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

Beth Broderick
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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. 3d ago

    Top Dog

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick One of the biggest plusses about my recent move is the small but not-too-small private dog park just a half block from my apartment. I had to jump through a few hoops to become a member. I needed to apply to the City of Los Angeles for a pet license, which meant collating all of Fairness’s vaccine records. Then the instructions said to mail the forms, along with a $200 check or money order, to an address on Pinehurst Ave., which turned out to be a home located directly across the street from the park. I dutifully put it all in a stamped envelope, then walked it over to the address and placed it in the mailbox by hand. I did not trust the USPS to deliver it posthaste, and I was in a hurry, excited to be able to FINALLY provide my 90-pound rescue dog with a safe place to run free. The woman who administers the membership was out of town, which meant I had to wait and wait to get the precious codes that unlock the gate. I pestered her, and she finally gave me permission to Zelle the payment and upload the necessary documents. I then snuck over to her place and retrieved the envelope containing my check. I think this may have been illegal. I have some notion that “mail tampering” is a crime of sorts, but I did it anyway, lest there be confusion. I wanted those codes, but I did not want to pay twice to get them. It took two more days before she finally gave me the keys to the dirt kingdom, but it was worth the wait. During my apartment hunt, I tried hard to find a place with a yard or at least a small patio that Fairness could sit out on with autonomy. When we visit friends with outdoor space, he gallops and frolics until he runs out of steam, then sits proudly by himself under the stars. Like most dogs, he appreciates the chance for a little independence, while being fully aware of exactly where I am at any given moment. I am sure such spaces exist, but I could not find one that met the other criteria I had set for my comfort. When I looked at this place, the manager told me about the park, and I went immediately over to inspect it after our tour. The park has two sides. One is for humans only, where folks go to get some fresh-ish air (this is L.A.) and a bit of sun. It is not often occupied, but I have, on occasion, seen a young woman reading in the grass, a mature couple sharing a glass of wine. On Sundays, folks gather for free yoga, and something called a “sound bath.” We are close enough to Franklin Blvd. to hear an awful lot of traffic noise, so I am not sure how successfully folks can be immersed in such a thing, but they show up and give it a whirl. The other side is for dogs. It is mostly dirt, with a few patches of rust-colored grass. Small uneven steps lead to an upper level, which has a picnic table, where there is usually a fresh bowl of water set beneath one end. I go up to the top and throw the ball for Fairness, who loves to leap down to the lower level in pursuit. He’s not a true fetching dog. He catches the thing and then situates himself in the shade and chews contentedly. I have to go to him and ask for the ball, which he is reluctant to surrender, but then pads happily after once I have tossed it away. We do this several times, and then I leave him to it, giving him a minute to hang out with his prize. He has met a few new dog friends, Luna and Arnie being his favorites. I am cautious with him, introducing him slowly and carefully. He is friendly, but other dogs can be reactive and will be aggressive toward him because of his color and size. Years and years ago, I dated a fellow who stood over 6’5 inches and weighed around 240. He was not athletic but had the body of a man who could be. He was constantly challenged by smaller guys who, for some reason, thought it was a good idea to pick a fight with him. He was a detective in the NYPD and was well-practiced in de-escalation, so he did not take the bait, but it always struck me as odd that anyone would want to provoke a person they had no hope of besting