MINE

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

A bunch of white roses lay against the doormat. They had been bound together with a clear, two-inch-high band of tape which had a faint floral design. They were also fairly uniform in shape and size, so, definitely purchased–but from where? A grocery store with a flower department? A farmers’ market, maybe, or a big-box store?

The bigger question, to my mind, was: For whom? They were at my front door, but was this deliberate? Could it have been a mistake? Were they left at the wrong door, or are they actually for me? I live in a building with a keyed entry, so then, a neighbor. Possibly, but it would not be difficult to make one’s way past the endless number of Uber Eats drivers that are buzzed up daily with their overpriced fare. So, it could have been put there by anyone from anywhere; it was not necessarily an inside job.

There are two young girls in the apartment directly to my right. Perhaps the flowers were intended for one of them? A mix-up? Maybe there is a new paramour in the picture, and someone placed them there as an offering of interest? When they enter or exit their place, those two gals fly by my doorway at lightning speed. I tried once or twice to catch them to inquire after this possibility, but both times they were too fast for me.

The flowers sit in a vase on my dining table. I have tried not to think too hard about the mystery surrounding their arrival. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, they are mine, a lovely if quite temporary addition to my decor.

The concept of ownership is, it seems to me, a tricky business. Do we really own any of the things we call ours? My computer, my clothes, my sofa and chairs, my ever-present and completely essential phone are all “mine,” but, at some point, they will belong to another person or place. They will be refurbished and resold, or if they are too far past their prime, sent to occupy space in a landfill or be reduced to parts that will create a new possession, which will belong to another entity.

That art piece I love, that I would pay again and again for, could well end up with a price tag of $5.00 in a secondhand store. As anyone knows who has ever tried to sell a piece of furniture or get full price for an item of jewelry, their value does not hold. You might get a percentage from a winning auction bid or a decent offer from a pawnshop that specializes in gold and silver. You may get close to what you want on eBay, but this is hard to predict. Any good realtor will tell you a property is worth exactly what someone will pay for it.

Until it’s not. Until catastrophe strikes and that property and all of the personal belongings it held has been entirely disappeared, burned to the ground, washed out to sea, reduced to rubble in a quake. You might be lucky enough to rebuild and rebuy, but what was yours would be yours no longer.

I remember driving through a particularly bleak part of Southern Arizona on the way to Austin with my friend Dennis and the wolf/dog Democracy who lived with me there for years. He was mine, my beautiful dog, a wonderful creature, until he wasn’t. Until his body gave way to nature and he collapsed at a ripe old age. Dennis is fine and is still my great good pal.

“I cannot believe we killed people for this!” I said, looking around at the vast uninhabitable landscape. It was all rock and dust. There were barely any signs of life.

“Part of the United States of America now and forever … Lord help it and us.” Dennis replied.

It was and is hard to believe that wars are fought over such things. For all I know, that desolate area is home to some essential mineral or provides a crucial boundary between our nation and neighbor, but it seems pointless, nonetheless.

I don’t believe in open borders. In the interest of commerce and consensual government, dividing lines must be drawn, of course. But must we still kill for them?

The governor of Texas, a man I do not admire, has sent troops uninvited to small towns along the border. Last weekend in the small hamlet of Salinas, the border patrol agents who work there were ordered by state troopers to stand down and forced to watch in horror as a woman and her two small children drowned in the river that straddles our two countries. You see, this side of the river is OURS. Belongs to us, or more specifically to the “republic” of Texas. The governor has stated that were it not for federal law, he would simply shoot dead on sight anyone who arrived on its borders to petition for sanctuary in HIS state.

One of those children could have grown up to invent a life-saving treatment. The other might have become a novelist who enthralled us with his or her words. We will never know. Their human potential has been snuffed out because it was determined that they must not be allowed to set foot on the rocks which line the north shore of the river. Those are American rocks. And now, as ever, we are willing to murder people to protect that “fact”.

Ours.

Since reading this news, I have struggled to regain my normal buoyancy. I am obsessed with this story and completely undone by its cruelty. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I hope those two little ones haunt Gregg Abbott and bedevil him for the rest of his days. I hope poltergeists put spikes in the tires of his wheelchair. I hope he is diagnosed with a rare disease which can only be cured by the removal, one by one, of the hairs in his nose. I hope he tosses and turns for a sleepless eternity until it is time for him to go. And then I hope he goes to hell.

“My” roses have begun to brown at the edges. Soon it will be time to turn them into compost, that they may feed a fellow plant which–who knows?–could end up feeding me one day. I am still not sure who sent them or why. Perhaps they were a response to some kindness I bestowed which I have now forgotten. It is possible that they were a sort of romantic offering, not directed at the young beauties, but perhaps at this older wizened gal. I am doubtful there, but I tell myself daily that my physical charms still have a few tricks up their sleeve. If the lighting is low enough, that is, and the eyesight of the beholder sufficiently dodgy, I can still be quite a doll.

No matter. My apartment, my bank account, my visage, and my vase are all on loan from a universe I am too dense to divine. They will continue to be mine until I am no more. I hope, when the time comes, that I will have the grace to let them go and send them forth into the ether with gratitude and love. What’s mine is yours, theirs, ours, and—well--everyone’s. And I am good with that.

