June Bride

As the notes of "Here Comes The Bride" sounded, 75 guests interrupted their chatter to swivel in the seats of their white folding chairs. All eyes focused on the closed double doors behind them. Any moment, here in the Country Squire Room of the North Shore Hotel, on the 19th day of June in the year 1960, I was about to wed my groom.

In my hiding place, I attempted a relaxing deep breath, as recommended by Modern Bride magazine. But my dress’s tight bodice prevented even a subtle sigh. How I hated this dress! Why had I let my mother talk me into this castoff?


“Christine wore it for the ceremony only,” my mother had said, describing her co-worker’s claim. “She swore she changed to a party dress right after her vows, and hung it in its Field’s garment bag." It was three months before the wedding. Mother and I were in the bedroom of our garden apartment; the door was closed so we could see our reflection in the full-length mirror nailed to its back. My mother’s hands circled my waist, pasting the dress to me as if I were her cutout paper doll.

“Okay, I’ll try it on,” I said, stripping to my underwear and wriggling into the dress. “Zip me.” I held my breath, in case the metal’s teeth hungered for flesh.

“Ugh,” I said at my image

“You’re crazy. Try on the veil.”

The veil did seem to lift a viewer’s eyes away from the unfortunate boat neckline (tugboat was more like it), but the hemline was wrong, too. Okay, full-length would’ve been over the top for an afternoon wedding, and mini – which would’ve displayed my legs, my best feature at age 22 – would’ve been tacky. But this dress cut me off mid-calf, a particularly ugly spot.


Mother prevailed. So here I was, waiting behind the paneled wooden doors, on the day of my budget wedding, in the cheap dress. I refused to let the dress or the modest venue bring me down. I was overjoyed to be standing where I was, fortunate to be rescued from an old maid future, and about to marry a man I truly loved.


I felt a mixture of excitement and butterflies as I began my march, walking slowly to match the music, sinking my white dyed-pumps into the runner with each pointy-toed step. All was a blur in my line of sight. To assure glamour photographs, both this bride and her groom ditched our spectacles. Somehow, he made it safely down the aisle. When his parents each grabbed an elbow of his white tuxedo jacket for the final three feet, they looked like elderly, over-dressed scouts shepherding a blind man across the street.

The bridesmaids and their escorts were in place, too. As I neared the altar, I could see my mother coming into focus a few feet from the chuppah. Her oldest brother, Carl, had escorted her down the aisle and the two of them looked as solemn as sentries.


The wedding guests likely pinned my mother's expression to my dad's death two years earlier, as well as the loss of her roommate daughter. But I knew there was something else that barred her usual lovely smile: She hated my about-to-be husband.


As I neared her on the cloth-covered path, I flashed to a scene that had taken place in our apartment six months earlier. "Aren't you happy I'm finally engaged?" I asked. I spread my left hand and lifted the quarter-carat diamond up towards her face. "You've nagged me about a ring my entire senior year. 'Everybody's engaged,' you said. 'When are you going to find someone?' you said. Isn't that what you wanted?"

"I didn't mean you should steal someone else's fiancé. You couldn't find someone else?"

"I didn't steal him. They were never engaged. Don't you remember, he left her."

When the boy I was about to marry first confessed he had fallen out of love with one of my best friends and into love with me, I had been surprised, but also delighted. I had long thought I was a better match for him, but of course, never voiced this.

“You’re sure about this?” I had asked him. “Yes, yes,” he said. “Please say you’ll go out with me.


"Not until you break up with her, and we let a few weeks pass," I made him promise. Then, we dated secretly, but the word got out. Girlfriends took sides. Most of them damned me for my betrayal. Only one friend, Ruth, stood by me.

Mother was on the side of my enemies. “How will I ever face her family again?” she said. “How could you do this to me?

"I want you to be happy for me," I said. "I want you to love your future son-in-law."

"Okay, I'm happy for you.”

After my mother and uncle delivered me to my designated spot under the chuppah, I finally relaxed and took in the breath I had attempted at the start of the ceremony. My slow, blurry march, tense as a tightrope walker, had ended, and now I stood alongside my tall, handsome groom.