in a brawl. The human capacity for dip-shittery cannot be overestimated. OFF-LEASH DIPLOMACY. “Are your dogs friendly?” I called out as the older couple moved through the gate and released their companions into the park. Fairness and I were playing ball. I immediately put it away because toys can cause conflict with certain dogs. “Why? What’s the problem?” the older woman answered sharply. “Nothing, there’s no problem; we just haven’t met your dogs before. They seem really sweet; I was just asking.” “Oh yes, they are. I’m Maureen,” she said, still a bit annoyed. Her two overweight golden retrievers were moving slowly, just kind of meandering about. Fairness was eyeing them with curiosity, but they were indifferent to his presence and to my own. Maureen is the woman who lives across the street, the one whose mailbox I had “tampered with.” It was she who okayed my application and gave me the magic numbers which open the gate to our dirt oasis. She warned me against disclosing the code to others. “They will try to trick you into sharing it, saying that they somehow forgot it or whatever. We had too many people using the place without paying, so we had to change the combination.” She works hard to keep the parks going. She gives a lot of her time and even her money to the cause. Had to put in $1000 last year when the operation ran shy of the requisite funds. She has earned the right to exhibit a bit of propriety toward the place. “This is Fairness,” I said. He was sniffing the other two canines but came toward us at the mention of his name. “I’m Beth. We’re the newest members. Thank you so much for your help with everything. It’s so kind of you to care for this place. I’m truly grateful.” Fairness put his head in her hands, and she instinctively began to stroke his ears, a dog lover through and through. I was relieved. This lady has the power to grant permission to enter and the authority to take it away. I am terrified of having an “incident” and being asked to leave. I thanked her again, and we leashed up and went on our way. My dog has only been in a scuffle once, and it was with a non-neutered male who shared his interest in a young female. We were up at the “caves” in Griffith Park, where a lot of neighbors gather in the morning to let their dogs run free. Two men separated the dogs and held them until they calmed. It was all over in seconds, but it freaked me out for weeks. Fairness has seen that dog a bunch of times since, and neither one seems to be carrying a grudge, but still … “Is your dog friendly?” I called out as the man entered and set his dog loose. “Usually.” ‘Uh, boy’, I thought. ‘Usually.’ Fairness and I were both in the upper part, by the picnic table. He leapt down to greet the new guy, and I made my way cautiously toward the weird rickety steps. My heart raced as I heard the fight break out. Both dogs sounded vicious as they went after each other. I wanted to run, but I would have to make my way down first. When I hit the bottom and looked up, it was already over. My extra-large (not giant, but close) dog had pushed the other dog down and had him pinned in a kind of wrestling hold. When I approached, Fairness released him and stood back. They were both unharmed, though the smaller, older guy took a minute to unfold himself. Each remained calm as they separated. The matter had been settled, and they walked away with the doggo equivalent of a handshake. “Gosh, I am so sorry. Did you see how it started?” I asked the other dog’s owner. “No, not really. They seemed fine, and I was looking at my phone. They were just sniffing.” “Huh.” “We can go,” he offered. “No, no, you just got here. We’ll head out.” Once my heart stopped pounding, I replayed the event in my head. I was actually filled with relief. My boy had not tried to hurt the offender, just immobilized him and ended the argument. The other dog had the good sense to let that be that. I was grateful to them both and no longer concerned about what started the fight. It took two to get into trouble and required the better nature of both to restore the peace. Still, I am extra proud of my Fairness, who lived up to his name that day. A top dog indeed. 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

