulip-shaped glass dishes, each containing a perfect scoop of green tea ice cream. Mine had a sparkler twinkling in the middle.
“Happy birthday,” she and Michael said in unison. I braced myself for them to break into an off-key rendition of the song and let out a relieved breath when they didn’t. I pulled out the sparkler and we both dug in, remarking how yummy it was; cold and creamy. Then Michael put down his spoon, reached into his pocket and placed a small black velvet box in front of me. I blinked.
“Open it,” he said pushing it closer.
I stared. I had a bad feeling. It was surely a ring but hopefully it was a cocktail ring or a friendship ring. I’d even be happy with a claddagh ring. Even though I wasn’t Irish. Trepidation swirled around my throat.
The waitress and two busboys stood watching from a respectful distance, grinning like kids with a new Game Boy. “Go on,” Michael said.
What could I do? Refuse? So while everyone watched I gingerly lifted the little lid. There, like a searchlight, sat an enormous diamond ring. My mouth fell open. The waitress clapped her hands together.
“Will you marry me, Libby?”
Marry him? Really? I studied his face thinking (hoping) maybe he was kidding but he watched me eagerly.
What was he thinking? Fifty percent of all marriages fail. Not to mention one hundred percent of mine. “My god, Michael, it’s huge,” I said. What I wanted to say was, What the fuck, Michael? If you wanted to get married couldn’t we have talked about it privately instead of turning it into a spectacle? “How could I wear this? It’s bigger than my fist,” I said. He laughed. “You shouldn’t have bought this. I’m too old for an engagement ring.” And I don’t want to marry you.
“You’re never too old for diamonds,” he said
Well, of course I knew that, but still...
I noticed then that the only sound in the restaurant was the faint clanking of dishes from the kitchen and I looked around to find five or six tables of patrons watching me. A plump, gray-haired woman in a flower-print blouse smiled encouragingly. A small blonde girl with a pink feather in her hair sat on her knees, arms crossed on the back of the chair. It was like a stage play and Michael was enjoying his role as the romantic male lead. What was I supposed to do now? How could I say anything other than yes with all these people watching?
“Put it on,” he said. I hesitated. “Go ahead.” I took it out of the box. I made a show of it being too heavy to lift and Michael and our little audience laughed. When I slid it on my finger his eyes sparkled and he leaned forward.
“Well?” he said. “Will you?”
I held up my hand and made another show of being blinded by the glitter. The crowd loved it but I was just stalling, trying to think what to do. The silence enveloped me as they all waited for my answer. I had a quick vision of taking off the ring, putting it safely in Michael’s hand and then running like hell out of the restaurant, disappearing down the street, maybe going into witness protection. Instead I said, “How could I not want to marry a man who would buy a ring like this?” Not a yes, I reasoned. An answer I could explain away later when I told him what I really meant was no.
The waitress let out a little squeak and there was a spattering of applause.
“Did you pay these people?” I asked.
Michael’s smile illuminated his face like a sunrise. He put his arms around me and pulled me close. “I love you, Libby,” he said and kissed me.
As I kissed him back I waited for the tingle, the blush, the thrill I’d felt with Patrick Harrison so many years ago. It didn’t come. What came was like a solid mass of cement sitting on my chest. Shit.
“You’ve made me a very happy man,” Michael said, his eyes crinkling with pleasure. “We’ll have a great life together.” He laughed. “Well, we already do, but somehow it feels different now. Don’t you think?”
“Yes,” I said. “It definitely feels different.”

Rahm Emanuel, My New BFF

Rahm and I went to the Lookingglass Theatre last night to see The Last Act of Lilka Kadison. He looked very handsome in a navy blazer, khaki pants and black loafers (no socks), and I was proud to be sitting next to him.
Okay, well I wasn't exactly next to him (there was an aisle between us) and maybe we're not BFFs just yet but I'm sure he wants to be - after all, I did shake his hand in the lobby before the performance. Oh, oops, I forgot to give him my name. Hmmm...that could be an obstacle.
Well, anyway, the play was wonderful. Very sweet story, and beautiful performances by Chance Bone, Usman Ally, Nora Fiffer and Marilyn Dodds Frank.

