Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast

Beth Broderick
  • 5.0 (1)
  • Personal Journals
  • Updated Bimonthly

Beth Broderick dives deeply into her personal experience to deliver a weekly essay full of wit, wisdom, and stories from the heart. bethbroderick.substack.com

  1. Aug 25

    Sticking the Landing

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I was trying to apply my spray deodorant, which was easy enough on the right side. I just grabbed the can with my left hand, aimed at the armpit, and voila! Protection courtesy of questionable ingredients, which may or may not have dire consequences for our health down the road, but we use it anyway because we do not want to be a stinko. I guess we all figure that if it kills us, we’ll at least die smelling fresh! You’ve got to give it to the personal hygiene folks; that’s some seriously good marketing. Spraying the left side was the tricky part. The fingers of my right hand, which protruded from the brace I had been instructed to wear, were not capable of applying even a small amount of pressure. There was no way to spray my left pit with my left hand, so I tried setting the can on the counter and crouching down so my armpit was level with the spout and sort of mashing the top with the forearm of my good hand. No dice. I tried triggering it with my right elbow, and this sent the can careening across the bathroom where it launched itself against the shower wall. Gol dang it! It was clear that I would need a different solution, so I rifled through all of my bathroom products and found a small sample of some kind of roll- on stuff which promised 24-hour protection. I shudder to think what kinds of compounds make that possible, but it was a thousand degrees outside, and I had a dog to walk. I could not pry the lid off, so I stuck it between my molars on the right and tugged with my good paw. Success. I grabbed an SPF 50 shirt and painstakingly threaded it over my banged-up arm, did my best to tie my sneakers, and then, with considerable effort, managed to harness up my 90-pound dog. We were off. Admittedly a little worse for wear but undeterred from our morning ritual. When I recounted the story to Eric, he was not all that amused. “Why do you think this happens so often? These accidents?” He asked. “Is it your eyesight? Could you have an inner ear imbalance? I’ve seen you nearly get creamed by traffic in the city so many times. It’s like even when you are looking, you don’t see where you are going. It’s very worrying.” That was a reasonable line of questioning. He had a point. I do have an explanation of sorts, but it’s a long one, and knowing why this stuff happens has done exactly nothing to change this state of affairs, so after some 60-odd years, I have decided to just accept the situation. That was the day after I took a pretty good fall in Griffith Park. It was a beautiful morning, and I was ambling along my favorite path near the creek in Fern Dell when my foot must have caught on a tree root or small divot. I flew a couple of feet and landed hard; my head went thwack against the cement, but thankfully, my right arm took the majority of the impact. Knees scraped; left elbow ground up and bloodied; the shirt sleeve shredded. I was a bit dazed at first, and it took a minute before I could try to stand. Fairness stood watching the effort, his back leg shaking. I sat and gathered my wits, then walked well over a mile to get home. It wasn’t good. I knew that, but I am fairly unfazed by these sorts of events. I drew a bath so I could wash all of the affected areas and let the warm water comfort my battered flesh. There was a decision to be made, and I honestly did not think twice. Urgent Care or the ER or some such event was definitely on the horizon, but I had a hair appointment, and that would have to come first. Anette, who handles my color, cut, and all the things that need handling on my head, was leaving for Europe. This was her last day at the salon before a three-week tour. My roots, which are white and silver, were already beginning to draw attention to themselves, peeking through the honeyed blonde I have chosen to obscure them with. I know that I am not fooling anyone. We all know that someone my age is hitting the peroxide, but to allow physical evidence of that in the form of inch-long regrowth is the stuff of scandal. I dressed carefully, my right hand already beginning to balloon, filled a towel with ice, and headed to the salon. I drove with my left, careful not to rest my torn-up elbow on the window. By the time I arrived, the sleeves of the white shirt I had thrown on for sun coverage were wet with blood. Anette eyed this warily as I hung it on the hook at her station. “Shouldn’t you maybe go to the hospital?” she asked gently. “That hand is pretty bad.” “I will after this. No reason to go running over there. The hand will be the same kind of mess three hours from now, but my hair will be a bigger mess in a month, so let’s just get it done, and then I’ll go.” She nodded and set about mixing my color, tightening my extensions and all the attendant fuss of a hair appointment. We chatted about her plans overseas and how I was feeling about the movie I am making at the end of the month. My ice was melting away, so Anette ran to the AM/PM to get more while my hair dye processed. After two hours, I was ready to head out, sporting blonde locks and a fresh blow-dry As I dressed, Anette eyed my swollen hand with apprehension. “That is really … you really should have that looked at. Urgent Care at least.” I planned to do just that, but the swelling indicated I could be in for a longish visit to the medical folks, so I ducked home first to take the dog out for a pee break. I worked in a call to my sister Laura, who said I should just bite the bullet and go to the ER because most of the clinics and walk-in joints don’t have X-ray facilities. Ewwww. NO. A big fat no on the damnable ER if I can help it. I actually like hospitals. I like the people who work in them and have compassion for the people that need to be in them. The nurses and doctors are up to their necks in paperwork and charting and rules, rules, rules, but most of them still manage to administer care with a heady mixture of knowledge, kindness, and grit. The people who staff them are remarkable citizens, and I commend them at every turn, but the emergency room is for folks who’ve been shot or lost a limb or had a giant tree fall on their person. It is not the correct purview for a lady with a bum hand, a gooey elbow, and very good hair. I could not use the fingers on my right hand, which is dominant, so I used the left to hunt and peck through GOOGLE, one letter at a time until I found a location that had full X-ray services and, as a bonus, a parking lot located in the rear of the building. Huzzah! “It’s probably nothing. I am just being silly to worry about it, but better safe than sorry, I guess,” I said, smiling at the pretty young nurse who was checking my vitals, which were predictably fine, though my blood pressure was a bit lower than my normal, which is very low. “BP always this low?” “Yes. I take after my Dad. His resting heart rate was so low that his nurses used to check it again and again, thinking there must be some mistake. He was fine, of course, until he wasn’t. He made it to 93, drinking champagne all the way home, so a good run, I’d say. I am okay with that hereditary scenario.” The attending physician’s assistant rolled in. She was beyond pretty, a stunner. The place was lousy with competent beauties. I was impressed. “Looks broken, a fracture at the very least. When did this happen?” “About 8:30 this morning.” “We are just now seeing you?” She looked at me askance. “Well, I thought some ice would do the trick, but it seems not to have done so.” She gave me the once-over, then instructed the nurse to take me to X-ray. The whole business was handled swiftly. The X-ray technician turned out to be another beauty, and I thought to myself that it was a good thing they were located in West Hollywood, where the female form does not sway a lot of fellows; else I could imagine legions of straight men limping in with fake ailments, just for a chance to feast their eyes on the drop-dead gorgeous staff in that joint. The Physician’s Assistant returned shortly after. “We will wait for the radiologist to take a look, but if you can see right there,” she pointed to the back of my bad hand near the wrist. “You can see a fracture. We’ll need to put you in a brace for 6 to 8 weeks.” “Ah, okay.” “You are going to have a pretty good black eye, but your pupils are not dilated, so I think that will be the worst of it with the head injury. We need to clean up that left elbow, and I am going to give you some prescrip tion ointment to put on it. Going to give you an oral antibiotic as well to have on hand just in case.” “Blah blah blah.” Was what I heard at that point. I was supposed to go cook dinner at my sister’s, and that was off, dammit, and this all sounded like a big hassle. I would have to go to the pharmacy, elevate my damaged hand, and most of my plans for the rest of the week would be considerably altered. I decided to drop by the girl’s place for a few minutes before heading home to the drudgery of semi-convalescence. On the way there, the pain I had somehow not felt until that point became acute. ‘Stupid, stupid consequences,’ I thought. The girls fed me, loaded me up with Motrin and an ice pack thingy. Little Kalen gave my knees a sweet hug, and I headed out to hit the pharmacy on my way home. The next day I went to Trader Joe’s and bought a lot of stuff that could be heated in the microwave and got on with the business at hand of caring for my bum hand. THE BODY IN QUESTION. Fairness and I have kept up our walks but have mostly stuck to well-paved roads and even-ish sidewalks. Two days ago, he begged to go to the park, the same one where I had gone ass-over-teacup on that fateful morning. I studied the ground with every step, cautioning the dog to “stay with me” and forbidding him to tug on the leash. He kept one eye on me the whole time as we hiked our favorite trails.