  2. Oct 13

    Never on a Sunday

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Eight hours of work, eight hours of play, and eight hours of sleep. That is the ideal.” I looked at him in disbelief; surely, I had heard him wrong? “Who on earth can do that?” “Very few, of course. It is the ideal, but that is rarely achieved. There are meals to prepare and pajamas to put on, teeth to brush and stories to read, but that is a different kind of work, one that nurtures us, so we allow it into the play category.” My wonderful therapist Gary explained all of this to me one day as we were working through my continued, will-never-shake-it, will-take-it-to-my-grave struggle with standing down, with taking time off, with surrendering the must-do list. ‘Eight hours of play????!!!!!! What????!!!! I am supposed to be the crazy one!’ I thought but did not say. I was trying to learn how to be normal, or at least not odd as all get out. Today is Sunday. I am supposed to spend it puttering, maybe doing some leisurely shopping followed by a long nap. In a nod to Gary, the gym is forbidden on this day of “rest,” though a dip in the pool is allowed, as long as it is not a dip in the one at the gym. I am getting the hang of Sunday, at least a little bit, and this is progress for me. I used to be so caught up in the whirlwind of life that I frequently held my pee for hours because I did not want to take the time to locate a restroom. I have to force myself sometimes, but these days I pay better attention to my body, at least on that score. This morning started with a long, lovely walk to the famous Hollywood Farmers’ Market. It is sprawling, covering four city blocks with vendor stands that offer a stunning variety of fresh-grown crops and other handmade goods. Jars of jelly and honey and roasted nuts. There are specialty soaps and cheese stands, bakeries, butchers, and fresh-cooked tamales. It is second in size and scope only to the even more notorious one that takes place in Santa Monica on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I warned Fairness that we might not be allowed to enter; dogs are not allowed in the Beverly Hills version, one more strike against that neighborhood for me. It is beautiful, but a bit heartless and very attached to the status quo. “We might have to just walk by, buddy.” It was a beautiful morning, the “heat dome” over Los Angeles finally giving way to showers and the first mild chill of the season. I wanted to pick up some fresh dates and tomatoes for a few recipe ideas, and it would be nice to knock that out, but the walk would be a good one, with or without that opportunity. When we were one block away, I could see tails wagging beside strollers as dogs of all shapes and sizes joined their families for a Sunday shop. We were in luck; the Hollywood folks allow our canine companions to join in the fun. My dog saw this too and began to grin broadly, picking up the pace, his tail at attention. He LOVES to be included; it doesn’t really matter what activity; he just wants to be a part of whatever I am doing. We sauntered in, pleased with ourselves and this welcome development, and were stopped almost immediately by a mother and her ten-year-old daughter who asked if they could meet my big doggo. “Oh yes. He loves the ladies!” This statement was superfluous to the scene, as his head melted into their hands and his big body began to lean into Mom’s thigh. They oohed and aahed, and Fairness ate it up, beaming as they said, “Isn’t he handsome? Isn’t he just the sweetest?” I thanked them for their kindness, and we moved on into the main market. “Stay with me, okay? Stay close to me, Fair,” I advised. I only needed two items but, of course, was drawn in by the gorgeous fresh-picked lettuces and greener-than-green broccoli. I could not pass up some hella fresh herbs, which will be great in a salad for tonight’s family dinner (which I am cooking). I tasted a new grape variety and was knocked out by its crisp texture and sweet zing. They went into the carry bag as well, which threatened to be a bit of a burden on