The Last Act of Lilka Kadison is the story of an old, dying Jewish woman (Frank) and the secrets she has kept. She's being cared for by an in-home aid (Ally - wonderful in the role) and she's at first resistant to having him there, grilling him about his training. She asks where he went to school and, fed up with her interrogation, he says, "The Al Quaida Home School for axe murderers." (Rahm and I laughed at that.)
Later, telling him about her son who married a shiksa and lives in Maine, she says, "What kind of a Jew lives in Maine?" (My BFF and I laughed at that too.)
It's an intelligent and moving story and I was drawn in by the characters (although Frank's character is a little too vibrant and hip for a dying woman).
It's poignant, funny, heart-wrenching and beautifully staged, a lovely way to spend 90 minutes.
Four stars out of five for The Last Act of Lilka Kadison.
I say, go see this lovely and clever production.
What do you say, Rahm? BTW, if you need a writer, or a personal assistant/organizer I can clear my schedule. It's H-O-F-F-M-A-N. Call me.

Movie Review: Beginners

This is a very quiet, leisurely-paced film told from the point of view of Oliver (Ewan McGregor) whose father (Christopher Plummer) has recently died and who meets an intriguing new woman, Anna (Melanie Laurent), at a costume party, causing him to reflect on love and relationships, and why he always leaves them.
After having lost his wife, Oliver's father admitted he was gay and set about living the life he'd always suppressed, leaving Oliver with ambivalent feelings about relationships and life; a father who lived with vigor and a mother who accepted the way her life turned out. I loved the quirky mother character, tho if she were my mother I'd have put myself up for adoption.
Laurent is an amazing actor who inhabits her characters with such warmth and appeal. It's easy to understand why Oliver falls in love with her (I actually did, myself) altho not quite so easy to understand it from her point of view. He's a little too sad and serious but of course appealing.
It's a sweet, poignant, sometimes funny film. There's a cute device with a dog who has subtitled thoughts that Oliver understands. Clever, and who can resist a Jack Russel terrier cocking its head at you?
Four stars out of five for Beginners.
(Sorry, Woz, next time I'll see The Tree 0f Life.)

A '65 Mustang and Charles Manson

This is one of the pieces I've been working on at the Santa Barbara Writers Conference (SB is a great backdrop for the writing process).


Jennifer came bounding down the stairs long hair flying like a banner, small breasts jiggling beneath the low-cut, silky tank top. Her face was aglow with excitement, or maybe some dewy, tinted moisturizer.
“How do I look?” she asked, twirling, light glinting off her braces as she stood before her parents.
“You look adorable, honey,” Lora said.
Like an adorable hooker, Nick thought.
Jennifer’s eager eyes were on him. “Daddy, what do you think?”
He knew she’d probably worked on her hair for forty-five minutes, coating the bathroom with all that gel and goop, but he wanted to go over and pat it down into something calmer. Something a little more Donna Reed.
“Doesn’t she look cute, honey?” Lora prompted.
“Uh huh,” he said, but disappointment veiled Jennifer’s face and he knew he’d have to do better. He couldn’t point out that her tits were in danger of slipping out of her shirt or that her hair looked like she’d just gotten out of bed so he said, “You look very grown up,” the ultimate compliment, and was rewarded by her pleased smiled.
When the doorbell rang Nick started up out of his chair.
“Stay”, Jennifer said, putting up a hand. “I’ll get it.”
“Okay, but I want to meet him,” he said to her back. He looked at Lora who smiled and patted his knee.
“Calm down, Nick, it’s just a movie. She’ll be back in a few hours. It’ll still be light out. Her virginity will be intact.”
“It better be,” Nick said, tapping his fingers on the arm of the leather sofa, frown lines etching his brow. He picked unseen lint off the black polyester shirt that courageously attempted to camouflage his considerable stomach, and longed for the days when he could run the length of the basketball court; the days when Jennifer lay cradled against his muscular chest, sighing and tweeting like a bird.

