The Pittsburgh Press (December 27, 1944)
By Gracie Allen
Well, the cutest invaders you ever saw arrived in California this week – the members of the Tennessee football team who are here to play the University of Sothern California at the Pasadena Rose Bowl on New Year’s Day.
I don’t know much about football, but when I saw those tall, handsome fellows with the magnolia blossoms in their voices, I knew football was one of my favorite sports.
I went to a game once, and really, football’s very simple. About forty-four men sit on a bench with blankets over their heads and talk about girls. Then eleven fellows who can’t find seats have to go out on the field to meet eleven other fellows who can’t find seats. One fellow is chosen as “it” and he runs with the ball like everything. Someone trips him; the players jump on one another; someone blows a whistle, and the people in the stands go wild. That’s all.
Oh, yes, the Tennessee football team is called “the Volunteers.” Governor Prentiss Cooper of Tennessee came along with the team and he’s the nicest “volunteer” of all, girls. He happens to be unmarried.
The Pittsburgh Press (December 28, 1944)
By Gracie Allen
I don’t want to seem suspicious, but the plan to close the racetracks on the heels of an announcement of a crucial meat shortage – well, I hope it’s just a coincidence.
Believe me, my butcher had better not offer me a roast with Santa Anita stamped on it. And even if that’s not to be the case, what are all those racehorses going to do? it will be pretty tough for a horse like Twilight Tear to go from making $50,000 in one afternoon to pulling a milk wagon for $2 a day. And Secretary Morgenthau will never believe the filly’s income tax return.
My George says thousands of bookmakers will be out of work. Well, that doesn’t make sense at all. There is enough demand for “Forever Amber” alone to keep all the bookmakers busy. Well, it’s a man’s world, I guess, and I’ll never understand it.
The Pittsburgh Press (December 29, 1944)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I’m no Nostradamus (I hope not, because I’d be hundreds of years old). But with the aid of my woman’s intuition, I’ve got a few forecasts to make for the coming New Year.
So, folks, here’s what to expect:
Real girdles will come back in 1945. So will 1944’s laundry… There will be a shortage of admirals and a surplus of ancestors in Japan… The film industry will abolish “B” pictures again… Clare Boothe Luce will attack the administration while wearing a new hat brought back from Paris… Harold Ickes will tell the press what is wrong with it… Our cook will quit. So will yours… Turkey will announce they are coming in on the side of the Allies. Nobody, including Turkey, will believe it.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 2, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I don’t know about your house, but at our house the holiday spirit is as cold as Congressman Ham Fish’s seat in the House of Representatives. Today, George is starting on his income tax statement. I like the way George is taking the whole thing. Mr. Morgenthau is the first person with whom George has ever seemed willing to share my salary.
One thing I must say, I enjoy reading the income tax laws. It’s just like a wonderful mystery story. You figured out one year, then Congress comes back after the holidays, all rested and full of turkey, and zing! The suspense goes on for another year.
The government might make a little extra money by publishing the tax rules as a mystery novel titled possibly, The Case of the Missing Fiduciary, or Who’s Withholding Who?
The Pittsburgh Press (January 5, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Hollywood, California –
Well, it looks like Congress is back at the old stand, with a few familiar faces and relatives missing from the payroll.
From the woman’s standpoint, the most interesting thing will be to see if the pen is mightier than the makeup box. In this corner, ladies and gentlemen, is Clare Boothe Luce, on the Republican elephant, representing literature; in that corner Helen Gahagan Douglas, on the Democratic donkey, representing the drama.
I think it is just wonderful that each of our great parties has such a beautiful member to represent it, and I’m sure when they cross swords in oratory you won’t be able to see the speaker’s rostrum for newsreel cameras. Requests for gallery seats are so heavy some people have suggested staging the whole thing in Madison Square Garden.
Goodness, it certainly wouldn’t surprise me a bit if the Luce-Douglas debates went thundering down into history alongside the Lincoln-Douglas ones.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 8, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Goodness, now there’s talk about a government draft of women to work in certain industries. Uncle Sam is going to substitute the factory whistle for the wolf whistle. The theory is that any woman strong enough to dig a fur coat out of her husband can also plant a few acres of potatoes, and women complaining about nylons may soon get them in a way they don’t expect.
According to chemists, nylons are made mostly out of coal, and these gals may find themselves digging up their stockings in lump form. Other women who are upset about not getting cigarettes may find themselves working on a tobacco plantation. I can imagine a lady in a mink coat and a lorgnette giving the tobacco auctioneer’s chant with a Park Avenue accent.
The Manpower Commission is interested also in getting women to replace men in certain nightclub jobs. Can you imagine the men dying of thirst on bar stools all over the country while a couple of lady bartenders discuss recipes?