On we go …

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Deel

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Lost and Found
17 sep· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
LOST.
It started gradually enough. There was just a pesky hair missing here and there. No big deal, but in the last year there has been a mass exodus. My eyebrows have fucked off. They are so few and so pale that I cannot leave the house without a quick once-over with a pencil. Of course, those only come in colors like brown and weird taupe, orange-y hues that no longer match my silvery/white visage, so finding the right shade has been a daunting task.
This same phenomenon happened to my mother. Her eyebrows also just got up and left her face one day. She was part American Indian and had no body hair to speak of, but for most of her years she had a nice set of fringe framing her big brown eyes. When they disappeared, she tried for a while to set things right. Her eyesight was bad even with glasses; add to that she could not wear them and also decorate her brows, so she just got out the makeup mirror, put the eyewear aside, and decided to wing it. Now, the only pencil she had was a black eyeliner, so as you can imagine, the result was no bueno. It looked like large black caterpillars had attached themselves to her forehead, which, framed by her white hair (always stained yellow in places from nicotine), made for a somewhat startling image. This period was short-lived and, when she surrendered her makeup routine entirely, she was the more beautiful because of it. She never gave up smoking, so her hair was always streaked, but she was, in spite of all of that, lovely. She was not so nice at times, but she was, till the last, a looker.
Yeah, no. I am not going to surrender my own beauty routine quite yet. So while I am still searching for the right shade, I am making do by mixing charcoal and taupe, filling in the gaps above my eyes, and hoping for the best.
FOUND.
I just didn’t feel right leaving them out. My mother had been so crazy protective about her “jewels.” Mom was not a planner. She cashed out every employee pension she ever had. There were several. She was a nurse who later became a quality assurance director. Hospital people move around. She apparently thought there would be no need for those funds in her future, so she bought stuff, mostly jewelry. It was her great passion, though nothing matched her love of cigarettes and champagne. She loved her silver and gold; it was her stated reason for refusing to let us have anyone to help out when she was dying. She held the conviction that any health aide we might employ would somehow find their way to her portable safe, break into the thing and take her prized possessions.
When she passed, Laura and I got out the safe, which Laura had been given the code to unlock.
“How much do you think it’s all worth?” Laura asked.
I pulled out the two rings she had designed which had repurposed her wedding diamonds, “These. Maybe 1 or 2 K. The rest not much, Sis. We could sell it to a liquidator to melt down for maybe another 1 K, but this is mostly costume stuff. None of it has any meaningful monetary value. Let’s just give it to whichever niece has a feeling for it.”
The two rings, which had actual worth, were split between Laura and me for a time, but she gave me hers, because she is over 6 feet tall and a larger human than Mom was. I am the only sibling who resembles Mom in size, though, sometimes for better and more often worse, we all share many of her characteristics. So, I kept the two rings that she loved most and I found it kind of healing to put them on and take her with me through my day. We had a rough go of it her last two years. Our relationship devolved back into my childhood patterns. Mom acting out, me trying to get her to behave, her resenting me, maybe even hating me a little for it and hitting me often. She was smart and funny and had her charms, but she was also hell on wheels.
My sister and her wife provided her residence in their guest house, and gave it their all. I had, for decades, done everything I could to make sure she had what she wanted and needed. We supported her financially and every other way, but it was never enough.
“Mom. I know you are telling everyone that I am a b***h.”
“I never said that.” She hunched over and picked at her chin, a lifelong habit.
“You say it all of the time. I am not a b***h, but when my sister calls me crying because you have pushed her to the brink, it’s my job to push back.”
“Well, you are a b***h, but I never said that.”
“Okay, then. Love you too, Mom.”
After her death and the initial grief period that followed, I was startled to discover how much rage I felt. I was consumed by it. My body felt rigid, my nerves metallic. My mind whirred with something that felt like hate. It was as if after all of those years of abuse I no longer had to love her. She was gone and I could hate her guts, and I did for a minute—well, more like several months, if I am being honest. I hated her until the day that I didn’t. When compassion got the upper hand and called for the best of me to begin again to look for the love. Wearing her rings helped me lighten up.
“We are going to Canada this time,” I would whisper to the largish hunks of gold on my freakishly small fingers. “Victoria. It is postcard pretty, my favorite place to shoot. Sorry, I never got to take you there; you would have loved it, Mom.”
Those conversations in my head were a comfort.
I was headed out of the country and decided it was safer to leave them here. I had been charged with their safekeeping and I felt an obligation to protect her things. So, I decided to hide them in my apartment in case of … well … who knows?
It was maybe two months after I returned from Mexico when I realized the I had no recollection of where I had put Mom’s rings. NO idea. I searched and searched, but no go. I had to confess to Laura that I lost them, and I felt wracked with guilt, was sure that my failure to keep her things safe was a betrayal. What if I had put them in one of the worn pieces of luggage that I donated? What if they were accidentally tossed into a trash can or laundry hamper. What if???
More months went by. The searches got less frantic and frequent. I had given up on finding them through deliberate means and became resigned that I would just have to wait for them to turn up. I am not sure if I blocked it out or just plain forgot, but they took a backseat to other more pressing and equally useless worries.
The thankfully short heat wave that recently hit Los Angeles was a doozy. I had forgotten about the “Indian Summer” that usually hits this region in September. It was hot, hot, hot. I was heading out and decided to put on a weird Hawaiian shift dress that I had picked up in a consignment store a while back. It was on the list of things that, if not worn this season, was on the chopping block, headed home with the housekeeper or off to Goodwill. I decided to pair it with my red Converse Chucks, because I wanted to be comfortable and that sounded like a cute older-gal combo.
When I went to put on the left sneaker there was an object lodged in the toe. Upon investigation, it turned out to be both of Mom’s rings, carefully swathed in fabric and then wrapped in plastic film.
Eureka!
A huge relief, but also a source of joy. Something I could celebrate with Mom. I looked to the heavens:
“Mom. I’ve got them! Safe and sound. Yay! Woohoo!!! I don’t like champagne, but I will take a sip of it in your honor! “
I put them on and admired them as I looked at my hands. They are pretty pieces … a testament to her taste.
“I do love you, Mama. I do love you.”
The red Hawaiian dress has been relegated to the donation pile, which Maria Elena will inspect in the morning. In the end it’s just too weird, a half-mumu kind of a thing. I’m not there yet but when I’m ready to conceal from head to toe I am fixing’ to go full mumu.