  2. Aug 11

    Big Bawling Baby Boomer Boomerangs

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick My friend Dennis has dinner with his sister Linda at least once a week. Her house is a straight shot down the 35 Freeway, and, traffic permitting, it requires about 25 minutes’ travel time. They are both good cooks, but Dennis loves to make dessert, so he usually has some treat in tow. A frozen margarita pie, pecan dandies, or everyone’s favorite: lemon bars. After dinner, they like to sit on the porch and gaze out at the greenbelt that abuts her property. The trees rustle with the wind and the hum of the small species that dwell within their protective canopies. Sometimes they get out a pen and paper, but most of the time they just sit a spell and let the list come to them… …the list of all the reasons that they are glad they will be dead soon. There are the regulars, of course. AI, Driverless Cars, Melania Trump’s hats. Dental implants, Out-of-control wildfires, Oceans filled with all manner of human waste. OnlyFans. The Horror Movie craze. There are new ones every time they meet as the world around them evolves beyond the pale of what they know of life and have come to expect. I have my own list, of course, but it is so long that we will have to give it its very own column. There are some days when I am so flabbergasted by it all that I devolve into helpless laughter and other days when I just cannot take it anymore. Last week was a case in point. I had been on the verge of tears for so long that when they finally fell, it was frightening. Too many tears, falling too fast, making gibberish out of my sentences, defying reason. I had been frustrated at every turn by a pretty mundane set of circumstances, but my body felt differently about it; my psyche felt harmed. It was only the machines, just the AI algorithm, that were causing the trouble, but there was no human available to override the erroneous system. It was just me versus the machines, and the situation had worked my final nerve. “Just tell them this is not for you. This is ridiculous. We will find you something … I house crazy people. Some landlords are actual breathing humans; we will find you one of those. Tell them you are done.” My sister Laura was trying to navigate my meltdown. She works with a mentally and physically challenged population, and in that moment, I felt like one of her clients. If it sounds like I may have been overreacting, that’s because I was, but my attempts at stress management had failed. The application process had driven me around the bend. It should have been a snap, just a simple rental application, but the system kept glitching and demanding the same documents over and over, and the whole business was giving me a nutty head. I am just not accustomed to being treated this way. I have for so long had a perfect credit record and a 100% perfect payment history. My generation of women knows all too well how difficult it is to break through, to buy a car, a home, or start a business. We cross those t’s and dot those i’s when it comes to finance, and most sales and rental folks are very glad to see us, but that is not always enough. I have bought and sold many homes, but in the early years this was finagled by my “financial management” team, which had major pull with the banks. That was great, but I paid a high price for leaving my money in someone else’s hands. Very high. Really, really high. BOOM. IT’S CALLED DIY. So, I manage myself now, and that has gone fairly well. The mortgage that I took out some ten years ago was turned down initially, because I am a professional artist and banking systems are not calibrated to comprehend the way that I make a living. Their machinations are dead-set against the likes of me, but in that case, one of the bank officers, a lovely man named Collum, stepped into the fray. He went to the higher-ups and painstakingly explained what “residual payments” are and why I receive them in amounts that range from $1.00 to 5,000.00. I got that loan, not because I am a great candidate—a no-risk risk, which I am—but because a human being explained what makes me different and an exception to the rules was made. I am not sure that would happen today. Everything from veterinary services to rental properties to grocery stores to the purveyors of entertainment has been corporatized. Those massive conglomerates do not cotton to human employees. They want us to place our order online, to check and bag our own sundries and groceries, to wait our own tables. I recently stayed at a hotel where they instructed me to check in using an iPad-looking thing and then make my own set of room keys. “You want me to make my own room keys?” I asked the young man who was standing by. “Yes. You see, if you do it yourself, that leaves me more time to talk with you about the other features here,” He replied sunnily. “Well, it seems like in the time it took you to explain that, you could have made my keys.” I eyed the contraption provided for the purpose warily. The attendant took pity and did the job for me. I thanked him and headed to my room. The whole DIY aspect was worrisome, as was the over-the-top decor. Several walls were filled with photographs of young people of every color in every size and shape. The wallpaper repeated itself, so that the same folks were looking out at me from every angle. There were only two people over thirty, the lines around their eyes putting them somewhere close to 40. There were zero 67-year-olds in the picture. The joint was not designed with me in mind. Oh boy. I had already paid for a four-night stay, so I took a deep breath and decided to make the best of it. I had hoped to reset my nervous system and booked my visits with pals to leave room for a daily nap. I was over-tired and over-stressed, and my PTSD was staging a full-blown opera in my head. Thoughts and music swirling together and beating arrhythmically against the sides of my skull. Having finally found an apartment that met all of my needs and was willing to house my there-to-fore “breed-restricted” dog, I was running into snag after snag in the application process. I use a mailing address for safety reasons. I have not gotten mail at my home address for the last 30-plus years. The machines could not comprehend this fact when assessing my utility bill, which was charged for one place and mailed to another. My credit report was perfect. The bank statements showed requisite funds were available, but the utility bill was a bridge too far for the AI program assigned to assess me. I sent proof of renters, earthquake, and auto insurance with the current address, but that dang electric bill gave the rental office fits. I submitted an insane amount of documentation, and it was never enough. I eventually begged the building manager to put me on the phone with a woman from the main office. I finally got through and explained the situation, and Stephanie resolved ten days’ worth of hassle and frustration in ten minutes flat. The truth is, this should not have sent me reeling, but I am finding that I do not handle stress well these days. Many of my older pals describe a similar lack of plasticity when it comes to these kinds of challenges. I guess I thought growing up would eliminate those defects in my character, that I would age into a wise old gal who took things in stride and was measured in her response to day-to-day frustrations. Nope. Now that I am in my ripe old oldness, I have less bandwidth, less patience, and less willingness to put up with bull. “What if I am getting mean? What if I am turning crotchety like my mom?” I recently asked my pal Michael. “I called a woman a b***h in the park yesterday.” “Well, why? What happened?” he inquired. “Because she was out of line. Her off-leash dog came charging toward us, and I put my hand up and said, ‘Whoa!’ to make it stop, and she started yelling at me.” “You are making it worse. Just be quiet, and we will take care of our dog. You don’t need to react.” She snapped at me, shaking her head with superiority. I wanted to say: “I am not supposed to react? You are not only breaking the law but violating park rules. Dogs are supposed to be on a leash. The rule exists to protect the wildlife that makes its home here. The law is there to keep all of us creatures safe, including your dog.” What I said was: “I guess you know everything, huh? Why don’t you just put your dog on a leash, b***h?” That was not very nice. Of course, she was also not very nice, but I could have been more measured in my response or, even better, just kept my mouth shut. I have made many mental notes to this effect these past few years, but I seem to be running low on filters, and my inside voice keeps busting out. The hotel turned out to be kind of perfect. I hobbled down for coffee to go every morning and drank it nestled in my comfy bed while doing NYT puzzles. Then I would head to the roof and spend an hour in the well-shaded pool, which was shallow and perfect for swirling dreamily, my head tilted towards the clouds. Once dry, I would amble through the tiny gym doing just enough to offset the effects of the sumptuous lunches and dinners I had planned with good pals. My shoulders started to come down, my breath to slow, and at last, my sense of gratitude returned with a sly smile. The move to the new place may well be nerve-wracking, the solutions to the inevitable problems not close at hand, the tears may fall, and the epithets fly, but I know where I am going. Mostly. Living forever sounds dicey as hell, and I’m just gonna say a big no to that, but in this moment, the good news is that I am not dead yet. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substa