The Pittsburgh Press (January 10, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I don’t know what you other housewives are doing with those cancelled blue points, but I’m pressing mine in my ration book, same as I pressed the rose in my diary, which George gave me on our honeymoon.
I guess most of us had to listen to our husbands’ corny jokes about getting caught win our “points” down.
Like everyone else, I was a little upset at first, and then I began to feel a little sorry for the head of the OPA. Goodness, he couldn’t keep 20 million housewives happy even if his name were Boyer instead of Bowles.
And you can bet beef will soon be hard to get again. The way things are going, soon the cow is going to be as sacred in this country as it is in India.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 11, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I hope that news story about the dogs in Illinois eating up all the soybean auto license plates will be a good lesson for the scientists.
When science starts something no one, including the scientists, knows where it is going to finish. I understand it was a determined alchemist who was trying to turn lead into gold when he accidentally discovered gunpowder. And now where are we?
And I think Thomas A. Edison would have thought twice about inventing the phonograph if he had realized he would be known as the “father of the jukebox.”
Personally, the more I hear about the soybean the more it frightens me. Why, it could become a vegetable Frankenstein. It seems you can make anything from soup to steamships with it. You can eat the soybean, live in it, wear it, and make jokes out of it.
Already science knows how to make mechanical men. Maybe someday we’ll have a soybean husband. But the day I’m looking forward to is when some scientist figures out how to make a scientist out of soybeans. It will serve him right.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 13, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, I think it was nice that Mr. Roosevelt managed to cut the war budget $18 billion below last year’s estimate, but I do wish he hadn’t announced it just as I was trying to get George to increase my household allowance by three dollars. George says if the President can cut expenses, I can.
Well, there’s a difference. Gen. MacArthur is a lot closer to Tokyo that he was last year, but I’m still as far away from getting a lamb chop from my butcher as I ever was. And the cost of chasing Jap admirals may be down this season, but eggs are still on the way up.
Goodness, I can certainly sympathize with Mr. Roosevelt if he has to go through the same things to get money out of Congress that I do to get it out of George. Besides, I need a little pin money so that I may look pretty for my husband, whereas I don’t think members of Congress care whether Mr. Roosevelt loves them or not.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 14, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
If you ask me, the most confused critters in this entire war are the hens. Only last year, the poor things wanted to lay eggs and the OPA said “hold it!” And there were lots of hens walking around with a dozen eggs and no place to put them.
Now it turns out there’s a shortage of eggs today, and nasty remarks are being passed in Washington circles about the laying capacity of the American hen. Goodness, you can’t retool a hen for higher production like it was an aircraft plant.
And hens can’t read, either, so it wouldn’t help to issue a “produce or fight!” order to them. Personally, I think if we have the proper kindness and patience, all the hens in the country will put their white meat to the wheel and will come through with flying colors.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 17, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I told you our new Secretary of State, Edward Stettinius, has more than just a handsome face. Now I hear he has ordered all frills out of the window at the State Department and that shirt sleeves and suspenders and hard work are going to be very fashionable there this season.
Well, Benjamin Frankin, whose birthday is today, was one of our best diplomats and goodness knows, he went around looking like an advertisement for a rummage sale.
Also, I understand Mr. Stettinius plans to bring young men into the department who have qualifications other than graduating from our most aristocratic colleges. He figures, I guess, that post-war diplomats may play a little rough. If he is looking for bright, aggressive young men, may I ask if he’s tried to buy a used car lately? Or a real estate plot in Los Angeles?
The Pittsburgh Press (January 18, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
My goodness, the Roosevelts are certainly keeping Cupid busy these days! First it was Elliott and now it’s Fala. The difference is that Roosevelts won’t disclose the identity of Fala’s wife. She must be a Republican.
I’m sorry they’re making it a secret wedding. A formal White House ceremony would have been so picturesque!
I can just see Mr. and Mrs. Fala trotting down the east steps under an arch of crossed bones while the well-wishers shower hem with kibbled dog biscuit.
Then as a honeymoon, the newlyweds could have strolled romantically among the cherry trees that line the Potomac.
Yes, I’m sorry they’re having such a quiet wedding. I do hope no Congressman finds anything to criticize about it.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 19, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Hollywood, California –
Well, some thoughtless war correspondent over in the Philippines has just cabled the news that all the Japs are starting to move out of their Manila hotels and apartments in fear of the approaching American troops. I say “thoughtless” because when word gets around that apartments are vacant in Manila an army of homeless American civilians is liable to enter the city before MacArthur does.
Well, it just goes to show the Japs can’t take it. You wouldn’t find any American vacating his apartment just because some old army was at the front door. Have you tried to find an apartment lately? Our forefathers complained because they had to fight Sitting Bull to find a place to live. The present occupants of apartments may not be Indians but believe me Sitting Bull couldn’t sit any tighter than they are doing.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 22, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, most of the news in the papers is so good again, you could eat it with a spoon. But don’t forget the old saying about when you have dinner with the devil, be sure to use a long spoon.