the long walk home, but I paid it no mind. Yes, to those and to gorgeous yellow peppers and fresh late-season corn. I stuffed a few things into the dog-walking bag to balance the weight and gave in to the urge to buy two bunches of fresh dahlias for the dining table. I juggled and jangled a bit on the way back, stopping a few times to switch the bags, so that one shoulder did not bear the entire burden. It was a wildly satisfying adventure. A perfect Sunday activity, and one that is also on the “approved” list of activities that could be categorized as “play.” I also consider cooking to be on that list; it is work, of course, but a “cooking day” is a luxury, one I crave but rarely have time to indulge in. My friend Jeffrey and I both speak of such a day with reverence and a kind of besotted devotion. To wake and put up that first pie crust, then sip coffee studying a new recipe. Heaven. This is not true for everyone or even most folks, but for me a cooking day is a mitzvah, a blessing. Writing this column is not, of course, a leisure activity. I am technically NOT supposed to be doing it, but there are projects that feel dear to me which beg to be fit in between paying gigs and the hoops that must be jumped through to try to land them. This is one of them, and if that means giving the old work/play balance rules a bit of a bend, then so be it. There are no Sundays in show biz, Doctor Gary. That whole no-gym thing is the best I can do. ALL IN A DAYS WORK. There are no Sundays for those of us who make a living in the arts. When you are shooting a movie, your day off may very well be a Monday or slow Tuesday, and as filming goes on and the schedule gives way to the inevitable chaos, that precious time off could be any darned day. Sundays are not given special treatment. If you are doing a professional theater gig, they are the most arduous. Sunday features two shows in one day at the end of a long eight-show week. Sundays are why the house is required to provide an “Equity cot” so that performers can sprawl out between shows and rest their weary, aching bodies. Sundays are a tough taskmaster in the live arts. The industry begrudgingly honors a few holidays, but we often eke those out, working up to the last minute, then taking meetings and taping auditions while juggling the shopping, cooking, and party-attending commitments of home life. Of course this is true of many professions. The sports world is all about weekends. This begins as early as middle school, carries on through high school and college, and those lucky enough to go pro or semi-pro are called upon to serve up their time and talent, brains and brawn on a big old Sunday platter. This all while we eat chips and dip out of helmet-shaped bowls and barbecue out of makeshift car trunk picnics. The food world is another weekend profession. Chefs and wait staff and front-of-house personnel all ply their trade as we crowd into their booths and fill up their bar stools for a taste of leisure. The list goes on and on: firemen, hospital workers, police, dog walkers, physical trainers, and dentists who are covering the emergency hotline. A tooth does not politely wait until Monday to crack, nor does it hold off on that abscess because it’s Saturday. So, I spent the late morning reworking a screenplay, and I have spent these afternoon hours writing to you about why, technically, I should not be doing so. Might not have been leisure, but the pleasure was all mine. Well, I hope not ALL mine. I have to run, though. I’m making curried tomato lentil soup and arugula/pear salad with cranberries and walnut dressing for the sisters tonight. Talk about folks who do not ever, really, have a “weekend.” Parents of young children might be the best example. They are working every minute that the little devils are awake and resting with one eye open when they finally go to sleep. I could write about that for hours, but not today, not now, because I have the urge to pee and I promised Gary that I would honor that. How’s that for progress? 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

