In 1990, I was in Chicago for my 25-year high school reunion. After the festivities, two friends from Green Bay met me in the city for a wonderful touristy weekend. One of them, Rita, is a real cutup.
We were shopping at the Express on Michigan Ave., looking for something as mundane as socks. As I was poking around in piles of them, Rita walked over and pulled at my sleeve. "Joyce, Joyce," she said, "that's Oprah over there."
"Oprah? Oh, sure," I said, never looking up, knowing she could pull my leg easier than my sleeve, whether Read more