She came back, electric with energy, her eyes bright as glass. She held the hand of a skeletal figure in low-slung jeans with tattoos painting one arm starting at his wrist and disappearing beneath the arm of his black T-shirt. Nick’s knuckles whitened. My god, he thought, it’s Charles Manson.
“Mom, Daddy, this is Brady,” Jennifer said looking adoringly at the mass murderer who smiled and put out his hand to Nick.
“Nice to meet you, sir,” he said, but Nick sat dumbly, eyes riveted to four silver studs climbing Brady’s left ear. Brady faltered, as his outstretched hand remained empty.
“Daddy…” Jennifer said. “Hell-o…”
Nick coughed. “Sorry,” he said and got to his feet. He managed a polite, if insincere, smile and gripped Brady’s hand, hard, pleased to note he had a good three inches on the boy.
Brady winced a bit but recovered nicely, turning to Lora. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Symonds.” He smiled, flashing dimples.
“Thank you, Brady.” Lora said, clearly charmed. Nick looked at the three of them smiling beatifically at each other and thought, give me strength.
“Are you driving them to the movies or do you want me to?” he asked Lora, jingling his keys out of his pocket.
Lora laughed. “We’re not driving them, honey. I’m pretty sure those days are behind us.”
“No need,” Brady said. “I’ve got my car.”
“Your car?” Nick asked as if he’d said his Lear jet was parked out front.
“Yes, sir.”
“How old are you, son?”
“Almost seventeen, sir. I’ve had my license for six months now. I’m a very safe driver.”
Yeah, so is Evil Knievel, Nick thought while Jennifer beamed and Lora nodded.
They all walked out on the front porch and looked at the dark blue 1965 Mustang that sat in front of the house. “Is that yours? The Mustang?” It was said with reverence.
“It is, sir,” Brady said, straightening his spine.
Nick’s face softened with the album of memories paging through his mind. “I had one just like that when I was about your age,” he said. “Same color, even. I loved that car.”
“Yeah, it’s awesome,” Brady said.
“What’s under the hood?”
“V-8, 200 horses,” Brady said. “Want to take it for a spin, sir?”
“Brady,” Jennifer said, her hand tapping her leg. “The movie.”
“It’ll just take a minute.” Brady said, touching her lightly on her arm and flipping the keys to Nick.
“Mom, do something,” she said as the two men walked to the car.
“They’ll be right back,” Lora said. “It’s good. It’s a male-bonding thing. Look.” She nodded toward them as they walked to the gleaming car. Brady raised the hood and they gazed into it talking quietly.
Jennifer rolled her eyes. “Oh, great.”
Nick got in behind the wheel and Brady ran around to the passenger side.
Jennifer turned to Lora. “So what do you think of him?”
“He seems nice, honey.”
“Isn’t he cute?”
“Yes, he’s cute. He reminds me of someone.”
“I know, like a cool Justin Bieber, right?”
“No…” Lora said. The engine roared to life and she smiled. “Someone who had a ‘65 Mustang when I met him.”
“Daddy? Oh Mom, get real.”
“I know it’s hard to believe we were ever your age but your father was a fox when we met.” Jennifer chuckled at her mother’s term. “Not that he’s not cute now,” Lora added. “But back then all my girlfriends were hot for him.”
“Hard to imagine,” Jennifer said and then slid her eyes to her mother. “No offense.”
Lora laughed. “Picture him thirty pounds thinner with longish hair and those penetrating eyes,” Lora said. “He just had a way about him that drew you in.”
Jennifer cocked her head and squinted at her father.
“Actually Grandpa was a little afraid of him,” Lora said. “Thought he looked too much like Charles Manson.”
Nick put the '65 Mustang in gear, waved to them, and then peeled out, burning rubber all the way down the block.