On we go …
P.S.
I spent four hours today in a tattoo parlor on a very iffy stretch of Glendale Boulevard. I wasn’t sure my car would be there when I came out. The place had been highly recommended, so I took a breath and rang the bell. Inside, it is really quite lovely, but I admit to wondering once or twice after my vehicle. After three hours of a treatment that felt like tiny army men were stabbing my brow bone with their bayonets, I have emerged with what promises to be some rather fetching eye fringe.
I am told that they can change colors overnight, so I may awaken to find myself having gone full clown. But for now, another thing once lost had been found. Eyebrows. How about that?
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Whirly Wind
5 sep· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
On Sunday, I was still trying to climb out of the fog of exhaustion that was clouding my thoughts. Having concluded a series of night shoots at 3 AM in Montreal, I finally made it to bed at around 4:15. I then awakened at 9 AM on the same day in order to pack and head to the airport. At my asking I was on a Delta flight which had a layover in Detroit. Yes, there are many direct flights on Air Canada and such, but Delta is MY airline, the one I always choose to fly, so the extra two hours of travel time would have to be endured.
On Sunday I decided to head to my sisters’ house. I missed them and was craving a dip. They have recently completed the installation of a gorgeous swimming pool. (It was a true feat of endurance, which tried their patience and frayed their nerves for the better part of a year, but both would say it was worth all the trouble, time and treasure required.) I thought the exercise might help me to get a good night’s rest. I have trouble sleeping when I am overtired, too stimulated or too raggedy or what have you, so this was my solution. I looked forward to writing the following day in order to stay on our summer schedule of every other Tuesday.
The first thing to put the kibosh on this plan was the discovery, upon being greeted by the girls, that the day was, in fact, Monday. I had lost Sunday altogether, with no idea where it went. After a delightful swim, I dried off and headed in to change. My sister was re-wrapping herself in a towel on her way back to the pool. I was chilled by the blast of air inside her well-cooled home, so I stopped her.
“Lolo, can I borrow that towel? I am freezing and I don’t know what I did with mine.”
“You can have this if you want it, but yours is on your head, sis.”
I reached up and sure enough, there was my towel, on my head. I was losing track of more than just days. Whole objects were disappearing into the haze. I dried off and changed into street clothes, then polished off a small dish of potato salad, the latter a ritual offering from Laura. She knows that I love the stuff and would never think to buy it. I determined that I could go home and write for a few hours and still possibly get the piece to Eric to edit, then Rebecca to polish and format, and lastly to Tucker to record the audio.
I was resolved to get to work, but the swim had done the trick and I was drowsy as all get-out, so I decided to indulge in a wee nap. I emerged from a coma-like state three hours later, having forgotten to set an alarm. By then, there was a host of other things that needed doing. A grocery run, because I was desperate to eat my own food again. My pal Caroline, who was with me on this last project, got a kick out of my attempts to fashion meals on a hot-plate-ish thingy with a teeny fridge and a microwave—the only cooking equipment available. I managed to make veggies and GF pasta with burst tomatoes and a few other things, but mostly I had lived on cheese and grapes.
The first thing I made when I got back was scallops with caramelized lemon sauce, mashed potatoes, and green beans sautéed crisp. Heaven. Home.
Then it was time for a good long walk with my sweet pup. Fairness, my new rescue dog, has come to understand the word “work.” I had taken him on two days before I started a movie in May. I have been blessed to be absent due to work quite frequently since we became a team. When I left for Canada, I explained over and over again:
“I have to go to work, but I will be back. You are my dog, and you will always be safe. I will be back. I promise.”
He understands. Work is not exactly his favorite word, but he knows what it means and seems to accept that it’s got to be done.
He loves his pet sitter but is not confused about who he belongs to. The first night of my return, he snuggled up close and lay his head on my shoulder. He has been through a lot and knows how to adapt.
I had one more plan, and that was to get up at 6:30 AM on Tuesday and start to hammer out a draft. I woke up at 8:45 with the puppy asleep in my lap. I had set the alarm for 6:30 PM Clearly, I needed a bit more recovery time.
Funny how different it is that at my age I still find myself with plenty of energy going in to every day , but I tire more easily by the end of one and feel it more deeply. At 65, I think I finally know what the term “bone tired” means, or at least how it feels.
Today is Wednesday. I am not in fine fettle yet, but I have mostly returned to form.
Working in Montreal was eye-opening for me in more ways than one. Firstly, it is a lovely city made up of a preponderance of beautiful old buildings and homes, many draped in lush greenery, so there is a lot to see. There are several sprawling outdoor markets with picture-perfect produce, and a host of good restaurants which we regrettably did not have time to try. I did find a gluten-free bakery and indulged in the best croissant I’ve ever had, wheat or no.
It was the first time that I had been on a set where the entire team, excepting the American producer (who was a gem), spoke French. Most could communicate in English when needed, but they all defaulted to their native tongue on the job. It was more than a little disorienting. I am accustomed to knowing exactly what is happening next. Did we get that shot? What is the next setup? Is there something I can do to make it easier to capture? I am normally very technical about the job until the moment we roll cameras and then I just let it all go.
The script supervisor was especially frustrating for me. She spoke very softly and wore a mask most of the time. She preferred to remain a good distance away to keep safe, I presume, so she would stand there a good 75 feet away mumbling inaudibly behind her mask and roll her eyes when I could not understand her.
“Ma’am I am sorry, but I have NO idea what you are saying. I cannot hear you. I don’t know what you want.”
She would throw up her hands and reluctantly approach, still mumbling, still masked. I would usually grasp the message after about the third or fourth try, which left both of us exasperated. I once tried to apologize to her at the end of the day.
“I am so sorry. I really have a hard time understanding you. I think maybe your accent is so strong.”
“It’s not my accent. You just do not want to understand,” she replied.
Huh. So, she decided that I just did not want to know what I needed to know about continuity because I am a know-nothing kind of gal? I tried not to let that hurt my feelings because, really, it’s ridiculous, but still … not very nice.
A month of working while words flew by in a language that I have no feel for. At times it felt harsh; the words falling so fast and furiously around me that my mind wanted to shut down, to just be somewhere else. Somewhere quiet and familiar.
They were a great group of people, and I loved working with them with that one notable exception, but it really gave me pause.