  3. Sep 25

    Good for you!

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Do you eat a lot of spinach and other leafy greens?” “Yes. I love spinach, chard, and collards. No kale, though. Kale bites the big weenie. Nasty stuff.” My doctor, Mary, nodded her head in acknowledgment. “Any food that you have to massage for twenty minutes just to be able to chew it is off my list,” I went on. “A pal of mine recently ordered a kale Caesar salad and persuaded me to taste it—dreadful! And it threatened to cut the inside of my mouth. That thing tried to kill us both.” The doctor smiled; she is accustomed to hearing my opinions on a variety of topics. Her annual check-ups are long affairs, and I am a talker. She spends a great deal of time with each patient, making sure she is up to speed on their overall physical and mental health. She pointed to the screen where the sonogram of one of my kidneys could be seen. “Do you see those little squiggles?” she asked, pointing to a blurry black-and-white image. “Um, yeah,” I said, because I thought I did. I wasn’t 100% sure, but I wondered where she was going with this and wanted to get on with it. “They are little crystals which form in the kidneys, and when there are too many, they can form kidney stones, which are known to be terribly painful. We’ve all heard about some relative who had to pass a stone and what a nightmare it was.” Not really, but the woman is a genius, so I took her word for it. “And that’s, er, um, those squiggles are from spinach?” “Well, that is one culprit. Also nuts, especially almonds, and things like black tea. Do you drink a lot of tea?” I have gone off it, but I drank buckets of the stuff for the past few years. That started when I hired a pet psychic so that I could communicate with my dog, Roxy Votes, who had passed away, leaving me gutted. She was as close a companion as a canine can be. She knew what I was going to do before I did, and well before I did it. She was kind, smart, loving, and compassionate. I adored her. She was 16 years old, quite long-lived for a dog of her size, a 70-pound Shepherd/lab mix. We had a vet appointment coming up because Roxy V had been choking occasionally and would sometimes upchuck after eating. She was slowing down, but we were getting along fine otherwise, until the fateful day. The psychic was very tuned in. “She was not at home when the illness struck. Was she at daycare?” “She was with her pet-sitter who often took her back to her place after walks. That’s when it started, because when the gal dropped her off, she had taken a turn and was obviously struggling.” How could the psychic have known that? The interview went on, and I bought in fully, because the lady somehow knew stuff like that, and also, I needed to talk to my dog, and in the session, I felt like she was with me again. Near the end of the half-hour, the psychic asked me a personal question. “How have you been feeling? Roxy says you have been having a stomachache? Some kind of tummy trouble?” “Well, yes. I’ve been to see the doctor about it. We’re not sure what’s causing the pain.” “Roxy says it’s the coffee that’s hurting you. She says to stop drinking coffee.” And so, I did. She was a very observant dog, and, dead or not, if she thought I should stop drinking coffee, then by God I would stop. I switched to tea and drank buckets of it, over ice because my dentist told me to use a straw to protect my aged and weakening enamel. I added copious amounts of nut milk to it in order to avoid dairy, because that’s just something a lot of people started doing in the 90’s and 2000s, and I have kept it up. THE RULES KEEP CHANGING. I think it all began with diet books like “Fit For Life,” which held dairy products responsible for a host of ailments that can plague the human body. That one was about the science of food combining, about what to eat and when to eat it, in order to maximize one’s metabolic rate. There was also a theory in show biz that consuming dairy products caused a layer of fat to form over a person’s muscles. This was at a time when thin and sculpted was an absolute must in the “attractiveness” game. Shows like “Friends” had actresses competing to be the thinnest and most defined. I, too, employed the “skinny” card with great devotion, but boy, oh boy, what I wouldn’t give now for a little of that skin fat to plump up my getting-a-tad-crinkly arms. (Yes, I bought the Crepe Erase crap those actresses were hawking on social media. No, it did not work, and also, it smells icky.) I have no idea if eating dairy actually causes any of those issues, but I bought into it. Remember that we are dealing with a person who gave up coffee because her deceased dog told her to. Though I would have denied it just yesterday, it has become painfully obvious, while writing this, that I am a buyer-inner. At first, I embraced soy milk and soy-related products as a substitute. I found it rich and delicious, and it was very healthy for us until we found out that it might not be, and it was decided that excess soy could contribute to estrogen-related health issues like breast cancer. So, in the name of caution, I switched to almond, which is tasty, creamy, and low-calorie, until it was frowned upon because almonds require an insane amount of water to cultivate, and we are in a constant state of drought. So, then I switched to a mixture of macadamia, cashew, and almond milk because big yum and so, so good for me… right? Maybe not. The list of things that can cause those crystal-ly bits is long and features almost all of my very favorite go-to foods. Things like lemon zest, which I cook with often, and apple peel, which is supposed to contain the healthiest elements of the fruit. The leafy greens that we have been constantly instructed to consume and the nut-derived milks and cheeses we thought were so much healthier are all in the making-squiggly-lines-on-your-kidney-pictures business. It’s impossible to keep track of the things that are good for you but also are not. A glass of wine is either great for your heart or killing you softly. The jury is out. Coffee was once considered a toxin, but it’s back in favor and a supposed contributor to longevity. The decaf that folks were told to turn to for safety is said to be hard to process and therefore is now a no-no. Eggs were great for you, then out to get you, then great for you again. A large number of Millennials believe that eggs bother their digestion and have given them up, much like we eschewed dairy in my day. I am NOT surrendering my damned leafy greens. I love them, and that’s that. I admit to buying some half-and-half (lactose-free, of course) for my low-acid coffee (old habits die hard), because those heretofore suspect beverages have been given the green light, for now at least. I will do my best to avoid developing those uncle-bedeviling, painful-to-pass stones in my otherwise good-looking kidneys. It makes a certain kind of sense that all of the things that are good for us are also bad. Our very existence is a crap-shoot, our health a guessing game, and that is in some ways the fun part. There will always be more questions than answers, and I, for one, can live with that … until I die. 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. Sep 9

