Wanted: The Next Ann Landers

On Monday, March 2, 1987, exactly 28 years ago yesterday, I saw this ad in the Chicago Sun-Times. I was intrigued. I was curious. I was freshly married, blissfully happy, and knew next to nothing about anything. I was the perfect candidate.

Leslie Ann Landers Ad 1

Leslie Ann Landers AD pt 2

The only thing I did know was that a once in a lifetime opportunity sat in front of me at a time when I had no real responsibilities. I had a great job writing about tractors, lawn mowers, and men’s underwear as a Sears Catalog copywriter, but surely Sears would understand if I needed to leave because I’d won a national search for the next Guru of Guidance.

Of course, there was Richard to think about. But that’s all Richard has ever required. Even before he graduated with honors and a PhD in Richard from the University of Richard, he had always been self-sufficient.

I didn’t really think I stood the slightest chance of landing Ms. Landers’ job. If I had, I would have told myself to “seek counseling,” but talking to myself – – and answering – – might not have boded well, especially when seeking a job in this particular field.

The first thing I did was ask my brother, Paul, who worked with my father, to take a picture of me sitting in their firm’s law library. I wore my favorite raspberry dress with shoulder-pads as large as those worn by most defensive linebackers. Luckily, because it wasn’t humid, I was able to contain my hair within the parameters of a Polaroid.

Leslie Ann Landers 3

Then came the easy part, or so I thought. I was a decent writer. I have never had a problem writing about myself when the outcome was funny. But I had to sell myself. Ugh!

Being self-promoting has always seemed so self-promoting-ish to me. I’ve always found it hard to blow my own horn, adopt an air of self-puffery, or even tie my own shoes. Well, that’s not germane (or Tito, or Marlon…) to the story.

I’m so sure I’ll be too nervous by the time I need to promote a book someday, that Veronica and I have already discussed the very real possibility of her being my stand-in at book signings, and appearances on late-night television shows.

That's me on the left, and Veronica on the right.
That’s me on the left, and Veronica on the right.

 Need more proof?

Veronica and I are sporting faux piercings for a selfie of our bad selvies.
Veronica and I are sporting faux piercings for a selfie of our bad selvies.

I decided the best strategy was to just honestly answer the questions to the best of my ability.

They were looking for a person who could give guidance. Okay. I had guided many a girlfriend through rough patches with their boyfriends.

They wanted someone with guts. I didn’t and still don’t have any, but figured I could grow them.

Good Advice? Um, what’s the difference between advice and guidance?

It was time to call Mom.

Mom had no shortage of nice things to say about me, so I decided to say what she said about me. In fact (cringe,) I actually quoted my mother in the letter! You might have noticed by now that I have conveniently excluded from this post the letter of submission I wrote to the Chicago Sun-Times judges. It was so bad it was just too embarrassing to print.

I wrote (cringe cringe, cringe,)

“My mother said I have an ability to communicate and to empathize with people. She also said that I always exhibited good judgement as a child, and that I was always fair, perceptive, and conscientious. She also added that I am a miracle worker with sick pets, and that I have neat drawers.”

What?

Really.

What?

And, Mom, as Richard will gleefully tell you, I don’t have neat drawers anymore.

On March 9th, 1987, I sent the letter and picture in, and then waited patiently (and not so patiently) for a response. What if I actually made it to the semi-finals? Let’s face it. I wasn’t going to make it to the semi-finals…unless:

1.  Not one other person in all the land would take the job.

2.  All the Barbie dolls in the entire United States of America were unavailable through any and all retail outlets, so there was no other choice but to hire a a fresh-faced, wide-eyed ingenue with teeny, tiny pieces of brightly colored tissue paper floating around inside her brain.

Leslie Jo Chase Korengold: Wake up and Smell the Coffee!

Inevitably, I received a rejection letter in the mail, postmarked April 5, 1987. To the judges’ credit, I didn’t have to wait very long to find out what I already knew. I’ve included a picture of the envelope, too, because, it’s hard to believe, but it was hand-addressed, and only cost .22 cents to return my letter, my picture, and the rejection letter.

Leslie Ann Landers rejection

Leslie Ann Landers envelope

Just out of curiosity, did any of you apply to be the next Ann Landers? If so, please share your stories in the comments section below. I’d feel better knowing that I wasn’t the only person I know who responded to the Chicago Sun-Times search for the next Eppie Lederer.