It made me stop and think about the immigrant experience, something I have never known. How it must feel to risk everything to get to a new country. To find yourself in a place where you hope your family will be safe, your children given a leg up in the world, and not understand a word. To finally get to a new home and find yourself isolated by your inability to communicate. Some folks will try to help you while others will blame you for not understanding. Will resent the intrusion of your differentness.
I was a leading actor in a movie. There were lots of people smoothing the way for me, caring about my well-being, making sure I was fed, housed, and transported. All of that, and still my nervous system felt frayed at times. Can you imagine what it must be like to not be able to count on any of those needs being met? To have to fight your way through unfamiliar systems and, by hell or high-water, find a way to put a roof over your head and feed your kids?
Respect.
BLOWN AWAY.
I have put off calling Spectrum for two days, because the thought of it makes me want to bang my head on the wall. What if I had to do that in French? Somehow explain that the billing is wrong, or the cable is out? The thought of it makes me want to lie down on the floor.
Montreal has many of the problems that our American cities share. Traffic can be hell and parking inside city limits is difficult, the signage so confusing that even native speakers cannot figure out the rules. There are homeless folks, too, and the occasional tent “city” pops up looking wildly out of place amongst the old brick duplex homes. Prices for some goods can be quite high, but they do not rival ours. Gasoline is 1.26 per gallon. That’s a little under a dollar U.S., so they’ve got us over an oil barrel there. (Canada is also a serious contributor to greenhouse gasses through their oil-shale extraction methods) So there is in fact a price to pay. Isn’t there always?
The taxes are crazy high, but the benefits are real and many. Rent control is strictly enforced. Medical insurance is guaranteed to all. The public transit is good, the public schools are great, and college is practically free when compared to American rates. There is a palpable sense of civic duty. Trash, recycling and compost rules are enforced with fines, and I saw a lot of folks get pulled over in their vehicles for what in L.A would be considered a minor infraction. The place is not as strict as, say, Switzerland, where you can be fined for running the vacuum on a Sunday. (Yes, that is a thing). But they have rules, and they expect you to follow them.
There is a spirit of collectivism that is considered suspect by some here at home. It goes against the grain of the great rugged individualism that we have been taught to believe is a winning way to live in the world. But, like it or not, we need each other. We can take many lessons from the folks across the border in both directions. I have made a pledge to really hunker down and become an advanced Spanish speaker, and after last month, what the hell… why not begin French? Life is long, if we are lucky and there is so much to learn.
On we go …
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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
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter Five (continued): "Headless in Romania: Part 2"
20 aug· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Michael was worried about me in Romania. I was having a very hard time, and he had rarely known me to be so deeply depressed. After our conversation he hung up the phone, leapt into action, and called his airline to book some flights (Yes, those of us who travel often for work all have an airline to which we are fiercely loyal—“our” airline. It doesn’t matter if they are the best or have the best options … it matters that they know us and can be counted on to help us out in a pinch … like, say, for instance, when one of our close pals is having a complete meltdown in a foreign county and we need to get there ASAP.) My airline is Delta; Mike’s is American. They quickly got him sorted, so he packed a bag and headed to JFK airport. He had a busy schedule, but as an independent producer, he figured he could rearrange things on the way. He flew to London that evening and made his way to Romania the next day.
When he told me he was in the country I almost dropped the phone as I doubled over with relief and felt the first wave of joy I had known in quite some time. I had about ten days left of filming when Michael arrived. He had made arrangements to stay for five of them. He is a producer of films as well as Broadway and Off- Broadway shows, and that was what he could manage.
When he arrived, he came straight to me on the set and stayed until I finished shooting for the day. Then we got into the car from production and headed back to my hotel room while it was still light enough to see our surroundings. It was a long, dusty drive, during which our vehicle impatiently shared the road with horse-drawn carts and heavily laden mules. There was not much else to see on the way back to the city, but as the light began to wane, the sky turned a gorgeous crimson. Had it always done so? Had I never noticed?
I was not on the filming schedule for the following day, which meant I could spend some desperately needed alone time with my pal and also that we could have a night of it without worrying about an early call. He was starving, and a few places were still open, so we found a restaurant near the hotel and sat down to eat.
“What are you doing?” he asked at one point. “With your food?”
He had watched as I discreetly (I thought) wrapped up most of the contents of my plate in a napkin and stowed them in my purse.
“For the animals. There are so many …”
“I see.”
We had some wine and talked. He told me stories that made me laugh, and I felt my shoulders start to go down. On the way home, we were approached by several children who made desperate pleas for money. I demonstrated my dollar-stashing techniques for Michael as I handed them out to each one. At the hotel, the puppy was waiting as usual. Michael and I sat down with him and rummaged in my purse for the dinner I had saved. He nuzzled into both of our arms, seeming to need affection even more than sustenance.
“Isn’t he lovely? I asked. “It will kill me to leave him here.”
“Honey, this guy is a survivor. He has you wrapped around his paw. He will find someone else.”
“Yes,” I sighed. I guess you are right. He’s just such a love.”
He took the food I had for him, and we sat with him a while longer as he pressed himself into first one of us and then the other, but soon it was time to get Mike some much needed rest.
The next day, Michael made some phone calls. He had recently filmed a movie in Budapest and knew a lot of crew people on the ground there. He was looking for connections.
“Okay. I have hired a car,” he told me when I came out of the bedroom. “He is going to drive us to a big store where they have everything, or at least the Romanian version of that. We are going to buy food for the animals and treats for the children, and then you are going to eat the food we get for you. You need to eat, honey. You look like a rail.”
We bought a ton of supplies: cases of single servings of dog food that came wrapped in little gold pouches, as well as chow for the puppy and lots of individually wrapped foods that could be distributed to kids. After we loaded it all into the hotel room, we grabbed a few items to take with us and set off to find a restaurant that our driver friend had highly recommended.
The place was located in a nice part of town where a lot of the original architecture was intact, some of it quite beautiful. Outside the restaurant at least a half dozen men wearing suits paced up and down. They all carried side-arms and eyed each other warily. These fellows are called “Mug-faces”; they are there to guard the bosses as they dine inside. The “bosses” (mostly members of the Oligarchy that had survived Ceausescu) were seated all around the dining room dressed in leisure wear. Most of them were wildly overweight, their girth threatened to burst out of their track suits. All of them sported heavy gold jewelry around their necks and big rings on their fingers.