  3. Jul 28

    Old Home Week

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick Sometimes it happens. I will see a place, or taste a food, or hear a song and be flooded with memories. The search for a new smoke-free environment has led me to some nostalgic locales. This has been a welcome distraction from the drudgery involved in looking for a new apartment. The endless scrolling past ad after ad for the new mixed-use buildings which now dominate the landscape, hoping for a bit of charm, a scintilla of originality, can wear a person down. I know the young folks like those places, but they leave me cold. Their tiny box-shaped rooms are supposed to be offset by the abundance of common areas. There are lounge rooms, a pool, dog-washing stations, and billiards; one I looked at even had a podcast suite and a bourbon room. The latter also has lockers where you can store your private barrel-aged bottles, and then I’m not sure what happens next. Are neighbors supposed to meet there armed with shot glasses or maybe lowball tumblers with one giant cube of ice and pour themselves a drink from their respective lockers, and that’s the deal? The young man who showed it to me seemed very proud of that one. He loves all of those perks. The new high-rise builds are also a tad disingenuous. The “Pets Welcome” phrase in the amenities section does not hint at the fact that there are many exceptions to this sunny offering. I made a few appointments and showed up in person, only to discover that they all have “breed restrictions.” It turns out that my Doberman/Hound/Dane mix, the lovely, gentle Fairness, is doggo non-grata in all of the corporate-owned housing in Los Angeles, which is a lot of the housing in this joint. I never liked those anyway but was trying to keep an open mind. They are now officially off the list of possibilities, which means more scrolling and squinting. I asked my sisters to keep an eye out, and they sent me a gem the other day. “Rare opportunity in historic building!” The photo showed a gorgeous place on North Sycamore, full of rounded archways and ornate design. Gazing at the image of the grand old building prompted some fond and not-so-fond recollections of my life nearly forty years ago. I lived across the street from that place when I first moved back here from a long stint in New York City. I was young and broke and trying to find a job. I had a teeny bit of savings but was mostly living off of a Shell gasoline credit card that my Dad had slipped me, unbeknownst to his wife. The respective housing units are directly across the street from one another, but proximity is the only thing they have in common. The place I occupied at the time was a small studio with a window that faced onto busy Beverly Blvd, an old air-conditioning unit drooping slightly from its frame. It was rundown and raggedy, but it did have a nice pool in the center of the ten units. It was there that I met my dear friend Lance, when I was trying to get dressed for an audition and could not fasten the top button of my outfit. I wandered out to the pool to see if there was anyone about who could lend a hand, and there he was. He was hella handsome with a mega-watt smile and a charming New Zealand accent. He did up the buttons and wished me good luck. We became fast friends, and that took some of the sting out of living in that shabby place; he gave that drab environment some spark and sass. We helped each other prepare for auditions and scratched up some decent meals in our tiny kitchenettes. The streets in the neighborhood were often littered with broken glass as thieves regularly smashed in the windows of the cars lucky enough to squeeze into a space there. We often had to park a few blocks away, and it was not considered safe for girls to walk home by themselves late at night. I tried it a few times and was definitely nervous about the situation when I was cast in a show at the Pasadena Playhouse. I begged the folks who ran the Honey Baked Ham store, which shared the alley behind us, to let me park there when I came home after 11. They very graciously allowed it. I imagined that the folks in 308 were untouched by all of this. They had secure parking and gorgeous trees outside their elegant windows. They glided by the rest of us and nestled into their gilded lodgings with barely a glance in our direction. I used to stare at the commanding structure, studying it every chance I got. I would sidle up to the sculpted wrought-iron gates and peek into the windows, dreaming of one day being able to live there or somewhere like it. Lance died suddenly after developing a mild cough. I was shocked when he told me he was HIV positive. I had to sit down on the curb across from the dream villas; I had moved on at that point, but he was still on Sycamore. I had run an AIDS program for several years and should have been unshockable, but I was not prepared for it. He was so full of life, so buoyant. Lance never walked up a staircase; he bounded to the top, taking three steps at a time. I could not believe that such a life-force would be snuffed out in mere weeks, by a damned virus. This came on the heels of my five years as a volunteer in NYC, witnessing the same thing happen to boy after boy and man after man. Still, I was not prepared to lose him. I have kept a jar of his ashes with me and moved them into every new abode. They are right now sitting on the bar in the living room. I have kept him close for nearly 30 years. He was something. He was someone. They all were. A FEW ROOMS LATER. In the years since, I have bought and sold several large houses and lived many different kinds of lives in them. Single gal making it on her own, married lady cooking for two, well-employed hostess of fundraisers and gatherings, heartbroken divorcee rattling around. One or two were quite glamorous, the others homier, but still chic. At this stage in my life, an apartment at 308 Sycamore is not an impossible dream; now it would be a good fit. But the realtor won’t call me back, dammit. In the course of hunting new digs, I have found myself driving around looking at streets I have always loved and blocks that felt special to me. The other day, on a whim, I put Grape Place into Google Maps. Years ago, I tried to buy a small home there. I was single again and wanted something manageable. I put an offer on a darling little ranch-style home on that teeny tiny street. I wrote letters to the owner begging her to sell it to me. She didn’t. She sold it to a friend, which was nice for her pal but rotten luck for me. Or was it? I bought a house on Beachwood Drive instead, and there I met my dear pal Don W., who lived next door and was a fantastic neighbor. He put a gate in the fence between our two yards in case I ever felt unsafe and needed someplace to run to. We attended each other’s performances and whipped up some good meals in our very nice kitchens with our very good equipment. It was Don who introduced me to my second husband. The marriage did not work out, but I am not sorry that I met him. He was there when I had to have a hysterectomy and came to the hospital every day. He helped me heal from that, and I am ever grateful. We probably should NOT have tied the knot, but judging by the over 50% of marriages that end in divorce, we are keeping good company there. If I had bought 6300 Grape Place, my life would have turned out very differently. I wanted to see it, and it turns out that it is exactly seven minutes from where I am here in this smoldering ashtray of a place on Beachwood Drive, so I followed the directions and wound my way up narrow streets, making no fewer than eight turns before finally locating it. I recognized the house instantly. It is still a bit rundown, but it has a good aura. A black sign with white lettering was posted out front. “Coming soon.” It had the name and number of the realtor who will be representing the sale. I took a picture of it because even though I do not feel this is a good time to buy real estate, I HAVE to know what they plan on asking for it. When I tried to buy it over twenty years ago, the asking price was $389,000. I don’t think there is any unit of housing in Los Angeles that would go for so little now. You can never go home again… …maybe that’s what the old saying is getting at? You definitely cannot go home again to the home you never had, which is now triple the price, or at least you shouldn’t. That much is certain. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

  4. Jul 14

    Where There is Smoke ...