Goodness, a lot of people are starting to guess again when the war will be over! I never heard of anybody with his house on fire pulling out a watch and saying: “Well, I guess the fire will be out by 11:27 p.m.”
I don’t think any of us should take good news too seriously until a “Los Angeles City Limits” sign is planted outside the Imperial Palace in Tokyo, and we see Hitler, Goering, Himmler and company standing out in the Wilhelmstrasse singing the German version of “Don’t Fence Me In” to Gen. Eisenhower.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 23, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, thank goodness, things seem to be getting back to normal at last.
Mr. Roosevelt is back in office as President. A volcano is erupting in Mexico, and Harold Ickes is getting ready to follow suit.
The Russians, whose favorite song is “Dark Eyes,” are back at their favorite pastime of giving black eyes to the German High Command.
That old established firm of Roosevelt, Stalin and Churchill has taken young Mr. Stettinius into partnership. Now when the discussion gets too heated, they can cool off with a round of bridge.
Everyone seems to be more cheerful now that the sun is shining again. For a while the whole sky seemed to be overcast with flying Roosevelt dogs. And Congress had plenty to say about those dogs, just as I predicted. Yes, things are certainly normal again.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 24, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Medical statistics show that there are more than 20 million colds in the United States right this minute. Twenty million! That’s about 10 million colds for every available piece of sanitary issue.
It’s amazing that with all the progress medical science has made, the common cold still has them stumped. Sometimes I believe that grandma’s cures were the most effective after all – rub yourself with goose grease, hang a bag of asafetida around your neck, and a cold wouldn’t come near you. Neither would people.
Here in sunny California no one worries about a cold. They just slap you into an oxygen tent, load you with sulfa and penicillin and if you’re healthy the climate will pull you through.
The Pittsburgh Press (January 29, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
HOLLYWOOD, California – Goodness, it’s certainly amazing the way women will fall for a uniform!
Have you been reading about the little San Francisco streetcar conductor who outdid tommy Manville and got himself some 11 wives or so and no divorces?
Manville may not be a streetcar conductor but at least he gets a transfer now and then.
How times have changed! It used to be every woman dreamed of a handsome Lochinvar who came riding out of the West on a big white horse. Now they seem to prefer a San Francisco motorman who comes clanging down Market Street in his little yellow trolley.
I don’t know how many of these fellows are hoarding large pools of women, but at least we know one answer to why the streetcars are so crowded these days. It’s probably just the conductor taking his wives out for a ride.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 2, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Mark Twain once said “everyone talks about the weather, but no one ever does anything about it.” That’s not true. Here in glorious California, we always fib about it.
Fortunately, I’m glad to say we don’t have to tell any untruths about the month of January that just ended as it was one of the driest Januaries in Weather Bureau history here. Of course, several hundred people almost froze to death but they all lived on the shady side of the street.
It was so cold here that Betty Grable was getting gooseflesh instead of giving it. And there was a rumor that every morning, frost would form on the windows of the Los Angeles weatherman’s bulletproof car.
Ah! But it’s still the most wonderful climate in the world. You never have to get up in the middle of the night to fire your furnace. You’ve already been up all night taking care of the smudge pots.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 5, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
Well, ladies, in case you haven’t already heard it, let me warn you – they say that men’s beards are about to sweep the country. And with the shortage of vacuum cleaners, it’s possible.
It seems the fad started with our submarine crews and soldiers stationed in northern climes and now it’s spreading to civilians. In fact, a salon for the exclusive care of beards has just been opened in New York. I hope it doesn’t catch on.
Somehow, I can’t picture Sinatra crooning “Amor, Amor” through a bushy beard, and you know what Crosby would do. He’d dye his red, blue, green and yellow and wear it for a shirt.
Why, if the men grow beards, they’d all look alike. It’ll be terrible. I won’t be able to tell George from Charles Boyer.
Wait a minute; that’s not so terrible.
The Pittsburgh Press (February 6, 1945)
By Gracie Allen
I’ve always heard that Molly Pitcher and those pioneer women were much braver and hardier that we women today. Don’t you believe it. True, they had to fight off Indians and wolves, and they took ordeals like having babies during Indian skirmishes right in stride.
Well, we may not have the Indians to fight, but the wolves today are much faster – they have cars. And just a week or so ago a woman in Los Angeles had a baby during a traffic jam.
For your information a Los Angeles traffic jam is much more bloodthirsty than any old Indian attack, and as for fighting ability, did you read about those women in Everett, Washington? They were attending a sale of sheer stockings and the store caught on fire. Well, those women stood off the firemen until every last pair of stockings had been sold.
Molly Pitcher… huh.