We observed them carefully, not wanting to stare as we sat down to order lunch. We shared appetizers, and I had the chicken, which was delicious. I tried to portion most of it off to save for the streets, but Michael intervened, and I actually ate my lunch. Things were beginning to brighten.
The next day we were picked up late morning to go to set. I found the puppy before we got in the car and fed him a handful of chow. I was in every scene that was scheduled, and it promised to be a long day. There is nothing more boring than being on a movie set if you are not a part of the movie, but Michael never complained as the day wore into what promised to be a long night. In America, when a shoot goes into overtime the production is required to supply a second meal, which is often take-out food of some kind. People work hard on movie sets and need to refuel after six or seven hours. In Romania, they set out some bologna and day old bread and called it a meal. I hatched a plan.
I talked to the other three leads and got them to agree to pitch in if I could find a way to have pizza delivered to the set, which was a good forty five minute drive from the city. I did not need their financial assistance, but I thought it was important for the four of us to present a united front. This would not be easy. There was no Domino’s or any such place that delivered pizza anywhere to anyone, much less to over 50 people at a remote locale. Michael, ever the producer, started working to find a way. With a lot of help from the production office, he found a pizza place that was eager to try but needed two days to assemble an order that large. It would be delivered cold, but we figured out that there was a cafeteria type building on the studio grounds which had an industrial sized oven we could use to reheat it once it arrived.
It was Michael’s last night in the country when we astonished the cast and crew of the movie by providing a second meal of hot and pretty darned delicious pizza. Such a thing was unheard of then, and we would not have pulled it off without a lot of helping hands from production and the A.D. team. I announced that this was a gift from the actors and from all of us as a thank you for everyone’s hard work. We had all been slogging away, trying to get to the film’s finish line and this was a much needed break from the grind. It was a mitzvah, a joyous moment. Michael had in so many ways, truly saved the day.
The next night, after a fairly early wrap, a few of us decided to go out for dinner. One of our cast members was a woman named Suzy. She was a beauty who originally hailed from Hungary but had become a successful model/actress in America. When everyone met outside of the hotel, I was already down there communing with the puppy. Before he left, Michael had warned me off of trying to rescue him, and I had reluctantly agreed that it couldn’t be done. The pup was about four months and growing bigger every day. I was worried that the authorities would be called, and he would end up being removed from the area and put to death. Suzy met him for the first time that night.
“Oh my. What a sweetie! He is your dog, Beth. He is your dog,” She said after observing us together.
“I know. I am so worried about him. This place is so dangerous for them,” I said, with tears in my eyes.
The puppy tried to follow us as we loaded into a cab. He was running full speed after us as we pulled away. I had to make the driver stop so I could get out and send him back to the construction site that was his home. His eyes shone with longing, but he obeyed me and turned toward the hotel.
I got back in the car and wiped away the tears that had now fallen down my face.
“He is your dog,” Suzy said again.
“I can’t leave him here. I just can’t, but there is no way to get him out of here.”
“I will help you. I can help you. We are going to do it.”
A TICKET TO A NEW LIFE.
I had two more days in the country, but Suzy was staying on for a few more. I wrote her a check for two thousand dollars and told her I would happily spend whatever we needed to pull it off. I then scrambled to figure out how to keep him protected and alive long enough for Suzy to get him on a plane. I approached several of the “CIA” guards with the little gold packets of dog food. They all knew the puppy. I had seen one or two of them playing with him, even throwing his old boot/toy for him to fetch. I explained that I would be taking him home to the United States and asked them to feed him for me until we could arrange his transport. They were taken aback by the very notion, and all of them replied with some version of the following:
“Never take dog to America!! This never happen. Crazy lady! No. This not happen!”
Still, most of them took the food. I was relieved—I needed them to buy into the scheme. I hugged the puppy tight the morning that I left.
“You are coming with me. I promise. You are my dog, and you are coming with me. You are coming to be with me,” I told him through yet more tears.
When I traveled back with the young lead actor, we decided to grab a bite between flights. He stopped me as I tried to wrap up my food in a paper napkin—I had not shaken the habit.
“We are in Germany Beth. We are at the airport. There is no one here to give that to.”
Suzy got the puppy vaccinated and got sworn affidavits from the vet that he was a domesticated pet. She bribed a bevy of officials and somehow arranged for him to get a passport. When she went to crate him up for the long trip home, one of the CIA guards shouted out:
“Take me to America!!! Put me in box!!!”
It was a terrible flight for the poor puppy. He had never been indoors, much less in a crate in the belly of an airplane. Suzy said his howls could be heard by everyone on the flight. She somehow got to him at the baggage claim in Germany and gave him a sedative. That woman is amazing—I have no idea how she managed it, but when they arrived, she waltzed through American customs with a dog from Romania. I was able to pick him up the next day. Suzy had bathed him, and with the dirt and the green paint gone, his coat was actually a gleaming white. The minute he saw me, there was a look of understanding in his eyes. He knew for certain in that moment that he was my dog. He was too big, and it was not safe, but I let him sit in my lap all the way as we drove home.
When I took him to the vet, there was a surprise in store.
“Beth, I don’t think he is entirely a dog. I mean there is some dog, but I think he is also European white wolf.”
“He’s a wolf?” I asked, astonished
“A mix for sure, but yes, I think there is some wolf here.”
“Oh boy!” I exclaimed. “What now?”
“We need to neuter him as soon as possible to contain his growth.”
We did so at the first opportunity, and I guess it was a good thing because even “contained,” he grew to be over 100 pounds. He did not cotton to everyone; well, to most people, to be honest. He had a small pack of folks that he trusted and no use for any others. But, my oh my, did he love me. When my marriage broke into pieces and my heart with it, he came to my rescue, doing everything he could to bring me comfort. He scared the wee-billy Jaysus out of almost everyone he met, but he had a huge heart and was ever gentle with me. He was a truly magnificent creature, and he had my back every day of his long happy American life.
On we go …
P.S. Not long ago, I ran into one of the producers from that film. She told me that folks still talk about the “crazy Americans” who saved a dog. The stuff of legend.
