Two Degrees of Separation

Ellen Bloom Underhill, my almost sister 

She writes a blog. I write a blog. She's five years older. I'm five years younger. Her grandparents come from Kiev. My grandparents come from Kiev. She loves funky glasses. I love funky glasses. She knows people I know. I know people she knows. At the Hamburger Hamlet yesterday, we had a bowl of lobster bisque, the soup we were both raised on, and played a wild game of Jewish Geography that made our keppies spin. "You know her?" "How do you know him?" "Get out of here!" "Shut up!" "That's insane." "Wait!" "What?" "You're freaking me out." "This is getting weird."  Such a fun, menschy gal, this Ellen person. A laugh riot, a music lover, a knitter, a mondel-bread maker, a Facebook friend who's now a real live friend. But how did this happen? How did the cyber gods put us together? I'm so glad you asked. I just love your curiosity. The story goes something like this: After my sweet daddy passed away, Ellen contacted me via Facebook. Turns out, her mother and my father dated at UCLA for a year. Then, her mother, a lovely lady, I'm sure, because she showed me photos (what a looker! and such great hair!) dumped the man she called Benny when her future husband returned from war. And that was that. In the '50s, their paths would cross again, at the tennis club where my dad's best friend and Ellen's parents belonged, or on the streets of Beverly Hills. Her mom followed my dad's TV career. She was still proud of her Benny. Ultimately, it all worked out fine, didn't it? If her mother hadn't dumped my father, they might've married, and then neither one of us would've been at the Hamlet, playing Jewish Geography and enjoying our lobster bisque. And yet, somehow Ellen still feels like my almost sister, which makes no sense from a DNA standpoint, but my heart knows better.