After the vows, my new husband lifted his rented black dress shoe and drove it down onto the napkin that covered the ritual wine glass. As his foot caused the glass to shatter, cries of Mahzel Tov rang out. With my veil above my head, and my vision clearer, my eyes circled the bridal party. The faces of the small group of relatives, plus my friend Ruth, lit up with smiles.


All but Mother's, whose expression hadn't changed since her march down the aisle. Only her red-tipped manicured hands, which were twisting a soaked ball of Kleenex, showed any movement.

JEWISH MOTHER CYBER STALKS HER DAUGHTERS

While other Jewish mothers may kvetch when their grown children don't keep in touch, or share more of their lives, I peek into my daughters' pursuits whenever I please.


Instead of sitting by the phone or waiting for an email to learn what they’re up to, I employ technology supposedly too tricky for my Social Security set. I joined the online social networking sites Facebook and Twitter and am now able to lurk on the sidelines of my kids’ lives.


There was my daughter, Faith, uploading videos of my granddaughter Betsy playing drums or sashaying with a hoola hoop. I hung around and watched as her Facebook Friends weighed in on the child's talent and adorableness. Then I, too, made an appropriate loving comment. No need for a guilt-edged, "You share these with friends? You couldn’t have shown them to me first?”


My other daughter, Jill, was the one who urged me to join Twitter, "It's fun," she said. "Just give it a try." Now I wonder if my youngest regrets her noodge, for after a day of not seeing any of her Tweets, I posted, "Where's Jill?" Within the hour, she returned with this snarky response, "Worst idea in the world, encouraging your Jewish mother to join Twitter."


Therein lies a bit of danger in my trespassing: Jill and I nearly got into a cyber squabble after I publicly shot back, "This from the child I spent 10 hours of labor with." She became worried. I received a private message, "We're only kidding, right Mom?" I let her stew for a bit and then answered, "Of course, I laughed when I read it." She begged me to repost my reply out of our private dialogue so her Twitter followers would know she and her mom were still buddies.

Admittedly, some of my friends think my computer creeping is well, creepy. "Your daughters should call," one harrumphs, "after all, you're their mother. Why should you have to chase after them?"


Her indignation sent me back to my young adulthood and conversations with my own mother about my lack of timely reporting in. "Oh, so it's you," she would say when I phoned, as if I was a black sheep who had gone missing for a decade and suddenly turned up.


I knew my cue. "Sorry, Mom," I would say, I meant to call, but…"
"No, that's okay," she'd interrupt, "as long as you're alive."

When I had kids of my own, I vowed not to employ guilt. My daughters would willingly keep in touch, I knew, especially after their moving to states on opposite sides of the country. There'd be no need for me to paint a picture of their pathetic mother sitting by the phone. If I wanted to hear their voices, I would make the calls. I wouldn't stare at the silent apparatus willing it to ring.

Naturally, if more days went by -- than a mother who provided her children with perfect childhoods should expect to hear from them -- I'd leave a message something like, "I know you're busy, but when you get time…"


Now, thanks to Facebook and Twitter, I don't have to resort to the phone or my passive-aggressive commentary. All I have to do is sign on to those two sites, hang out a bit and catch up on their whereabouts. So far, it seems to be working. But, I admit to a bit of worry. What if they have found another website, unbeknownst to me, where they reveal their more clandestine thoughts and behaviors. Hah! Give me some time, and this Jewish mother -- clever on the keyboard -- will soon be shadowing.

Sweet Tooth

"You really have a sweet tooth, don't you?" my husband said. When he posed the question, I was on tiptoes stretching upwards to reach an 8 oz. container of Trader Joe's English Toffee. I hesitated before responding; my hand suspended midair. Then, I grabbed the plastic box and tossed it into our shopping car. "Yes," I said, marching down the aisle, a smirk enhancing my face.

My husband's statement was not unfamiliar. I had heard similar comments about my sweet tooth from my mother and my first husband. In the earlier instances, I remained silent, caught their intent and sheepishly returned to the shelf or fridge the goody I was about to digest.


My mother, long deceased, was thin and pretty. She worried if I mimicked my father's appetite, I would grow fat and unwell. And, she had my father's fate nailed, for he died at age 47, overweight, diabetic, and a three-pack-a-day Camel smoker. Sadly, I doubt it was an untimely death Mother feared for her only daughter. Instead, I believe it was the prospect of me being unattractive, and ring-less while my college girlfriends flashed theirs.