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I have begged and pleaded. The building manager has spoken with them many times over the course of a year, but my neighbors are deaf to our entreaties. They continue to smoke inside and outside of their apartments. The fellow above me smokes in the bathroom and bedroom, which constantly floods my hallways and rooms with carcinogens. They smoke in the units below me and above me, beside me and across the way. When I took this apartment, it never occurred to me, nor was I warned that I would be living in such a toxic environment. There is one lady who lives downstairs and across from me, who brings her coffee cup and an ashtray and sits on the stairs directly under my bedroom, puffing every morning. I race to close the windows as my chest begins to ache and my throat constricts. I recently ran into her in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s and took a chance. “Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute? I just need to ask you something about—er— you and smoking? On the stairs?” “I am on the phone.” She snapped angrily. I had not noticed the tiny earbuds she was wearing. I waved an apology and headed to my car. “Hey, wait! I was on with a client, so thanks for that! Not cool.” “I am sorry.” “Well, what do you want?” She said, softening a tad. “I know you are trying to do the right thing. You are the only one who cares to at least go outside, and I appreciate that. It’s just that I am surrounded by smokers, inundated with it, and I have a terrible reaction to it. You are often smoking on the stairs right beneath my bedroom window and … “So that’s you? That’s you closing the windows? Slamming them? I hear someone doing that.” “Yes, I am sorry, but my chest burns; it’s still burning from your visit this morning, and I was wondering… Do you think I could give you my number so that when you are on your way to the stairwell you could shoot me a text? Then I could close up that side of the apartment. I am badly affected by it.” “No. I am not doing that. That feels weird.” “It would be such a big help … just so I can close the windows. I have to open them because the man upstairs smokes inside constantly and it is making me sick.” ‘That’s Nicky. He’s been there forever … not gonna change.” “If he could just step outside?” “Nah, he won’t. Used to be worse. They used to party until the wee hours. Crazy loud and all of them smoking and drinking. You’re lucky he’s older now.” “Well, it’s still pretty rough living underneath him. If I could just give you my number…” “Well, we should have each other’s number anyway. We ARE neighbors.” “Okay, great. Thank you.” Later that night I got a very, very long text from her. It was full of helpful ways that I could change my behavior, so that I might be better at accepting the deadly filthy habits of everyone around me. “Living here is a dance. You just have to think of it that way. What I think you need to do is have your windows sealed and then get some air purifiers. I have one in my place, and they are great.” She thoughtfully added several links to air purifiers that I could order from Amazon. She then sent photos of smoke-blowing machines that help chase foul air out of a building. There were several pictures of smoke removal devices to accompany that advice as well. Expensive gadgets those. The text went on and on, assuring me that it was my duty to purchase this equipment and get myself sealed up tight. She ended with: “Or maybe moving would be a good choice for you. For some people, that is ultimately the right solution. I just wanted to share some ideas that have helped me over the years in case any of them would make your situation a little more comfortable. Wishing you all the best …” This is why there are wars. I was so gob-smacked that I could not bring myself to write back. What to say? “Thank you so much for this truly stunning example of passive-aggression. You should be teaching this stuff. I mean, you are in a class of your own. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation! “ Or how about: “Why don’t you go %$ck yourself, you and Nicky the scumbag Sh%ithead upstairs! Eat %6ap you poisonous trash bag! Getting sick because you are thoughtless and Nicky the scumbag is a derelict is not a discomfort; it is &#$(ing life-threatening!” Instead, I just did not reply. I did not want to start a fight. Well, I do WANT to. I want to punch her and Nicky the scumbag right in the kiss-a-roo, but while I am not necessarily smart enough, I am definitely OLD enough to know better. The next day, I received another text, this one in ALL CAPS, demanding to know whether or not I had received her thoughtful message??!!!!! “Oh. Sorry. Yes. Thank you.” That was the best I could do. The whole situation is infuriating, and that gal is a piece of work. Honestly, it might be worth shelling out the twenty thousand or so dollars it will cost to relocate, so that I don’t have to come up with a civil response the next time I see her. I have, for the last thirty years or so, lived in houses. Stand-alone buildings. This whole apartment building thing is not familiar to me. I thought it would be best at my age to live somewhere that I wouldn’t have to worry about maintenance, so I am giving it a try. The place is run-down, but inside my unit there are huge rooms and a terrific kitchen, and it is not all bad; living here has its upsides. The building manager, a filmmaker from Eastern Europe, is a lovely man who does his job with a gentle heart. I like some of the folks that I see in the elevator or pass in the lobby. I enjoy being greeted by them. We pet each other’s dogs and say: “Take care!” “Have a great night!” or some such pleasantry. I have spent a huge portion of my life in hotel rooms, so I have learned to be flexible and can adapt to most any environment, but this one is fixin’ to kill me. Literally … and that burns me up. A LIFETIME OF EXPOSURE. When my Grandmother died of lung cancer at the age of seventy three, we all went right on smoking. It was a family practice. I was eleven when I took up the habit. All four kids started young, and Mom was our accomplice, our partner in crime. I tried to quit at least a dozen times in the ensuing decades, but did not manage to do so successfully until I was nearly fifty, almost twenty years ago. I empathize with people who are chained to the habit. For childhood smokers, it is especially difficult to give it up. Anyone could surmise that my sister Kim was putting her health at great risk. She smoked more than two packs a day and compounded that with copious amounts of marijuana. She smoked joints, bongs, and spliffs, and spent hours sitting under a tree in her backyard dedicated to the practice. She was at an acupuncture appointment, hoping for relief from the tremendous back pain she was suffering, when her body began to shut down. She spent two days in the ICU, where medical professionals tried in vain to solve first one, then another mystery as her body was ravaged by crisis after crisis. They could not save her. Tests later revealed that she had stage 5 lung cancer. There was nothing anyone could have done. Mom made it to eighty-three, but she struggled mightily with COPD and slow-growing throat cancer. She would switch back and forth between regulars and menthols, because the latter cooled the severe burning sensation that often took hold. We wore gas masks when we cleaned out her small apartment, and I tried to get her outdoors whenever possible, but there was no avoiding exposure to the plumes that constantly encircled her. When my sister called me to tell me that Mom forgot to smoke for an entire day, we knew it was the end. I changed my flight and got to LA the next morning, begging her from the gate at the airport and then the taxi on the ground to wait for me. I did not want my sister to handle her departure without me by her side. Mom waited; she was nothing if not strong-willed, and I was grateful. She died in my arms just forty minutes after I arrived. Three months later, my flesh was covered in raw rashes, and blisters were all over my hands and feet. My joints were so inflamed that it was excruciating to walk; I could barely turn a doorknob. My GP had no idea what was happening but sent me to a dermatologist who immediately referred me to a rheumatologist. Psoriatic Arthritis. It is genetic and a nasty disease but treatable with prohibitively expensive medications, so—treatable if you can afford insurance that will cover those. Many cannot. I am truly lucky that I can take them and that the illness did not manifest before the advent of today’s pharmaceutical solutions; I would be in a wheelchair by now. When I asked the doctor what triggered it—what caused the mutation to awaken and attack me—he said the two most common factors are stress and repeated exposure to smoke. “She got ya in the end, didn’t she?” my friend Gail said when we spoke of it later. My Mother both loved and hated me, because I was the one who stood up to her, called her out on her sometimes abhorrent behavior. As a child, her excessively violent blows routinely fell on me, but I never backed down. There were younger children to protect. Oh yes, she did. She managed to go out swinging and lighting one cigarette off of the other, leaving me forever wounded in body and mind. She got me good. So, I am putting up a fight in my building because no one should have to live in a polluted environment. Walking through the hall on the way to the kitchen for morning coffee, my chest burns as I pass through the smelly remains of Nicky the scumbag’s smoking hot extravaganza in the rooms above. He is up all night puffing away, and it travels through the vents in the bathroom. I will fight and hopefully make this apartment safer for the next tenant, because I will also leave. I’ll pay the money and endu