    Hooray for Hollywood

    Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “You ladies would not cotton to it. There are wonderful things to see and do, but you have to put up with no small amount of congestion, some very unkempt areas, and a whole passel of Hollywood characters.” My gal pals are all kinds of intrepid, and they are serious warriors for good. They sit on boards for concerned scientists and job training foundations for at-risk youth. They raise money for the environment and for any and every candidate for office who promises to protect it. They fund wildlife defense here and abroad. They protect the lions and lobby for the right to a first-rate education for all. They fight for women’s rights and advocate for the LGBTQ community. They are brave and brilliant, but they are not likely to enjoy my treks through Hollywood’s more sordid environs. Cookie, Nancy, and Sara give until it hurts and then give some more; they are the stuff of legend, but my ladies don’t do doo-doo, and one has to step around quite a bit of it on my side of town. Fairness and I have made a few discoveries since moving back to Hollywood proper. It is an area that is at once steeped in history and in a constant state of transition. This part of town is known for the bustle, hustle, and noise of Hollywood Boulevard and the great gaggle of tourists who find their way to it, thrilling to the sight of a star carved with the name of their favorite celebrity. Pictures are taken, souvenirs purchased, and tours arranged with breathless excitement. A picture in front of the Hollywood sign, which to Angeleno’s is nothing more than a big word on a smallish hill, is a rite of passage. They will block traffic, run out in front of moving vehicles, walk for miles in inadequate footwear, just for the chance to capture themselves in the foreground. A lot of folks are annoyed by their antics, but I am touched by their dogged insistence on the joy of it all. Bless. There is a lot of blather in the blogosphere about how unbearable life is in Hollywood. A recent round of internet gossip insisted that the venerable Hollywood institution “Musso & Frank’s” had been driven out of business by the homeless crisis and the attendant “crime” that accompanies it. “Such a shame about that place. It’s just terrible that they’ve got to close,” my friend Dean said in reference to the wonderful old-school restaurant. “It’s not closing,” I said. “It takes weeks to get a reservation at Musso’s. They are more popular than ever.” “Are you sure? It’s all over the internet that they are shutting down.” “I was just there a month or two ago.” It was packed to the rafters with people waiting patiently for a chance to savor their famous sand dabs and decadent Lyonnaise potatoes. My friends all had one of their bracing martinis. The crisp and elegant drink is served straight up with a small shaker of refill nestled into a bowl of ice; the place is still old-school California dining at its best. “It is not closed; not even close to closing.” Dean was scrolling in search of verification. “Oh, you’re right. The owners say that’s just a rumor; that business has never been better. Huh. Wonder who started that whole thing? What was that about?” I shrugged. “Haters are gonna hate.” Dean is an adventurer; he will go to great lengths to pursue an experience. He loves theater and concerts, art exhibits, gorgeous gardens, and, of course, great dining. He is not put off by difficult parking or hella traffic or stepping over a few folks who have chosen a strange place to catch a few zzzz’s. He is not judgmental about such things, so that rumor had to be pretty convincing to fool him. The misinformation is coming at us so fast and furiously these days that it is hard to know what is true. I think it prudent to regard most of it with a healthy dose of skepticism. THE OTHER SIDE OF TINSELTOWN. The neighborhood extends well beyond those few storied blocks. Heading west on Franklin, the traffic slows and the scenery charms. There are large estates tucked up into the hills and ivy-covered walls obscuring the view of well-preserved garden apartments, where vacancy is a rarity. Of course, I have driven down that street for forty years, but I never really saw it until now. Walking through it is the only way to really know what a city is made of. I cannot believe that it took me this long to finally tour the grounds of the old “Wattles Mansion and Gardens.” The estate is now owned by the city, which maintains the grounds and offers the buildings up for filming or weddings or whatever event one might wish to use them for. The locals all meet there in the late afternoons to let their dogs play and loll about in the cool grass. Fairness and I avoid the crowd and wander toward the back, hoping for a quick game of catch. Most days we succeed in finding a few moments of play before the light begins to fade and it is time to head for home. As one heads south on Curson, you can peek in at the Wattles community garden that occupies two city blocks. Folks can rent a plot there for a small fee and grow their own vegetables or plant cutting gardens. Avocados abound, along