I wasn't surprised when Mother urged me to see the Diet Doctor. At the time, I was probably 5 pounds over my ideal weight. But certainly, with my publicized love of sweets, those 5 could easily double, triple. Couldn't they? I’d visit the doctor weekly, twitch in a waiting room stuffed with patients, step on the scale while nervously eyeing the balance beam, and then accept 3 bottles of colored pills to be taken at various times of the day.

And they worked! The pounds came off. I also became super fast at anything I attempted. Clean the house? Done in an hour. Homework? Zoomed through it. Sleep? Sorry, no. So, that medical miracle was abandoned. Instead, Mother used her Singer to open up my skirt waistbands and add a bit of matching fabric. (Swiped from the hem no doubt, as my young self never made it to 5’.)


When I married in 1960, my slim husband took over the parenting role. The line I most remember from our 30-year hitch was, "Mother loves her cake." He was referring to me (with two children, I was "Mother" and he "Father."). That statement about cake doesn't sound particularly threatening now, but at the time, I translated it to: "You have an uncontrollable appetite. You will get fat. I will leave you." So, I would interrupt my bite, replace the cake, and slink from the kitchen.

When Weight Watchers came to Chicago, I was first in line. Its rules appealed to a list-maker like me. All I had to do was follow instructions and the extra pounds (about 10 by now) would disappear. Eventually they did, but along with them went any affection for fish. (In the early days, Watchers had to eat 5 fish meals per week.)


Besides Weight Watchers, I accumulated every diet book published. Their promises lined my bookshelves until later in my life when the sight of them and the memory of the pathetic woman I once was, made me toss the lot into the garbage.


In my second marriage, the urge to be thinner (my husband is a 3-times-a-week YMCA-er without an ounce of fat on his Gentile body) returned. I found a website, CalorieKing, and by weighing, measuring, and recording everything I put in my mouth, managed to lose another 10 pounds.

From below the neck, attired in Size 2 black Banana Republic blouse and slacks, I looked a fashion model. But up above, a grey-haired crone creaked into view. I never thought I'd ever utter these words, but: I was too skinny. I looked older, sicker, on my way out. So I abandoned my strict documenting, relaxed the portions, and added back 5 pounds.


Now, if I want apple strudel (that's what Mother snatched from my fingers), cake, or English Toffee, I just go ahead and chomp. And if anyone -- spouse, relative, or onlooker -- has anything to say about my choice, I just smile and continue my sweet. Care for a bite?

Music Appreciation

I'm seated at our Wurlitzer upright, staring at the sheet music for “I Can’t Get Started.” As I hesitantly ping on the keys, I attempt to sing its lyrics. In my head I’m hearing Carmen McRae’s lush vocals. In reality, my sounds are nowhere in her neighborhood. But still, I’m having a grand time.

As I shakily play and sing, “I’ve been around the world…” my mind wanders back to the first time I discovered jazz and Carmen McRae. The year is 1959, and my widowed mother and I live in a garden apartment (really a basement) on Chicago’s north side.


In this particular vision, I see the younger me lying in bed with Jeff L., a boy I dated during my college years. We were in his parents’ apartment on North Clarendon, fully clothed, when Jeff said, “I’m going to introduce you to Daddy-O Daley. You know ‘Daddio on the Raddio on WXFM.’ He invited me to his midnight show and said I could bring a friend.”

“Midnight?” I repeated. “That means we won’t get home till morning. My mom will have a conniption fit.”


“Don’t tell her,” Jeff said. He brushed my hair back from my face and smiled. Although he was handsome, in a Paul Newman-sort of way, I knew I was one of several girls he took out. No way would this sexy guy tempt me to go all the way. After all, I was a good Jewish girl and chastity ruled. If Jeff really wanted to get laid, he could turn to the easy girls at school, or to the rumored cathouses in Peoria.

“Just say we’re going out on a date. She’ll be asleep when you get home and won’t know the difference.”

I looked up into Jeff’s blue eyes, pictured myself cuddling next to him in his dad’s Chevy Impala, and shoved the image of my mother out of my head. “Okay,” I said.


