The 122,564,756 Stritch tributes on my Fb stream last night (I have a lot of gay male fb friends) must have subliminally sunk in. I dreamt that I was having lunch with Elaine, herself, (and some other old broad I didn't recognize) at some swanky, sunny, sidewalk cafe (ladies who lunch and the sloppy lesbians who tag along for a free meal?) In the dream, I dropped my napkin, bent down to pick it up, and farted. I looked up, embarrassed, ready to apologize, but Stritch didn't miss a beat: she was waving down the waiter and saying, in her gravelly voice, "I'll have what she's having."
I feel Elaine Stritch would wholeheartedly approve of this dream.