After reading many of her quotes, I have found my favorite:

“Don’t accept your dog’s admiration as conclusive evidence that you are wonderful.” ~ Ann Landers

Helen Le Pu

My mother once told a friend how frustrating it was to communicate with her new housekeeper, Helen. Her friend said, “But, Lorraine, you speak Spanish, don’t you?”

My mother said, “Yes, but Helen is Polish.” 

Helen has worked for my mother for so long, the only way we’ll ever know her age is by counting the rings around her waist.

I didn’t see Helen often, but when I did, she was always very pleasant.

After Richard and I got married, moved to an apartment, had two children and a cat, we couldn’t keep things as clean as Richard liked.

Richard worked two jobs, and, when not being the loving, devoted mother, wife, and crazy animal lady I have always been, as a freelance journalist, I was frantically meeting deadlines for several magazines.

The cat shed, and so did our children. They were half “Chase,” after all, and we come from hairy stock.

When Richard found hairballs in his shoes, we asked Helen to come every three weeks.

As winter descended, Helen wore a beautiful Camel Hair coat. By February, I suspected Helen had taken a lover because she began to wear perfume.

But, it was not love I smelled in the air. It wasn’t a whisper, or a hint of a fragrance. It stunk up the air with the greatest of ease.

I only had to endure the stench every three weeks, but having always had a rather sensitive proboscis, I began to get headaches and feel nauseated every three weeks, too. I had to say something. But, what?

I didn’t know any Polish. Which words would convey that it was the smell of her perfume – – not her – – that I didn’t like? I didn’t want my words to translate to, “Helen, you smell like a rotting appendix.”

One afternoon I walked into the the living room ready to talk to her about her perfume, just as she finished and left to clean the kitchen.

I took a big sigh of relief, but in doing so, I realized the stench remained the same. How could that be?

I deduced that the smell couldn’t be wafting directly from her person. Like a Bloodhound, I was on a mission. Slowly I crept, step by step, sniff by sniff, until I found the source of the offending odor.

The Eau du Helen was coming from the coat she always put on top of the radiator. The closer I got, the worse it smelled. The heat must have been intensifying the noxious chemicals.

Once I knew from whence the smell came, I was able to try to ask her to please hang her coat on the banister in the hallway, just outside our apartment.

She did. Our encounter went very well. Maybe, a little too well. As a precaution, I didn’t lose sight of my cup of coffee in case she felt compelled to give me a sneezer latte.

One wintery Saturday, when she opened the door to leave, her coat was missing. It suddenly dawned on me that we’d left a bag of Richard’s dirty* shirts in a bag on the banister. The dry cleaner guy must have seen (and smelled) Helen’s coat, and taken it to be cleaned.

I called the dry cleaner and found that my assumption had been correct.

Helen took two busses and a train to get to and from our apartment. If she left later than her normal departure time, she might miss a bus or the train, and possibly not arrive home until the next day, conceivably in a different time zone altogether.

I’ve always disliked story problems, so I was relieved when Richard solved everything by calculating that he could drive the two blocks to the dry cleaner, pick up the coat, and then take Helen to her first point of departure.

Needless to say, we later had to have the car detailed.

After moving into our new house, we parted ways with Helen. She’d have had to take twice as many busses and trains to get there, only leaving her one hour to clean before having to catch the additional busses and trains.

Years later, I stopped by Mom’s one Wednesday afternoon. As soon as my finger reached for the doorbell, I knew Helen was there because The Smell was coming from inside the house.

Helen gave me a big hug, launching my nausea ad nauseam.

She looked me up and down, and said, in the few English words she pronounced so well, I’d swear she’d had lessons from Miss Manners, herself, “You look so good! So fat!”

I smiled, said a quick, “hello” to my mother, and got the hell out of there.

After taking a shower and boiling my clothes, my mother called to try to explain that in Helen’s culture, calling someone “fat” was not meant to be offensive. It was actually a compliment that meant “you must be doing well.”

I didn’t care what Helen meant. My ego had been deflated. I’d worked really hard to only be that fat.

No matter how my mother tried to spin it, the fat was out of the bag. I think Helen seized the opportunity to get me back for the smelly coat extravaganza.

How long had Helen planned her back fat…I mean pay back?  How long had she practiced those exact words in English so she could say them to my fat face?