That evening, after fudging about my plans, I joined Jeff. When we arrived and entered the studio, I held tightly to his hand. “Hello sweetheart,” Daddy-O said when we were introduced. Flirty, and grinning widely, “Is this guy corrupting you?”

“With my permission,” I answered, smiling back. “Thanks for letting me sit in.”

“Pretty ladies are always welcome here,” Daddy-O said. He leaned over to kiss my cheek, and I could smell his hair’s pomade and cologne.

Then, Daddy-O seated Jeff and me on two chairs outside his glass-enclosed booth. As we watched, Daddy-O played his records and purred to his radio audience as if they were next to him instead of in their homes, cars, and workplaces. I imagined his listeners – couples making love in dim-lit bedrooms, sweethearts returning home from a date, and night cleaning crews carting their portables along with a mop bucket.


That night at Daddy-O's, I learned the names and popular tunes of jazz singers and became a fan of all of them. The women: Carmen McRae, Ella Fitzgerald, Dinah Washington, Nancy Wilson, and Sarah Vaughn. And the men: Joe Williams, Barry White, Johnny Hartman, Frank Sinatra, and Mel Torme.

As we listened to the recordings, Alex pulled my chair next to his and put his arm around my shoulders. From inside his booth, Daddy-O winked, as if to say, Enjoy.

“Hmm,” Jeff murmured, putting his free hand on my knee.

“Hmm,” I agreed, and put my own hand on top of his – to feel the connection, but also to impede its progress. I was grateful we were in a public place, rather than in Jeff’s bedroom, because the late-night hour, the low-pitched crooners, the syrupy songs, and Daddy-O’s thumbs up might’ve been just enough to move me from my firm position to one horizontal and compliant. Or not.


At the end of the broadcast, Daddy-O removed his headphones and emerged from the booth. Jeff’s fingers gave a final squeeze to my thigh, and then we both rose to take the disk jockey’s offered palm. Ignoring Jeff, Daddy-O turned to me and asked, “So, sweetheart, how was your jazz immersion? Do we have a fan?”

Instead of stopping at the handshake, I stood on tiptoes to kiss Daddy O’s cheek. I wasn’t sure why I added the affectionate gesture; perhaps it was the jazz music that flowed through my body and was still playing on an endless loop. Or perhaps, it was because I just felt wonderful.


After Jeff and I left the studio, we drove silently while he tried to find similar music on the car radio. When we pulled up to my building, we capped the evening by making out in the front seat. Of course, my version of making out involved kissing, but no unbuttoning or unzipping. Although the music had affected me, the drive home with the windows open, and the dashboard clock that showed the late hour, quickly rescued me from the danger zone.

“Thank you,” I told Jeff when he switched off his motor. “I’ll never forget this night. I loved every minute of it.”

“I’m glad you enjoyed it,” Jeff said. He used the back of his hand to wipe away my lipstick. When he glimpsed his wristwatch's time, he added, “Good luck with your mother.” Then, he reached across to unlock the car door and watched as I rushed to my apartment building.


I was quiet as could be when I unlocked the deadbolt to our flat. After tiptoeing down the two steps to the living room, I spotted my mother. She was in her chenille robe curled up in a corner of the couch, twisting a Kleenex in her arthritic fingers.

“Where have you been?” she asked. She used the tissue to wipe away still-flowing tears. “I’ve been worried sick. Do you know what time it is? I thought you were dead somewhere in an alley. How could you do this to me? It’s not enough your father drops dead and leaves me alone? You’re going to kill me, too.”


“Mommy, I’m sorry,” I said. I dumped my purse and jacket on the steps and rushed to her on the couch. “I went to a radio show with Jeff. I was going to call you when I saw how late it was but I didn’t want to wake you up.”

“I don’t deserve this,” my mother said, “I don’t deserve this.”

The memory of my mother’s long-ago lament woke me from my reverie. I shook away her words and instead concentrated on the tune on the songbook. “I’ve been around the world…” I sang, this time a little louder, a bit bolder, and somewhat nearer the key.

Making Babies

When news of the octuplet mom hit the airwaves, my thoughts flashed back to my own experience with pregnancy. You see, before in-vitro fertilization and other high-tech methods increased the odds, I was among the wretched group of women who had trouble conceiving.