  5. Jun 30

    A Little More Time

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I made time, which is not easy, as my not-so-subtle workaholic tendencies always put up quite the argument. Yes, I should have stayed home and worked on the many projects that are crying out for my attention. Yes, there are lists of things that need to be done. Print Bob’s script. Pose with Ivy Cove bag. Letter to building management to report neighbor for smoking in the bathroom. Book flight. Pick up SSD 1 TB for the ballet company, whatever the hell that is. All on the to-do, on the should-be-done. I wished I had just a little more time that day, but it would all have to wait. I wanted to see my family, so I took a French bath, gave the pits and bits a quick once-over, and headed out the door. I love to frequent a weird old Italian market in the Valley called The Monte Carlo. This is the first odd thing about it, because Monte Carlo, the place, is located on the French Riviera and is not in any way, shape, or form Italian, but that’s the name of the joint, and we all just go with it. As you enter, there is a quaint little dining area to the left. The locals pour in after soccer games and graduations, or just because, to dine on fresh pizza and pasta. They line up to order and are given a number, then everyone crowds into the booths with a soda and tells stories while they wait for their food. It’s a fun ritual to observe, and the mostly male staff is non-plussed when a child knocks a whole pie to the ground or elbows her Shirley Temple sideways, flooding the table. The items are replaced at no cost, and the young tears of frustration are quickly dried. A great scene, but not what I am there for. I head to the right and take a number. There is always a wait, but the ancient, hair-net-clad gentlemen behind the counter move with surprising speed. I will peruse the gluten-free section while awaiting my turn or cadge a bottle of imported balsamic glaze to drizzle over their house-made burrata. There is a whole case of gelato made right there, and another filled with pastries, cookies, and cannoli. The aisles boast some very good affordable imported wines as well as dried pastas, herbs, and oils. The deli counter is bursting with options. There are gallons of fresh marinara and meat sauce, cases of cheese and imported meats. Homemade sausage and neatly grated mozzarella, all sold in amounts large or small. Huge lettuces and other fresh veggies line the simple wooden bench in front. A visit there is, for me, the adult version of being a kid in a candy store. They even have eggplant prepped and fried to a golden crisp, ready to be molded into a parmigiana. Heaven. Once home, I set out all of the ingredients that I will bag up and take over, making sure to put the new stuffed toy I picked up for the nephew at Disneyland where it would be remembered. It is a lovely snow leopard, a little bigger than the other stuffies I have given him. It gratified me to hear recently that he often cradles the Winnie the Pooh doll I picked months ago. I am told that he offers it cookies and treats too. The alphabet puzzle I gave him last week was a dud. He liked dragging the box around by its corded handle, but opening it and playing with it? Nope. No chance. Big yawn. He ran around the house with a broom and a dog brush instead and shot the occasional basket with his blue ball. My sister Laura and I had a good time putting it together, but the most we could get him to do was put a few pieces back in the container afterward. It’s hit and miss with kids and gifts, but always fun to try. My sisters and I have a ritual. At least one night a week, we take turns choosing a meal to share and providing the ingredients to compose it. I suggested that I pick up the fantastic rustic bread and the above-mentioned burrata along with fixings for a spaghetti dinner. The girls had peaches in the fridge from their bi-weekly farm delivery, and I had some small Persian cucumbers and sweet ripe tomatoes on hand. A perfect early summer menu emerged. Fresh peach/tomato salad with cucumbers, mint, and burrata topped with a light homemade balsamic dressing, followed by simple red-sauce pasta with fresh sausage (regular and vegan) on the side and meatballs for the lad. He is eighteen months old and a whirling dervish. His moms are madly in love with him but admit that his energy level is at times so over-the-top that they have to rotate taking breaks in order to maintain their sanity. I love being able to go over and make a meal for them, so that they can relax for a few minutes. He was sleeping when I arrived. I smiled to see his Winnie tucked under one pale, chubby arm. The girls sat at the counter, and we all shared a glass of wine as I puttered around the kitchen. I have cooked so often there that I know the ins and outs of their well-stocked galley, but I still struggle with the “child locks” on the cupboards and stovetop. I can futz with those magnet thingies for what seems like an eternity, but I only occasionally manage to get things open. Sarah is the handy one in the family and is regularly required to intervene. We set the table outside and set up FaceTime so we could keep an eye on the baby as we ate. Dinner was delicious, the salad bursting with sweetness, crunch, and tang, the pasta simple and satisfying, and that damned bread! I am not supposed to eat it; the gluten activates my psoriatic arthritis, but it is so delicious that I had to have one piece and then just a little bit more. Sarah explained to me what an SSD with 1TB is and where to find one. The girls went over the new words that Kalen is finally using. He is physically very adept, learns how to use tools and toys quickly, has terrific balance and perfect aim, but until recently he was not that interested in talking. He is coming on strong now. “Mama,” Kitty,” Cheese,” and Doggie” are frequent utterances. I have tried to teach him to call me BB, but he is so far indifferent to that proposal. He can use sign language too. He’s got “good job, “all done,” and “more” down pat. He woke up groggy and a bit cranky at first but soon stood on his ladder/stool at the kitchen counter and shoved fistfuls of spaghetti into his mouth. I rinsed off the dishes, and we took turns refilling his plate when he pointed to the pasta and tapped his fingertips together for “more”. Then we were off to the races, singing and dancing and careening around the living room. I can keep up with him but admit to being a tad winded from the jig-like dance interludes. I told him about his present as I took it slowly out of the plastic Disney bag. The snow leopard was a big hit. He hugged it tight and took it everywhere, intermittently placing it on the coffee table so he could offer it some water from an empty cup. ONE MORE WAVE. There is never enough time to spend with my nieces and nephews and the new batch of grands. Some are blood, and some are not, but all are family. Lauren and 2-year-old Luna are in Colorado, where she and her husband have built a good life. Jenica is close by with Andrew and Lily; her brother Adam has settled with Zoe and Hannah in Kansas. I don’t see any of them often enough. Neither Conor nor his brother, Journey, has tied the knot yet, but I am betting that one will be heading down the aisle soon. Meghan does not seem the marrying kind but may surprise us. She has been a devoted aunt and caregiver to her best friend’s two girls and may end up finding her way to one or two of her own. Maya is still in college and way too smart to let anything interfere with getting a good education, but like her own multi-talented mom, I suspect she will find a way to do it all. The littles will grow and, like their parents before them, will begin to drift from me. The day always comes when a visit from their beloved aunt is no longer a special occasion. They will, in what will feel like no time at all, greet me with a quick smile and perfunctory hug and then go back to plans with their teen friends. It is a bittersweet moment, but an important development along the way. Their parent(s) and I will watch them bang out the front door with equal parts awe and terror, then we will collapse onto the sofa and remember when. I have often been asked why I did not want children. (Which, for the record, is rude, insensitive, and reeks of misogyny.) I did. There were years where I desperately wanted them, and I tried and tried and tried, but my body had other plans. I had had four surgeries to remove tumors before finally having the hysterectomy, which would give me back my health. I was just 40 years old. My second husband did not want kids, and by the time that marriage imploded, it might not have been, but it felt too late for me to adopt on my own. I have my sorrows, but I do not have any regrets. Unto each life … a little rain. By eight o’clock, little Kalen was growing weary, kept resting his head on his new buddy “Snowy,” and I had a long-Ish drive across town. The girls and I had packed me up with to-go containers from my last visit and a few grocery odds and ends that would likely go unused in their house “Hey, K, I have to go. BB needs to leave. I am going to go home now, okay?” It took him a minute to register this. He tootled around with Snowy and paid little attention until I picked up my bags and slung my purse over my shoulder, and then his eyes went wide. “It’s okay, buddy. I will wave to you in the window. Go there, and I will be able to see you, and we can wave. I’ll see you in the window!” His mom, Sarah, wrapped him up in her strong arms and headed toward the bay window that looks out upon their street. He looked at me with pleading eyes, his little hands clapping his fingertips together. “More, more, more!” “Aw, he’s signing ‘more’ for you. He wants more of you,” she said. I waved enthusiastically. “I have to go, honey. Meet me at the window.” His lip began to curl with disappointmen