I am usually not one to hold grudges, but I haven’t stomped foot in my mother’s house on a Wednesday between 9:00 AM – 3:30 PM since.

Fat chance I ever will again.

*Richard’s shirts have never been dirty. He sent them out because, even after lessons from my friend Juliet, I was unable to iron them to his specifications.

There’s still time to submit words for The Mad Libs Project! Please read the blog post from February 8, 2015, and e mail your words to lesliejochase@gmail.com.

Thanks!

The Mad Libs Project, Part I

One of my favorite games is Kerplunk.

You’re probably thinking I’ve lost my marbles because I’m talking about Kerplunk in a story titled “The Mad Libs Project.” That would be a possibility, but I still have three marbles left, so just go with it. I promise, it will eventually make a little bit of sense.

For as long as I can remember, Kerplunk created hours of mindless suspense, and a heck of a good time for me. Some people like to climb mountains, or take on the Class IV rapids of Namangosa Gorge in Ecuador.

Not I. I’m content with the excitement Kerplunk provides as I try to remove a plastic stick from a plastic canister hoping not to disturb any of the plastic marbles balancing precariously inside.

The original Kerplunk! Photo credit: Patrick Hashley
The original Kerplunk!
Photo credit: Patrick Hashley

I like doing research, especially about things I’m writing and actually care about, but to be honest, I wasn’t very intrigued about the origins of Kerplunk. But, the few remaining marbles in my head demanded I do due diligence, and I said, “Fine.” So here it is:

According to http://wwwbestkidstoysever.com/vintage-toys-2/kerplunk-game-a-1970s-game-still-alive, “Interestingly the name KerPlunk is onomatopoeic and based on the sound made by the marbles when a straw is removed and they fall to the bottom.”

I did not find this very interesting because a wild hunch told me that’s how the game got its name, and if you didn’t surmise the same thing, you probably have only two marbles.

But while I was less than impressed by the way in which it received its name,  I do think Kerplunk inspired a creative “plunk” heard around the world.

Interesting
Interesting… Photo credit: thechaosmommy.blogspot.com
Very interesting! Photo credit: thechaosmommy.blogspot.com
Now, this is cool. I want one in my backyard.
Now, this is cool. I want one in my backyard. Photo credit: aboutcolonblank.com

Another one of my favorite games is Mad Libs. What an ingenious idea. Even with the limited vocabulary I possessed as a child, I’d always end up falling to the floor, giggling, because the stories turned out so silly.

Now I love to play Mad Libs even more because I know about ten more words than I did back then.

Since I was curious about the origin of Mad Libs, I went online and found a fascinating article written by one of  its creators, Leonard Stern. For some reason, my computer won’t let me publish a direct link to www.madlibs.com/history, so if you really want to know about it,  just Google, “mad-libs history” and the article should just pop up.

Mad Libs for every occasion!
Mad Libs for every occasion!

 

Looks rather interesting, don't you think? Photo credit: www.mtvhive.com
Looks rather interesting, don’t you think?
Photo credit: www.mtvhive.com

I think I like to play Mad Libs because it gives me the opportunity to use words and numbers, I wouldn’t in everyday conversations, such as, “Nostril, Dodo bird, sphincter,” and “7,453.”

Why am I telling you about my favorite games? Well, I’m glad you asked. We can’t play virtual Kerplunk, although I have asked Howard*, Leonard*, Raj*, and Sheldon* to work on it.

But, I propose a hypothesis of a paradigm that would allow us to collectively play virtual Mad Libs.

Excuse me. Amy* just fainted.

So, I have written a Mad Libs script, leaving out nouns, verbs, adverbs, adjectives, names of people in the room, and a few numbers.

Of course I can’t tell you the theme of the story, or where it takes place, because then it will just end up nice and easy. But there’s just one thing.

You see we never, ever do anything nice and easy. We always do it nice and funny. So, we’re going to start thinking about the beginning of this story and do it funny, and then, we’re gonna do the finish hilarious. This is the way we do Mad Libs. (Thank you Ike & Tina Turner for allowing me to borrow and, make slight adjustments to, your introduction to “Proud Mary.”)

Please e mail your (family-friendly) contributions to lesliejochase@gmail.com by Friday, March 13th. Submit by e mail only, please.

I can’t wait to see what we come up with together! I’m hoping it will be so much fun that we’ll do it again, hence the title, The Mad Libs Project, Part I.