The year of my misery was 1963, I was 25 years old, and in my third year of marriage. At the time, I remember thinking how unfair the world was for it seemed as if every woman who came into view was either pregnant, pushing a baby carriage, or dragging a bawling infant by its pudgy arm. Bellies that looked as if they were concealing pillows, or stomachs resembling basketballs, were at bus stops, in supermarket checkout lines, or on the school faculty where I was teaching at the time.

When we married three years earlier, my husband and I thought it wise to postpone pregnancy so I could work while he finished medical school. First, the diaphragm had been my attempt at barring the door. Next, the miracle of science brought us spontaneity and peace of mind. Oral contraceptives -- The Pill -- changed the landscape. All I had to do was twist the plastic circle, align the calendar disc with its designated 10 mg. dose, drop the tiny pill into my hand, swallow, and let the chemical set up its blockade.

But once my husband completed his internship and residency, I tossed contraceptives into the garbage, coaxed him to bed earlier than usual, and added parenting magazines to my pile of reading material. But. Nothing. Happened. Month after month went by. No swelling of the tummy, no morning nausea, no little boy the image of his father, or bitty girl with her mother’s black hair.

"Maybe it was all the contraceptives I used." I said to my husband. "Maybe the combination of science and technology messed up the natural order of things?"

"Don't be silly," he answered. "Give it more time. You were meant to be a mother, it'll happen."


Meanwhile, although my body declined my quest, I was able to sublimate with the children in my third grade class at a Chicago Public School. It was located in a tough west side neighborhood, but I overcame misgivings with a desire to instill in my adorable tykes a passion for learning.

In my first years of teaching, I used affection, gentle persuasion, and copious praise to tame my 35 students. But everything seemed to change by my third year. The incoming kids seemed to have gotten rowdier, tougher, and less moved by hugs or praise. Some challenged me from the Pledge of Allegiance to the ending bell.


While the majority of my students were age eight or nine, one boy, having flunked several grades, was eleven. "Please sit down," I'd say to him, safe behind my desk. When he'd ignore me and continue to roam the aisles, slamming shut children's books, pushing pencils off desks, or shoving a kid from his seat, I’d catch up to him and attempt a tougher tone. Looking up as he towered over me, I'd growl, "Go back to your seat right now!"

"Who's gonna make me?" he'd say, staring down with his thick arms crossed against his chest. Then he'd laugh, and a few of his cohorts would join in. It was a comical sight, a teacher who'd need a stepstool to reach his height. I was clearly outmatched. Eventually he’d weary of the standoff and saunter back to his seat. Some of the children, clearly disappointed there'd be no bloodshed, could be heard uttering, "Shit."

That was another problem with that year's crop, many of them cursed. Third graders! Children! Often when I lined my class up for a trip -- let's say to the assembly hall -- I could easily hear, "step lively, motherfucker," or "get your big-assed feet off my shoes."

One night during that grim year, as I was getting ready for bed, I looked into the bathroom mirror to see red spots decorating my torso. “Honey, take a look,” I said to my husband. I lifted my nightgown and exposed the bright design that was now beginning to itch.

“Whoa,” he said. “Measles?”

“No, can’t be, I’ve been immunized. I have an appointment with Dr. Hankin, on Saturday. I’ll ask him to take a look.”

“Definitely not measles,” Dr. Hankin said. “Looks to me like it could be stress related. Anything bothering you lately?”

“Well, besides the fact I’m not getting pregnant, and the kids at school are driving me crazy, and more guys my husband’s age are being drafted, I guess I’m doing okay.”

“I think you’ve made the diagnosis,” he said. “We’ve done all the tests on you and your husband, and they’ve all confirmed there’s no physical reason you’re not conceiving. I bet if you quit teaching, you’d get pregnant.”

"From your lips to God's ears," I said. As I reached for my clothing that was hung on the back of the examining room's door, I wondered if I'd ever be blessed to see on that hook a pair of slacks with an elastic waistband, plus a tent-like top that would flow over a swelling stomach.