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter Five: "Headless in Romania"
6 aug· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I am not one hundred percent sure, but I believe it was 2006 when I got on a plane and headed overseas to shoot a horror movie (my one and only horror movie). I was the villain in a quite well-written and demanding role in what I thought was most likely a good script. I couldn’t read it. Not the whole thing anyway. Every time I got to a really harrowing moment I would have to put the script in a drawer in the kitchen. I could not sleep with it nearby. I couldn’t get through some of the more graphic scenes. My PTSD would not allow it, so I just focused on my part.
I had my hairdresser do a temporary brown rinse to hide my obviously well-tended highlights and asked her to trim my hair with her eyes closed. I wanted to make it look like I did my own hair with ordinary shears. My character lived off the grid; she was definitely not a glamour gal.
Before leaving for Romania, I had to meet with the special effects team to have a rubber replica of my head taken so they could make a believable version of it that could be cut off. Yes, the script called for it, and that was the plan. To cut off my head.
It’s a living.
This was achieved by running a breathing tube from my nose to the side of my neck, which was my only source of oxygen when they encased my noggin in goo that would take what felt like an eternity to harden up. Not for the claustrophobic, that procedure. I had to summon up some long-forgotten meditations to get through it. I made a vow to myself that I would get back to yoga class. They were a nice enough crew of folks and that made me hopeful that we would have a calm, happy set.
The movie was supposed to take place in Appalachia, and the Romanian countryside is a pretty good match for that. Labor is cheap, or it was then, and there were no pesky safety measures needed or union rules to follow, so a few brave souls had ventured over there to film. It was becoming a hot(ish) spot for Americans looking to shoot movies on the cheap. There was a studio of sorts just outside of Bucharest, but to describe it as rudimentary would be generous. I have heard the whole place has spiffed up quite a bit in the ensuing years.
When we arrived, the country was still reeling from the chaotic and ruthless rule of dictator Nicolae Ceaușescu and his equally brutal and ignorant wife, Elena. The pair systematically broke the economy, ransacked the country’s resources to build a useless palace, and crushed any and all opposition. Their foreign policy chafed even their Russian comrades, and Romania found itself growing increasingly poor and isolated. When the people took to the streets, Nicolae ordered the military to mow them down. The military obliged at first, but ultimately joined the people and arrested the Czar and his wife. A speedy trial was held, which was a mere formality because everyone wanted blood—their blood. It was not long before the two were marched out to face a firing squad.
This event was broadcast repeatedly in the wee hours of the night. At first, I found that appalling—the re-killing of the two of them. Two weeks in, after learning how horrific the tenure of the Ceaușescuses was, how much suffering they caused, and seeing the long, treacherous road the country was on to recovery, I sought it out. Like the people that lived there, I needed to reassure myself that those monsters were indeed dead.
BAD ACTORS. really bad.
The country welcomed us with wary arms. They needed money. They needed jobs. They did not particularly cotton to Americans but were in no position to argue with our presence. Originally a monarchy, Romania has historically had a rough go of things pretty much from its inception. Much like parts of Africa, which were pillaged by the Romans and Greeks as early as 200 B.C., its agricultural wealth has made it a target of invasion time and time again. When the last of the kingdom fell to Russian overlords, it became, for a time, a territory: The People’s Republic of Romania. This is where Nicolae and Elena came into the picture.
The newly Communist authorities tore down many of the individual homes and beautiful buildings that had once given Bucharest the moniker of “The Paris of the East” The place was subsequently gray and studded with worn and charmless cinderblock housing, which is where folks had been directed to live. This meant that many had to leave their pets outside as they were no longer allowed to have animals in their homes.
Strays were everywhere. Cats, dogs, many of which were clearly descendants of purebred house pets at one time, now roamed the streets desperate to survive.
We were housed in a hotel that was surrounded by construction on three sides. The work went on day and night. No rules about that either, I guess. The remaining view faced the headquarters of the Romanian version of the CIA, the grounds of which were guarded by heavily armed men in uniforms. It was a grim locale. The hotel was decent, but the noise from the builders was off the charts and seemed never to cease.
The first night that the actors were all assembled in the city, the producers invited us out to dinner. The restaurant was dimly lit and the menu limited, but the wine and cocktails flowed, as did the animated conversation. The two lead actors were very excited to be, well, the lead actors, and the rest of us were curious about what the experience would be like. When the producers left that night without paying the bill, we got a pretty good inkling of how things were going to go. The four top-of-the-call-sheet actors, which included me, picked up the tab and exchanged concerned glances.
The day that the special effects team arrived and loaded the tools of their trade into the hotel room, one of them fielded a call from his girlfriend.
“Go outside and take some pictures.” she instructed him. “I want to see where you are.”
Their room was facing the “CIA” headquarters, and he dutifully stepped out onto the balcony and snapped away. In mere moments, there was a pounding on their door. He opened it to find men carrying automatic rifles. The armed men burst into his room, which, of course, sported an array of severed limbs, bloodied fake heads, and such. The team was whisked away to headquarters for questioning. The production company had to go and explain what we were doing and why they possessed all of these gruesome artifacts.
It was a rough go. I lost a significant amount of weight because, firstly, the food was not very good, and secondly, there were so many starving creatures on the streets that I wrapped up anything they gave me to take to the poor animals. The restaurant at the hotel had a decent breakfast buffet, but the waiters refused to serve me as I was a female peer and not worthy of such deference. I got my own coffee every day and ate a few bites while surreptitiously stowing away a few sausages for the critters.
There were lots of children around, not just the clever Roma kids who were expert beggars and of whom one had to be wary. There were others. I kept single dollar bills on my person so that I could give them out to the kids. I stowed them in pockets and both sides of my bra. If a woman opened her purse, she ran the risk of being jumped by a dozen nine-year-olds who wanted her cash. The Roma kids were tough and treacherous, but they had family. There were other children with none. They were living on their own in gangs, some of them as young as four or five. They huddled under stairwells and cadged whatever sustenance they could find. I gave as much as I could … to as many as I could.
My heart broke every day in that place. None of this was helped by the fact that it was beginning to be clear that something was deeply wrong in my marriage. I was supporting us while he pursued a law degree. I thought we were working toward the future as a team, but it did not bring us closer together. When he started school, our very long relationship began to unravel.