  6. Jun 16

    Expect Delays

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.” It was twenty-five minutes into the flight from Miami to Newark, New Jersey, too late for the standard welcome speech that is often given from the cockpit. The one where he or she (but let’s face it, still mostly he) welcomes the passengers on board, introduces the names and home city of the flight attendants, and then gives a quick rundown of how the flight should go. “Looks like we are going to get to Philadelphia in about 4 hours and 26 minutes; wind speeds could get us there a little sooner. Weather should be pretty clear, maybe a few bumps about midway where we will have to ask you to stay seated with your seatbelt fastened. But we should have a mostly smooth ride. The weather in Philly is cloudy with a chance of rain, and it’s about 65 degrees on the ground there. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” You don’t have to tell me twice. I actually love flying. It is one of the only times that I EVER sit back and relax. I crack open a good book, indulge in the salty snacks provided, put my feet up as best I can, and allow myself to drift off into another world This announcement had a different tone. I sat up. “Looks like we are going to be making an emergency landing in West Palm Beach. There is an issue on board, and for everyone’s safety we need to get this aircraft on the ground. We are making our descent and should be there shortly. I will keep you posted. Please remain seated. Flight attendants, take your jump seats.” He sounded calm but concerned, and while I did not panic, I admit to having felt a flush of worry. Firstly, we were in a large-capacity plane with a full tank of fuel, which technically would make us too heavy to land. These weights are calculated very carefully according to flight duration and anticipated speed. I looked out the window next to my seat, searching for clues as to what was wrong. As we approached, a wide variety of emergency vehicles were assembling below. Two fire trucks and several smaller red ambulance-sized vans were standing by, with a few more on the way. ‘Uh boy,’ I thought. We landed without incident. There was no smoke or skidding, no listing to one side or the other. The tires did not give way under our girth as we rolled toward the great gaggle of first responders. who were racing toward us. Turned out that the oven in first class was acting up; the stewardess had smelled something burning. A fire on an airplane could spell disaster, so the captain had made the right call. It was very dramatic for a few minutes as the emergency crews assessed the damage and checked the plane for injuries caused by our abrupt, overweight return to terra-firma. The inspections were going to take a while, so we were allowed to deplane, but ordered to stay in the waiting area for updates about our flight. There were not enough seats there, so some folks were milling about while a large gathering stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the lone attendant manning the desk, trying to collectively will her to give us a hint about what lay in store. I headed to the bar. A glass of chardonnay was very much in order at that point. It was tiny and crowded, with the two barmen trying to serve drinks as well as pizza. I jostled into position and waited patiently. The gentleman next to me ordered a beer to go, and a bell rang. Perfect. I could enjoy a glass of wine while following the erroneous order to stay in the crowded boarding area. As I made my way back with my to-go glass, I passed two young gay men who were obviously returning from vacation. They were dressed in beach-y outfits, sandals, and straw hats, but their body language was tense. One of them seemed more than a little anxious. I held up my glass and pointed in the direction of the bar. “They sell it to go here.” They looked at each other and then back to me with wide eyes that said, ‘Oh, thank Gawd!’ There is not much to be said for Florida in my book, but take-out cocktails at the airport are definitely in the plus column. One of the men hightailed it to the bar, and I settled down on the carpet near the window and took out my phone. “Expect major delay,” I texted the friends waiting for me in New Jersey. “Emergency landing. Everything is okay, but this could take a minute.” “Dinner reservations for 8. Your favorite Italian. Think you’ll make it?” “Fingers crossed.” I looked up, and the two men I had spoken to earlier smiled conspiratorially and toasted me with a couple of beers in plastic cups. I tipped my less-than-stellar glass of vino toward them with a big grin. When life gives you lemons … I have been traveling for years and have had some pretty major disruptions and delays. Detroit and Chicago in the winter are always dicey. I have spent many a night at the Hampton Inn near the infamous Michigan city. Ditto the O’Hare Hilton, where you can find good beds and a decent burger. Atlanta and other Southern cities are tricky in the summer, when tropical storms can gather speed and knock your plans right out of the sky. Coping with these problems is part of the deal we must make to avail ourselves of the engineering feat, the--to me, at least--mind-blowing miracle of air travel. When I fly, I always wear three layers of sunscreen. One clear and two tinted, which, I have convinced myself, provides more protection. This is because Martha Stewart says that if we are seated by the window, we should always keep it shut tight. The UV rays above 10,000 feet are incredibly strong and can damage our skin. I always fly in the window seat, and I keep it open for much of the ride. There is no way I am going to miss the sight of the Pacific Ocean as we glide over it, arcing toward the heavens. I am not about to skip seeing a deep blue river snaking through rust colored canyons, or the majestic emerald, sage, and piney hues of our national forests. I delight in staring at the clouds below, always filled with wonder at the fact that we can soar above the weather they contain. The Miami flight took hours to resume, but we made it to Newark in one piece. The First Class passengers had to endure cold snack boxes instead of a proper warm meal, but they did not grumble. At that point, everyone just wanted to get where they were going. I should have landed at 1 pm, but it was after 7 before I had luggage in hand and headed toward the ride-share waiting area. I texted my friends once again. “Made it.” “Huzzah! Why don’t you meet us at the restaurant? It’s halfway between us.” “Brilliant. Will do.” BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. When I arrived at Nettie’s House of Spaghetti, Russell was waiting outside to transfer my luggage to his car. The boys had a good bottle of white already on the table, and I settled into the cozy booth, grateful to be in their company. We ordered what these days is too much food, as we are all older and our appetites have diminished. The broccoli rabe dish is a favorite. It is cooked down and ever so lightly creamed, then molded and delivered in a soufflé-shaped mound. Over the next few days, I used the leftovers in omelets and incorporated them into sauces for pasta. Andrew had to go back into the city, so Russel and I hiked and ran errands and toured about. He drove me past the large former military barracks, now under construction, which will one day be an outpost of Netflix studios. New Jersey has been making a BIG play for production and is poised to become the Hollywood of the East. We visited a fantastic Italian market and walked on the beach at the end of every day. It was a wonderful visit made possible by the privilege of hurtling through the air in a giant vessel. Thursday, I flew into Chicago to see pals the night before going into rehearsals for a live Sabrina the Teenage Witch reunion show. Fierce storms had all of the area airports closed down, and we circled and circled and circled so we could burn enough fuel to land in Indianapolis and wait out the raging winds. Now we needed to re-fuel in order to leave, and there was a long line of vehicles ahead of us, so we sat for hours on the tarmac waiting our turn to gas up. It was tedious, but we eventually took off, made it to our original destination, and landed without further incident. Later that night, rogue tornadoes raged through Indiana, leaving chaos and destruction in their wake. Whew. Those travel Gods can be tricksters, and it’s no fun being waylaid, but I was grateful to have dodged that bullet. A lot of folks complain about air travel these days. I have friends who will not do it unless absolutely necessary. It is expensive to be sure, and arrival times can be disrupted by several factors, some of which are dubious. The planes are getting larger; the new ones so gigantic that it would seem impossible to keep them aloft, but gravity is no match for today’s technological advances. The space allotted each passenger is smaller and more cramped than ever, the snacks are puny, and the add-on charges for luggage and seat assignment are unfair. The mergers in that industry have made for less competition, and there is little incentive to cater to the customer. All of this is true, but I am undaunted and always ready to go when the spirit of adventure calls. I have learned to expect delays and endure complications with equanimity. Flying, to my mind, is still a gift, one that I am ever grateful for. Many of my friends live on the other side of this great continent, and yet I can leave my place after breakfast and be there in time for dinner. Ain’t that something? Ain’t that just the best damned thing? On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes

  7. Jun 2

    The Great Erase

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick On Saturday, I was three pages into the new column for today when I somehow accidentally hit a series of keys that sent the material into the ether. Gone. Deleted. Never to be seen again. Gol dang it!!! This new keyboard bedevils me. The configuration has led to the constant insertion of the number three into one out of six words that I type. My fingers somehow graze it on their way to a t or e or d. That is super annoying, but not as annoying as erasing my whole article! I turned to Google and followed all of the different protocols intended to help me retrieve the lost material. Nope, there was apparently no coming back for the words I had painstakingly strung together with the intent of sharing them with you all. The thought of trying to recreate the piece made me want to lie down and bang my head, so I didn’t. I took a shower and went to the gym. I am aware that this is not the typical order of things. Still, I needed the shower to calm my frazzled nerves, and I needed the gym to make up for the sizable serving of lasagna I had had the day before, followed by Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream. As I have said before, I am a one-flavor gal; love my vanilla chocolate chip, but that peanutty/chocolatey stuff is a comer. I am still thinking about it, and the fact that a shower of chopped salted Spanish nuts would put it right over the top. AY yum. The loss of the article started me thinking about erasure, about what is and isn’t here. My address book is huge. There are hundreds of entries, many of them outdated or incorrect, but I cannot bring myself to delete any of them. Several years ago, I was at the store having my data transferred from one phone to another. This was before we had the whiz-bangery of the “cloud,” back when we had to do things manually. “Ma’am, I’ve never seen this many contacts! This is going to take a while. Maybe you could go run some errands or grab a bite and come back.” In addition to the duplicates and no-longer-accurate information, I still have the numbers and addresses of people whom I have lost. Still have Gary, Stacey, John, Michael, and my sister Kim. Dad’s old cell number is saved, Mom’s too, and many, many others. Though some have been gone for years, I simply cannot hit delete on what is most certainly by now someone else’s number. To erase them feels too permanent. Should their memory begin to fade, there is the chance that I might scroll past their name and be filled with recollection. An author I worked with years ago passed away at a fairly young age; he was one of those people who died from complications of everything. He had a slew of life-threatening conditions and fought valiantly, but they eventually wore his body down. Once he accepted that he was going to die, he actually had a blast doing it. He got pals to build a wooden coffin that he designed to be fastened together only using horseshoes. He sent me pictures of it; he loved that thing. I think they also fashioned a mausoleum of sorts for his remains. After he passed, his widow kept his recorded voice on their answering machine. For years. At first, it was sweet and sort of nice to hear his voice again, but as time wore on, it became jarring and kind of weird. It is important to remember the dead but not cling too tightly to them. To go on living fully for ourselves, we have to let them go. I remember the popular soap operas in the 80’s and 90’s often had a storyline in which the leading man or woman had been injured in an accident and lost all memory of the life they had led before it. Their entire history had been erased. These folks usually had pretty checkered pasts, marked by adultery and theft and run-ins with the law. The other characters spent days and weeks and sometimes months trying desperately to remind these folks of their former lives. Those stories always got me thinking. If a person does not remember having committed a crime or done someone wrong, should they still be held accountable? If they are no longer that person, no longer living that life, then does that other person still exist? COME UNDER THE LENS. I did a photo shoot last week. The modeling agents wanted a “beauty shot,” which is a specific kind of photo. They need to be tightly framed, and the make-up should be either very subdued or wildly obvious. These pics are sent to cosmetic companies and advertisers who are looking for faces to represent their products. The agency sent me to Daryn, a young photographer who uses the technique that I was told we needed for success. “Okay, I have to admit that I’m a huge fan,” said Cynthia while she was setting up her kit to work on my makeup. “I grew up watching you. My sister is freaking out that I am here. We were both huge Sabrina people.” Cynthia is 39 years old, which places her squarely in the demographic of my fan base from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. She would have started watching it with her sister when she was around 9, an ideal age to start believing in magic and talking cats. “You’re an actress?” Daryn the photographer asked. Like a lot of people her age, Daryn has never seen my work; she has no idea what kind of career I have had. To her, I was just some old lady model that someone asked her to shoot. If new generations have no idea that I existed, then, did I? One hundred years from now, there is a good chance that nary a soul will know that I was here. It is a part of aging; the slow relegation of our beings to the background. We know this, but it is still weird, like asking a young person about the Beatles and getting a blank stare in return. “You never heard of the Beatles?” we ask, our tone incredulous. They shrug. “No, sorry.” We erect monuments and pour material into archives; we paint on canvas and walls, with oil, chalk, and charcoal. We make pottery, fashion jewelry, write columns and books, make movies and television shows, and record songs. All of that contributes to our culture, our sense of who we are and where we came from. But there is no guarantee that new generations will know of it or us. One person’s antique treasure is another’s worn-out trash. One person’s delight in an “oldie but goodie” is another’s dreary eye-roll. Walking past the new young residents of my apartment building is a reminder that while I am not yet a ghost, I am fading from view. My voice may call out from behind a screen for a few more decades, growing fainter and fainter with the years, but it will, one day in the not-so-distant future, cease to be heard. One of the reasons that despots attack arts institutions and topple statues, censor libraries, burn museums, and ransack private homes is to erase the collective memory, so that they can institute a new culture that both fears and reveres their power. When their reign of terror inevitably comes to an end, remnants of the old culture reappear and insert themselves into the new. Our stories somehow live on, traded underground, whispered in the dark. They are always worth telling, and I believe that they continue to exist somewhere in the universe. They can never be totally degraded by the bludgeon of time; even if no longer told or read, they are still felt in the bones of those who follow us. “All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.” -William Cullen Bryant “Thanatopsis.” I am not sure if this is a better column than the one that got away, but I am grateful that you are here to read it, and that I am here to write it down. I have been deleting threes from this text for an hour, but my words persisted. I managed to avoid erasure this time, so for now at least, they have not been scrubbed from the record. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