Soon after that exam, my husband enlisted in the Army, and as an officer drew a choice assignment at Fort Devens, Massachusetts. I quit teaching to accompany him. The moment we arrived, I learned my obstetrician had been spot-on.


Within nine months, I delivered a beautiful baby daughter with black hair the same as her mother and if not the image of her father, close enough to make him ecstatic. And eighteen months later, another daughter easily followed her sister.

So without the aid of fertility clinics, in-vitro, or other laboratory settings, dear Dr. Hankin (now deceased) provided the perfect prescription. I’m not certain it would work for others, but, here’s what I recommend: quit your high-stress job, find some calming activity (yoga perhaps, not the military), and oh yes, send me a birth announcement.

WHAT WILL OTHER PEOPLE THINK

The theater is dark and quiet. All eyes focus on the stage, then turn to follow a spotlight that appears, sweeps past the scenery and lands on a series of five black-and-white, poster-sized photographs positioned stage right. They are pictures of women’s crotches. The audience explodes with gasps and laughter. A number of heads swivel towards me. I slowly raise my hand, wave feebly, like an aging celebrity acknowledging fans, then hunch my shoulders in a don’t-ask-me gesture.


The year is 1991 and the show is “The Miss Vagina Pageant” conceived, written, and produced by my daughters, Faith and Jill Soloway. The piece is a hilarious, feminist – and raunchy – spoof featuring Miss South Side of Chicago, Miss Pennsylvania, Miss Tennessee, Miss New York, and Miss Trinidad and Tobago. The crotch shots (of the actresses) are codas topping off each contestant’s heartfelt wishes for an ideal America.


The eyes turning towards me are eager to learn how I’ve reacted to the photographs. Am I slinking low in my seat, covering my face to block the images, or laughing with the rest of the crowd? I laugh, but inside, I feel a mix of emotions.

First, I'm embarrassed, for at the time, I was a 53-year-old middle-class woman with nary a hint of artistic rebellion. I worried what others would think of a mother who raised such ribald daughters.


Next, I felt fear. Surely my kids will get into trouble for violating Chicago's decency standards. Then, my feelings switched to pride. How could I not puff up for these two young women, 26- and 27-1/2-years-old back then, who had already found national fame with their “The Real Live Brady Bunch” production?

My final emotion was jealousy, for deep in my heart, I wished, how I wished, I could be as audacious as they.


"The Miss Vagina Pageant" wasn’t the first or only irreverent or risqué Soloway sisters’ production. Prior to that show, Faith wrote "Co-Ed Prison Sluts," a musical that poked fun at censorship and B-movies, and included Sh*t and Moth*r F*cker as lyrics. When Faith settled in Boston, she unsettled the American Society for the Defense of Tradition, Family and Property with her zany rock opera, "Jesus Has Two Mommies."


Meanwhile, Jill, who moved to Los Angeles, created her own upheaval with the short story, "Courteney Cox's Asshole," supposedly written by a tattle-telling personal assistant. Instead of getting her into trouble, the satire propelled Jill to a writing, producing slot on HBO’s "Six Feet Under." She followed that with her nonfiction book, "Tiny Ladies in Shiny Pants."

Just the fact I can list my daughters’ works is testimony -- in the 18 years since "Miss Vagina Pageant" -- how pride has trumped fear and embarrassment. More importantly, at age 70, having benefited from Faith and Jill’s chutzpah, I can now claim some of that long-wished-for attribute as my own.


My transformation was a long time coming because I grew up compliant, and constricted by my mother's What Will Other People Think (WWOPT) rule. For beautiful, traditional, Min Elkin Shapiro that meant staying married to my father for 25 years (until his death), despite never feeling love for him one day of that quarter century union.

For her daughter, it meant never leaving the house without my hair combed, keeping my hands off the cookie jar lest I turn into a chubby like my father, not objecting when her criticism wounded me, and never telling anyone (including my parents) about the neighbor who molested me.

In high school and college, WWOPT continued to guide me. I wore wedge-heeled shoes to make myself taller, a girdle to do the job dieting failed, and used makeup and charm to assure some boy would save me from spinsterhood.