“I hate your husband,” The fellow playing my movie husband declared one day after overhearing one of our conversations.
“He did not ask about you once. You are having a helluva hard time over here, and all he did was complain. I hate that guy.”
I, of course, didn’t hate him, but I knew something was wrong and that he was keeping secrets. The marriage-killing kind.
The movie wore on. A trip to Transylvania to shoot the mountain sequences was poorly planned and arduous. The young man assigned to drive us was exhausted, having put in 16 hours the day before and slept only three. His driving was so erratic that the lead actor finally insisted he pull over, and we put the kid in the back seat while he took the wheel. After the first day of shooting for about 14 hours, we returned to the hotel to find that they did not serve food past 8 PM. We were in the middle of nowhere, and no one in production had thought it through, so everyone went to bed hungry that night. The place was beautiful, but the circumstances were not.
Back in Bucharest, I met a young puppy who lived in the construction site next door. I saw him on the street one day playing with an old boot one of the workers had given him as a toy. He tossed it in the air and ran after it with joy. His buoyant spirit lifted my sagging one. He was about four months old, filthy, and one side of his coat was mottled with green paint. He had clearly lain on the side of a freshly coated fence. He waited for me to come down in the morning and was outside the hotel when I arrived each night back from set. He was a sweetheart, would bury himself in my chest, and look lovingly into my eyes. I fell head over heels for him.
The pup was a source of joy and also deep anxiety, as hotel rules forced me to leave him on the streets each night. This led to endless worrying on my part and the imagining of all sorts of terrible things befalling him. My PTSD was in full swing. I was getting through filming in spite of it, but the hyper-sensitivity and negative ideation was wearing me down. I did not sleep well and was so sad that when I had a day off, I spent the bulk of it sobbing on the hotel sofa surrounded by the cacophony of the endless ongoing construction.
“Where are you? Are you outside?” Michael asked when he called to check on me. I have known him since I was eighteen, which was an eternity ago. He joined our core group from high school not long after we graduated and became a part of that tight-knit family of friends.
“I‘m inside my hotel room. It’s this loud all the time.” I replied, barely audible.
“Honey, you don’t sound good. Are you okay?”
“No,” I said, then burst into tears. “I don’t think I am okay anymore.”
“What’s going on?”
I told him about the kids and the animals and the CIA and the endless construction and the puppy, how hard it was for me to cope. My mind whirred with brutal memories and terrible predictions. He listened patiently and said everything he could think of to soothe me, made a gazillion suggestions of how I could cheer myself. It helped, but after we hung up, I grew despondent again.
The next day, Michael called back.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“I am on set.”
“Yes, I figured that. Where is the set? What is it called?
I told him where we were and asked why he wanted to know.
“Because I am here, honey. I just landed and I am on the way.”
To be continued …
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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
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Big Boy and Boo Boo Drove Me To It ...
23 jul· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I am going to press pause on the “Rescue Me” series to bring you a special report about very, very ordinary me.
After a considerable amount of time, close to two years without an automobile in Los Angeles, I have at last heard the siren call of the vehicular wind and purchased a car.
It had to be done.
Firstly, there is the matter of the now 80-pounds and growing rescue pup. The one and only Fairness Broderick who has to be transported to things like the vet appointments and someday, hopefully sooner than later, the groomer. His new trainer also leads a “pack-walk” a drivable distance away with a bunch of her clients, which we are excited to attend. There are occasions where the pup needs to be transported, and there was a clear reluctance to do so, on the part of the Lyft and Uber drivers I tried to summon toward this end. Turns out they are not that keen on having a giant, rather serious looking pooch in their personal motion machine.
He really does look like a formidable, possibly scary dog. When we walk down the street people see us coming, and clutch their pocket dogs, hoisting them out of what they perceive as harm’s way. As if I would just blithely amble down the street with a “killer” dog and put their teensy pups’ lives on the line. Fairness is a gentle giant, would not hurt a flea, and I get that they do not know this, but to panic at the sight of him seems a bit much. If he was dangerous, I would have him on a Gentle Leader or some other apparatus that would prevent him from doing harm. I am not going to walk by you and let my dog take out Bipsy or whatever your snaggle toothed darling might be called.
Yesterday, a man saw us walking up behind he and his wife, and he shoved her to the left in order to stand between us and guard her from Fairness. As if I am just heading down the road fixing’ to let my dog take a whack at someone’s wife. As if I call out to my pooch in the morning:
“Fairness, let's saddle up and get out there. We’ve got toy poodles to kill and loved ones to attack.”
Silly, ridiculous, but I guess we Americans are having a hard time trusting one another these days.
Then there is the matter of the feeding of the fellow. He eats a LOT. A growing boy, after all, and we had some serious nutritional deficits to overcome. A small, easily portable bag of chow is about four days’ worth for this guy. We need the fifty pounder. Then there is the fresh turkey and sweet potatoes that need to be cooked (and of course topped with scrambled eggs at breakfast time). All of this has to be purchased and hauled home, and well, that is sure a whole lot easier if a person can drive up to the store where such items are sold.
All of this was weighing on me and pushing me toward the decision to resuscitate my dormant and questionable driving career. I readily admit that I'm not that great at it. I am a bit goosey about the whole business. I once drove with my pal Dennis from Los Angeles to Austin, Texas, which is a considerable distance through some very forgettable terrain. I mean to say that there are parts of Arizona down there that make you shout out loud:
‘Seriously? We went and killed people for this bleak, barren, uninhabitable parcel of land?’
Our ancestors pointed guns at folks down south and said:
‘Back off, Mexico. We are taking this ugly, useless piece of land for our own, and that’s just that. This here is our flag. So, there.’
Wars were fought for this joint. It boggles the mind.
Anyway, the point is Dennis drove the whole way. I offered several times to relieve him of this duty, and he was not having it:
“No, honey. Let’s not put you behind the wheel on this one.”
So even in the middle of nowhere, with very little in the way of life that could come to harm from me being in the driver’s seat, even then he thought better of it.
BUCKLE UP.
Buckle up, L.A. I am back behind the wheel.