Mad Libs Logo photo credit: shelf-life-ew.com
Mad Libs Logo
photo credit: shelf-life-ew.com

*Characters from The Big Bang Theory

To subscribe to this wonderful website, please visit the Home Page, enter your e mail address in the box that says:

Enter your email address to subscribe to this blog and receive notifications of new posts by email.

But wait! There’s more! Then open your e mail and you will have magically received an e mail from me asking you to confirm your subscription, at which point you click “subscribe,” “confirm,” “yes,” or , “I really didn’t mean to do this,” and you will be added to the list of hundreds of satisfied customers. It’s free, by the way. It’s like dinner and a show; that is, if you’re eating while reading my blog and find it entertaining.

 Thank you!

This One’s for You, Rick Williams, PGA

I’ve said this before, but I really want to say it again: One of the things I love about blogging is developing cyber-friendships with interesting, fun people I would probably never meet otherwise.

One of my favorite blogger friends is Rick Williams who lives near Philadelphia. He’s the U.S. Campaign Manager for RetailTribe, a company that, well, I don’t really don’t know anything about.

He’s also a PGA Pro who finds golf – – WAIT, I NEED TO SAY SOMETHING HERE, “Mom, Richard, Bobby, Danny, Mary, Warren, Barbara, and all my other golf friends, including me, please sit down before you read the rest of this sentence, “a peaceful, meditative activity.”

Rick is a great writer who has a healthy approach (golf term!) to life, family, food, fun, and, of course, golf.

I don’t remember how we found each others’ blogs, but for me, it was the beginning of a beautiful friendship. I can’t speak for Rick.

Wherever I am, if I see something cool that’s golf-related, I like to send pictures to Rick, such as these from a road-trip to French Lick, Indiana in October 2014.

Display in the atrium of the French Lick Hotel announcing  the upcoming 76th annual Senior PGA Championship, that will be played at the hotel's famous Pete Dye Course for the very first time.
This is the display in the atrium of the French Lick Hotel for the upcoming 76th annual Senior PGA Championship, scheduled at the hotel’s famous Pete Dye Course May 21-24, 2015.
Extreme close-up of the coveted Albert S. Bourne trophy.
Extreme close-up of the coveted Albert S. Bourne trophy. In 1937, Bourne, one of the founding members of Augusta National Golf Club, commissioned Tiffany’s to create what has remained one of golf’s largest trophies. He then donated it to the Senior PGA Championship so that each year’s winner’s name could be engraved on it. (ref: www.pga.com/seniorpga/news/2014-senior-pga-championship-alfred-s-bourne-trophy,) and (http://golf.about.com/od/majorchampionships/g/alfred-s-bourne-trophy.htm.)
Okay. This has nothing to do with golf but it's a picture of the top of the atrium of the French Lick Hotel. Yes, I did lie on the floor underneath it to try to get the best picture I could.
Okay. This has nothing to do with golf. This is what it looks like when you lie on your back on the carpet underneath the highest point of the dome in the middle of the atrium of the French Lick Hotel.

You might be wondering why I’m writing about Rick Williams and golf on a snowy day in Chicago in January. Well, the answer lies (another golf term!) in the last two photos below.

But first, I need to set the scene:

This is the front of my house.
This is the front of my house.
This is the view of the golf course across the street from my house, near the 9th hole.
This is the view of the golf course across the street from my house, facing the 9th hole.
9th tee box waaaaaay back here
9th tee box waaaaaay back here

And now for the best part…

Two golf balls I found yesterday on the ground undeneath the windowboxes (see piicure of the front of my house, above.). I'm thinking poor club selection.
Two golf balls I found yesterday on the ground undeneath the windowboxes (see piicure of the front of my house, above.)
Anyone missing a couple of Tittelist 1's?
It’s snowing today, so I apologize to the people who were playing these because I had to  move the lie of the balls to see the brand. Anyone missing a couple of Titleists?

So, now,  wherever I am, if I see something  funny that’s golf-related, I’ll send those photos to Rick, as well. No one likes to slice or hook a ball, but this is ridiculous! Poor club selection, perhaps?

Links (another golf term!) to Rick’s blogs:

Mind Body Golf  https://mindbodygolf.wordpress.com/

The Inefficient Kitchen http://www.theinefficientkitchen.com/home.html