Fortunately, at 22, I made the cut, married a future doctor, and bore the two daughters I champion in this essay. Although I still mirrored my mother in wardrobe and appearance, I chucked the rules when it came to Faith and Jill. From the time they were toddlers, I encouraged them to choose their own outfits. That frequently meant matched sets becoming unmatched and other combinations that displayed creativity rather than neatness. When Mother visited and complained, “How can you let them go out like that?” I’d shrug my shoulders.


In my mind, the first visible symbol of my crawling out from under WWOPT was a sizable tattoo inked on my left biceps as a 60th birthday present to myself. By then, I had divorced, remarried, let my hair go gray, and adopted a uniform of black t-shirts and blue jeans. Quite the rebel.


But with each passing year, I emerged a bit further away from Min's worry (she died in 1981 at the age of 67 while in her second unhappy marriage). I wrote a childhood memoir, "The Division Street Princess," that put me front and center at book signings, college classrooms, and other public events. Although there was nothing in those pages to match the ideology, or bawdiness, of my daughters' productions, I finally did describe the scene when I was seven years old and Vic lured me into his apartment.

With my daughters' moxie as my mantra, I began to reveal more personal stories online and then wrote a second book, "She's Not The Type." This novel, about a married woman with two children whose unhappiness propels her into, um, situations not typically associated with good Jewish wives, is now making the rounds of agents.


If and when the book hits store shelves, and friends and relatives beg to learn if there's any truth in its pages, they may turn to my daughters for clues. I imagine Faith and Jill will hunch their shoulders in a don't-ask-me gesture and perhaps feel a mix of emotions. I'm keeping my fingers crossed their pride for their mother's newfound nerve -- gleaned from their own examples of honesty and courage -- will outshine everything else.

Sitting on Top of the World

Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich and I have something in common: ambition and hubris knocked us both off lofty perches. Although his tumble was from a Mount Everest-sized peak, and mine closer to, well, a molehill, our anguish has similarities.


I’ll explain. Back in 1981, I was hired as a press aide to then-mayor Jane Byrne. I couldn’t have been happier, or prouder of my new assignment. As a lifelong Chicagoan, I relished local politics with all of its Shakespearian drama: treachery, jealousy, greed, and also noble works.


Now, here I was, not on the sidelines, but in the middle of the action. My glee became insufferable, though, as I blathered on about writing speeches, escorting the mayor to groundbreaking ceremonies, dropping off news releases to City Hall reporters (several pictured on this post), riding in the mayor’s limo, and actually entering her inner office after joshing with the security guards posted outside her paneled doors.


And when my workday ended and I was at home watching the evening news, and heard the mayor read my words as she stood at the podium, or at a ribbon-cutting ceremony, my swelled head threatened to topple my 5’ frame.


Alas, from such a high opinion of myself, a downfall was inevitable. My Blago-moment occurred when I was assigned to accompany the mayor to some benign event. Unfortunately, that very morning, a bigger story broke and reporters swarmed the ceremony determined to capture one of the mayor’s infamous quotes.


Along with my writing tasks, another of my roles was to buffer the boss from the tide of microphones, tape recorders, photographers, television cameras, and reporters threatening to flood the city’s diminutive first executive. Problem was, at my wee height, I got shoved aside as easily as a rubber ducky. I stood helpless as Mayor Byrne became engulfed and bombarded with unwelcome questions.


I returned to City Hall dejected, sat hunkered at my desk as she walked into the Press Secretary’s office and closed the door behind her. When I crept up to eavesdrop, I could hear her angry words, “Don’t send Elaine out with me anymore.”

My boss (Was it Ray McCarthy or Steve Crews? I can’t remember.) never actually relayed her decision, I just wasn’t assigned to outside events anymore. Despite that episode, I loved every minute I was a press office employee. And I never blamed the mayor for her ruling. She was right – I couldn’t handle it.


So if I don’t join the crowd damning Gov. Blagojevich’s obnoxious behavior, you’ll understand. I hope he takes this experience as one of life’s lessons. For my part, I learned that a seat at the top of the world could easily be upended when haughtiness overtakes humility. For Rod (since we’re linked, I can use this familiarity), his warning is simpler: stay off the f*@#$%^ phone!

(Pictured are some of the City Hall reporters during the Byrne administration: Ray Hanania, Andy Shaw, Fran Spielman, and Gary Washburn.)