with all manner of crops and flower beds. Bags of soil and sets of tools line the perimeter of each space, and a few folks have set up tables and chairs for lunch breaks. I could stare into that place for hours and still not register all of the gorgeous detail of the endeavors at hand. Go across Hollywood Boulevard to the south, and you will find a charming historic district called “Sunset Square.” How had I not known of this before? It is a quiet, leafy oasis which boasts well-preserved Craftsman-style homes. There are tons of well-established trees, heavy with lemons, grapefruit, and oranges. I saw pears too, and figs and a host of apple varieties. As one continues east, you pass the Gardener Elementary School. Then the buildings get bigger and newer, and the landscape gives way to more corporate real estate interests. The entrance to the famed Runyon Canyon Park is due north, and the sidewalks are busy with hikers on their way to beat down the paths that run up and through it. The popularity of these hiking trails cannot be overstated. The place is consistently overrun with enthusiasts. I avoid it because there are far too many off-leash dogs running around in those hills, and I prefer to avoid the risks inherent in that, but never say never. Fairness and I are going to sign up for a training program that teaches proper socialization and a controlled response to whatever may arise in that situation. So maybe? Maybe. Just a few blocks to the east, and one is in the heart of the tourist mecca, where street vendors hawk everything from hot sausage with peppers to hats with “Hollywood” emblazoned on them and all manner of trinkets and keepsakes. Head north, and you will find beautiful old buildings like the Nirvana and the Villa Bonita, which is said to have housed Errol Flynn in his heyday. There are hidden gems like the Valentino building, which is full of fountains and historic apartments with exquisite architectural details. I lived there for a time and know it well. Due east, there are new high-rises, most of them mixed-use buildings with stores like Trader Joe’s and Bristol Farms on the ground floor, which cater to their residents. Keep going and head just a few blocks up to Whitley Heights, which is full of old estates bordered by the 101 freeway on one side and Franklin Avenue on the other. The flats below have wonderful old places to see like the Fontenoy, La Leyenda, and El Cabrillo. The latter boasts a plaque that states it was built by Cecil B. DeMille. One assumes these were erected to house the artists and artisans who contributed to the early days of cinema and got the ball rolling for the juggernaut of the entertainment industry, which brings hordes of visitors to the sites nearby. There are dodgy bits, of course, as I make my way through these streets. I have pepper spray at the ready and keep an eye out for trouble. Some folks are sleeping under makeshift tents, while others are dragging their belongings down the street. The lucky ones have carts, but many have everything they own stuffed into a black trash bag. There is the occasional screamer, coping with the effects of crystal meth or fentanyl. I recently saw a young man staring into the side-view mirror of a parked car and punching himself in the face. I felt sorry for him and wanted to intervene, to help somehow, but I know better. We crossed the street and left him to it. We passed by Miceli’s Italian Restaurant. My friends and I have had many a mediocre, but somehow still wonderful meal there. Someone is always at the piano, and the wait staff takes turns singing mostly old standard tunes. Lovely. The other day Michael and I looked for the site of the old Les Deux Cafe, where I spent many an evening. The one and only Michelle Lamy helped to plan my first wedding, and we held it there with 200 guests all dressed in white. The bridesmaids and groomsmen performed musical numbers during the ceremony, and we even talked the priest into playing the maracas. It was wild and woolly and great fun. Folks still talk about that wedding; it was memorable in a way that the marriage was not. Turns out we were too far north to find the building before the rain began to fall in earnest, so we gave up and headed for home. There are many more walks to be taken; I am sure to visit it soon. The apartment is still in disarray; many boxes remain unpacked as I try to figure out how to squeeze my too many things into a space with too little storage. Dardan, the wildly talented handyman who has helped me on several occasions, is due back from Europe next week, and we will set about building me into this place. I am okay with the chaos because I love this part, love creating a new environment. I find it helps to just sit with a room for a bit

  5. 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.

  6. 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

  7. 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

  8. 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

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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

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