  8. May 19

    Dream Life

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I can dream, can’t I? I live in a fantasy world for a not-insubstantial portion of every day. My mind fixates on an idea for a business, or a new place to live, or a complete change in course on my career path. I have done this all of my life. I can build an entirely new imaginary existence for myself in the time it takes to walk the dog (approximately 90 minutes). Say I go to visit a friend in Asbury Park. My mind begins to assess the situation. Could I live there? What would my life be like? Miami? Maybe. The art scene is vibrant, and the multicultural vibe is cool. What about Palm Springs? Mexico City? Detroit? The possibilities are endless. “I used to think there was time, you know? That I could go back to New York City and work on stage again, or head to my old stomping grounds in Venice Beach,” Dennis said as he stared at the giant oak in his Austin backyard. “Somehow, I ran out. I’m in my 70’s; there is no way I could do that now. The window is too small, and the change would be too drastic. This, right here, where I am, this is it. This is my life for as long as I’m on the planet. Weird. I had so many plans.” I know that my time, too, is short, and most, if not all, of my pipe dreams are just that. But I do love them so … An ad popped up in my Instagram feed the other day, which prompted my most recent foray into a “what if” scenario. It featured a video camera moving slowly and lovingly around a leafy locale in Topanga Canyon. A woman’s sultry voice accompanied the images: “This property, listed at 1.3 million, features three small homes on one big, beautiful lot, each with its own distinct personality.” (I don’t have 1.3 million lying around, but go with me here.) I was transfixed, studying each small home in the charming estate. Which would I live in? Could I Airbnb the other two? Maybe it would be better to have at least one full-time renter? That would be more reliable. I started the video over. I think I would choose the cabin-like structure referred to as “Angel’s Nest.” It has the largest kitchen. I would build a big fence around the perimeter, something that complements the natural setting, maybe wood or bamboo in a neutral shade of brown. Or, I could give it character and paint it green to match the foliage. That way, the dog could run and run and run. He is happy with our lives, but on the occasions that we visit pals with a yard, he is ecstatic to have the chance to roam freely. He could have the “zoomies” any time that he wanted. A yard. That would be sweet. It would be farther from my sisters and nephew, but closer to the beach. Friends could come and stay for extended periods of time in one of the other abodes, or maybe a few of us could retire there together? I would definitely put in a lap pool. Swimming is a required activity in all of my dream lives. “When I am 72, I can cut my hair and swim every day, dunking my head at will. It can turn green at that point or be a frizzed-up mess, and it won’t matter more than a poot in a windstorm.” I think this often; sometimes even say it out loud. This is one of my regular fantasies. I spend time in the water whenever I can, but I don’t dare put my dyed blonde hair in a swirl of chlorine. I dream of diving, of doing laps of butterfly or backstroke, but for now, I am only allowed to paddle about, careful to keep my head and shoulders above the undulating blue. So, in my new Topanga life, I would need a lap pool. I would miss the epic grocery shopping available to me here in Beachwood. I routinely toggle between six different grocery stores because they each have one item or another that I prefer over the competition. I wonder if there is a local paper? I could write articles in the town rag about life in Topanga. I bet there is a coalition to preserve some of the historic buildings. (Does Topanga have historic buildings? Is it actually a town?) I could join the boosters, and we could have meetings at the local family-owned coffee shop, where, against all I know of myself and my propensity to cook at home, I will have become a regular. I have really enjoyed thinking about this newest possible new life. This mental exercise has got legs. I visited a friend up there once, but it was nighttime. I have made a note to take an afternoon to explore the area, because … Topanga Canyon, I mean, maybe? Why not? My friend Mellissa lives in a big, beautiful home where she is raising her three big, beautiful sons. She wants, one day, when everyone is grown and on their own, to get an apartment in Manhattan with a panoramic view of the city lights. She plans to take up smoking again and sit with a perfectly blended cocktail in her well-appointed living room and stare out at the wonder of the nation’s largest city. I, too, have a New York City life on the back burner at all times. I never tire of strolling purposefully down the streets and boulevards there. I would be a walker in a walking town. Heaven. There is no snow, sleet, or sweltering heat in the projection of how my life there would pan out, and I think it’s best to leave that fantasy intact, unless it threatens to become a reality. Then somebody who loves me needs to get the net. AISLES OF “IF”. About halfway up my street, there is a charming little mom-and-pop grocery store, next to the storied Beachwood Cafe. It is run by the son of the original proprietors and features a lot of essentials and last-minute finds. The shelves are sparsely filled, but they have everything from dog food to birthday candles, things one is grateful to find in a pinch. I stop in a few times a week during one of my walks. The employees all greet Fairness with a smile, and I love being able to dash in to pick up a pepper or a small bag of fresh herbs. They carry the only flavor of ice cream that I am helpless to resist Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Chocolate Chip, the devil in a carton. Some twenty years ago, the deli counter near the wine and spirits was well stocked and famous for its tuna salad, among other delights. Now it is barely functional. There are a few meats and cheeses available for slicing, and there are usually one or two “salads” on offer. One of potato or macaroni, and the other almost always is a turkey/cranberry concoction, which features too-big chunks of meat with dried cranberries and walnut halves. After every visit, I dream about taking over the deli counter and stocking it with delicious takeaway foods. I would have a tray of chicken paillard. There would be a lemon dressing and curls of Parmesan to add on at home. I would have things like pasta salad with pesto and three peas. Cold shrimp mixed with dill and mayo and topped with sliced nuts. There would be chewy, crackly almond cookies and butterscotch brownies. Rich coconut cake would be sold by the slice, and fluffy chocolate pots du crème available in compostable containers. I would sell out of everything by 5 P.M. and head home to take the dog for a long walk, then have a leisurely dinner at my favorite French bistro. A chef’s life. Of course, in the dream, my hands do not cramp and ache with crippling arthritis, my joints are flexible, and the physical demands of cooking for the multitudes are easily met. Some days, I am a resident in legendary Palm Springs and write a weekly column there called “This Old Life.” I get talked into running for city council and then mayor, because it is the one place where I would be considered young enough to do so. I start a program of expanded underground water storage and restore train service between the desert and Los Angeles. Everyone would compost, and traffic would cease to be an issue. We would start a collective that would gather all of the unwanted fruit that is tossed out every year and turn it into specialty marmalades. The proceeds would go toward job training, housing, and rehab for the homeless. I am a great mayor; they end up naming a street after me. There is one in San Francisco. I have always wanted to move there just to live on Broderick Street. In that scenario, I do not have to avoid gluten and am able to eat my weight in chewy, tangy sourdough bread. I go to the Wharf for fresh seafood three days a week and take the ferry over to Marin on Fridays to meet a friend for lunch. (I do not know a soul in Marin, but I am sure I could find a willing companion.) Sunday, I indulge in an Irish Coffee at BV’s and then stroll down to Golden Gate Park to watch the young families fly kites and play tag. I have a great life. I love my neighborhood and my proximity to the gorgeous Griffith Park. I am grateful for my long career and enjoy juggling the actor/writer/model life. It’s not as if I dream of other lives because I am unhappy in my present state; I just love imagining new ways of being in the world. What is it like to run a tasting room at a winery? Host a cooking show? Own a seaside gallery? I am still blessed with an abundance of energy and have a creative engine that is wont to crank into overdrive. I enjoy asking “what if” because the one thing that I am certain of is that, to age well, one has to be flexible and able to adapt to new circumstances. There may be little chance that I will enter into any of the worlds mentioned above, but I believe in keeping an open mind, because it feels important to remember that I am free to change, anytime for any reason. It’s the freedom that is at the heart of my imaginings. They say if you can dream it, you can do it, and, well–I probably won’t. But they also say … ”Never say never!” On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe

See All (71)

About

Beth Broderick dives deeply into her personal experience to deliver a weekly essay full of wit, wisdom, and stories from the heart. bethbroderick.substack.com

Information