Yesterday was the surprise party for my Aunt Joan 90th birthday, though her actual birthday isn't until Tuesday. It went very well, wonderfully organized for months by her daughter, my cousin Susie, but the logistics were dicey because she’s still very dynamic, and it required maneuvering her to do things uncommon for her because she likes to be in control and without her guessing she was being maneuvered.
I've always said that if I’m ever in a war, I want her in my foxhole – even today. She's still that vibrant. I occasionally get phone calls from her at 10:30 at night...but that's in Los Angeles. She lives back in Chicago, so it's 12:30 in the morning. She's usually working on some project at that hour, "And I don't want to go to bed until I get it finished." Her husband has long-since been sleeping, but she's working away. And it's not a little project for herself, but for some organization she's working with. She's also the head of food committee at the independent living residence where they are -- she's wanted to quit that, but the managers keep asking her to stay because she's so good at it. She went back to school in late-middle age to get her Masters degree (at the beloved Northwestern) and then ran a family services social program there. She's quite the dynamo -- so maneuvering her around without her guessing was no easy task. Part of the plan was to get her to the curb outside her residence and have her daughter (my cousin) call to say she was running 20 minutes late -- and not have her decide to go back upstairs to wait. Instead, a few of us had set up the idea of visiting a room across the street where an earlier party had taken place that I hadn't been in town for and wanted to see, because the room and view were supposed to be so nice. That's where our party was taken place. There were some hiccups along the way, but we tapdanced though them and got her across the street, into the other building and going up the elevator. And it all worked – but came apart with 50 feet to go. That close to the promised land, she saw a server in the doorway, and thought someone else was having a party there. And she wouldn't go in. In fact, she stopped dead in her tracks. I said I thought it would be okay, and would check. But she didn't want me to do that, and when I kept heading towards the door to "check," she got very blunt about it. She saw the coat rack and knew therefore that there was indeed a party. I tried to noodge her on, but you don't noodge Aunt Joan. "There's an unwritten rule at the residence," she said forcefully, "that when someone else is having a party, you do not intrude in any way." And the more I said it should be fine, the more I could see her not only shutting down, but starting to get angry. And took a few more steps closer, and it looked like she was about to implode, insistent that I stop. "I live here," she said through clenched teeth, "you don't. I deal with these people all the time. Stop." What I realized was a double problem: that not only did I have to get her in, but if she imploded too much she wouldn’t enjoy the surprise. And we were on the verge of that. She had that Aunt Joan Look. So I quickly decided that I had to blow the secret. I walked back to her, leaned in close in a very personal, quiet way, and said, “There is a party. And it’s for you. It’s a surprise.” She was bewildered for a moment and said that it couldn’t be because she’d just gotten a call from her daughter who was 20 minutes away. “No,” I said, “she’s here. In the room. that was part of our ruse.” When I moved her forward a little bit and she saw an easel at the doorway with pictures of her, that's when it finally clicked in that this was real. However, she was still slightly uncertain about it all. But walking through the door, even with the surprise being blown, that turned out to act as a sort of set up, and once inside, she was overwhelmed to see how many people were there, filling up the place, and kept saying, “Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, my. Oh, my!!” So, it worked out. And she had a wonderful time. And was all smiles at the end, appreciative of the ruse. Phew.
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This week's guest contestant on NPR's Wait, Wait...Don't Tell Me! is actor Bradley Whitford, best-known for his role on the series, The West Wing, and is currently in another political-based film, The Post. His conversation with host Peter Sagal is light-hearted and covers both of those, along with his antagonist in the horror film Get Out. Plus there's an unexpected interruption at one point...
Apparently they're doing new shows again, so we're out of the archives, at least for the time being. For today's Piano Puzzler, the guests are Beau Smith and Sylvia Pachico of Adelbury, Massachusetts. For the longest time, I had hard time picking out the hidden song, though I thought I heard a couple possibilities. But a long ways in, it finally became absolutely clear, and I knew I had it right. As for the composer style, it danced between several possibilities...all of which were wrong. But the composer is very popular -- and one of my favorites. I just didn't think he wrote anything like this. One quibble -- not about the contest, but the discussion afterwards. The contestants didn't know the hidden song at all, though it's famous with several reasons why its pedigree should have helped -- yet neither host Fred Child or pianist Bruce Adolphe explained any of them. They only gave the name of the song. Not its larger context or who else famously recorded it. (Sorry, I don't want to say more to give it away for those playing along.) At which point, if they had, the contestants might have said, "Ooohhhhh! Okay!! NOW I know what it is."
Got into Chicago this afternoon, where the weather is bizarrely unseasonal. It was bitter a couple weeks ago, below zero, and I figured it should be much of the same in late January. But happily I checked ahead of time. It's supposed to be mid-40s tomorrow and basically for the next few days. (Colder at night, of course, in the 20s.)
Instead of going to Evanston after landing, as I would otherwise do, people were meeting at my cousin's house for dinner, so I took a car there to Lake Bluff instead. (As I mentioned this morning, the occasion for being here is my aunt's 90th birthday in a few days.) When we all went out for dinner, it was to a nearby place called MLG. And what does that stand for? For those of you who, like me watch and enjoy the show The Profit, it stands for “Marcus Lemonis Group”! He lives in Lake Bluff, and it’s his restaurant. (If you watched his companion show last year, The Partner, this is restaurant where he took all the finalists on his “The Partner” for I believe the ast episode. (Short version of a long story. My cousin meet him at the restaurant once, a couple years ago, and she told a lovely story how nice he was. So, the way he comes across on the show is apparently how he is.) The restaurant was quite nice by the way. A very good meal. And best thing of all, the elves taking care of the homestead while I'm away love The Profit, so they were bitterly jealous... Off to Chicago for four days, and my aunt's 90th birthday. I'll probably be heading off to a cousin's house right after landing and having dinner there, so I don't expect to check into my hotel until late. As a result, I probably won't be posting again until tomorrow. But we'll see.
As it stands though, the elves will be here later and watching over the generator to make sure it keeps running. There's plenty of coal for them to shovel, so all should be well.
And so it turns out that Trump is more about the Art of the No Deal. This apparently is what happens when you don't have another writer doing your work and then putting your name on it. Go figure, when you're not actually good enough at the one thing you're supposed to be good at, that speaks volumes.
And so we're in a government shutdown. If I had to guess, I don't think this will last terribly long, since both parties have actually had a deal, but it was blocked by Trump. If they decide to go forward with what they had already decided and put it on Trump's desk, then he'll have to face what to do. But who know? We'll find out if that's wildly wishful thinking or not. Okay, happily I was able to track down that satirical "infomercial" I mentioned that Chris Hayes did on his MSNBC show last night. Here it is --
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AuthorRobert J. Elisberg is a political commentator, screenwriter, novelist, tech writer and also some other things that I just tend to keep forgetting. Feedspot Badge of Honor
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