I have not missed it–the actual driving part of driving–and I really do enjoy using transit, and it really is good and getting better in L.A, so I was on the fence. I spoke to my sister about it and she began doing research, trying to find the car that she knew would make me do the deed. This would mean locating a certain make of car that was built before 2010 and, extra important to me (though I cannot explain why), it must have been built in Japan. For safety reasons, Laura wanted something for me that was made with a heavy metal frame. She started looking, hoping to find the magic vehicle that would lure me into taking the leap. She has never cottoned to the idea of me riding the bus.
I kept debating about it, going over and over the pros and cons.
Then came the ongoing mystery of what I am referring to as “boo-boo foot,” which was and is giving me fits. I woke up last Thursday, and my right foot was throbbing and painful to the touch. I have psoriatic arthritis, which can be nasty, so this was not entirely out of the ordinary. I wrapped some ice around it while I drank my tea, and then gave it a wee massage and shoved it into my so-ugly-they’re-almost-cute “HOKA” shoes. The dog has to be walked, so, as usual, I just got on with it.
I woke up Friday, and “boo-boo foot” was on fire, the whole thing red and swollen, the big toe huge with inflammation. I limped down the street with the dog and called my doctor exactly at 9 a.m. to beg for an emergency appointment. I went in at three in the afternoon. He looked at it and promptly sent me to Urgent Care. After a good long wait the doctor there came in, looked at it, and sent me to the emergency room. ‘Oh, for God’s Sake,’ I thought, but I dutifully reported to the waiting room at Cedars-Sinai.
Things drug on for hours as boo-boo foot took a back seat to all manner of emergencies.
There were folks there having what they call a “code gray,” which is a stroke and such, and they rightly trumped my sorry state. When they finally took me back to the emergency room, I was shocked by the state of things. There must have been thirty hospital beds lining the hallways outside where the actual rooms exist. Folks were hooked up to IV’s and covered with blankets, waiting for some kind of meaningful intervention. I joined them on a bed of my own in the hallway.
GET IN GEAR.
After two freestyle attempts with a needle, which got us nowhere except bruised, the nurse finally wheeled up a vein finding contraption–a device that locates good veins with sonar or some such. Success. Wonderful machine! I am going to beg my docs to get one. The vein search is never easy and almost always downright unpleasant. As instructed, she took a ridiculous amount of blood then set up the port for the long-awaited IV antibiotic that was supposed to fix me up. Another fellow stopped by and drew a line on my foot with a blue marker just below my ankle. He told me that if the swelling went past the blue line, that would not be good news. Hours went by.
‘Alrighty then,’ I thought, wishing I had cadged another treat out of the vending machines in the lobby while I had the chance. I had water, thank goodness, but my phone was running low, and I did not have my charger. I was trying to wait it out, wondering how long it would all take and if I should call Rob, who was watching the dog, to come and bring me one when finally, the attending physician arrived. He was tall and handsome, Hollywood casting. for an E. R. doc. He out-Clooney’d Clooney. That fellow is in the right job in the right town. He said he would have to admit me and keep me overnight if we did the IV protocol. He asked if I would like to take a big dose of antibiotic and go home on the proviso that if the swelling went over the line, I would promise to come back immediately.
“Yes,” I replied emphatically. “I went to two other places trying to avoid coming here. I mean, no offense, doc; you are all lovely and competent and the atmosphere is divine. This hallway is especially fetching, but I will absolutely take my chances and skedaddle and watch the blue line.” He smiled a big, white-toothed smile and set the wheels in motion.
I was outta there in another hour or so. I didn’t want to bother anyone, so I limped home, wincing with every step and swearing up and down. The anti-auto dam was breaking. Walking everywhere is great if one can actually walk. Not so fun with “boo-boo foot.”
I tried to think it all through. I would have to get up the next morning and limp around with the dog, and then walk another twenty minutes to CVS to pick up the prescription for the rest of the week. I couldn’t take it. No one was even sure that antibiotics were the right call. Who knows what is going on in my crazy body? I am going to have to drive again, I thought. As seldom as possible and with as much focus as I can muster, but I have to do it.
“Lolo,” This is what I call Laura most days, “I need a car. I can’t cope without one anymore,” I said, utterly exhausted. I explained what had gone on in the past ten hours.
“Ugh, sorry, sis. I’ll pick you up in the morning. We will get your meds and then go get a car.”
Maybe this is a rescue story after all.
The next morning, I limped into her car, and we set off to Highland Park, where she had a bead on a 2008 Honda CR-V. I was brimming with hope. The dealership was a bit dodgy-looking, but we were greeted by a nice enough fellow. They had to jump the car and move about twelve others to even bring it out for a test drive. A bit odd that; the car, though, was a beauty. 80k miles on it and built in Japan. Laura test drove it, as I would have no idea what to look out for. She liked it but was hesitant about a few of the systems. The air conditioning was a bit wonky, and the car pulled quite a bit to the left. They wanted 12k for it. Way too much, but otherwise, it fit the bill.
“Guys, the car is overpriced, but we like it. Let’s talk,” Laura said.
There were three guys in the office, and one threw up his hands.
“How do you know it’s overpriced?” he demanded to know.
“We looked it up. We know what it’s worth.”
“Oh, they are so smart. The Blue Book! They looked it up in Blue Book!” he said sarcastically.
They all shook their heads at the stupid women they were being forced to abide.
“I will buy it right now,” I said, “nine thousand.”
They muttered, and shook their heads, and waved their arms dramatically.
“Let’s go, sis. No car today.”
We politely took our leave and headed back towards L.A. We were both starving, so we stopped to grab a bite. During the meal, Laura decided to try one more thing. She put a description of the car we had just driven into Cars.com and pressed search. Bingo. There was one in Van Nuys at an independent dealership listed for … you guessed it. Nine thousand.
Jimmy met us near his tiny office on Sepulveda Blvd. The car was in great condition and well-priced, with only 120K miles on it, and all praise, it was built in Japan. Laura loved the way it handled and the fact that it had been well kept up by a single owner until now. We returned from our test drive, parked in the lot, and looked at each other.
“We'll take it,” Laura announced as we got out.
Jimmy led us up to his tiny office, and I handed him my ID and credit card.
“You are so much like the actress Beth Broderick. SOOOO much. It’s unbelievable how much”
“Um, well, there’s a reason for that,” I said.
“It’s you!!! Oh my God. I watch you in my country. I watch you all of the time.”
Jimmy hails from Lebanon. Good to know that I’ve got game in that joint. He was truly flustered. Papers kept slipping from his hands as he fumbled his way through the process, but soon the transaction was complete. Lolo and I took Sepulveda all of the way home, me following close behind. I was not ready yet for the 405 freeway. I called Laura incessantly as we drove. We were both excited, and Laura felt rightly triumphant. She had at last gotten me into a car–the exact car that I wanted for the exact price we knew that I should pay.
I am still using transit whenever possible and most likely will not ever drive at night. I confess that I have enjoyed the freedom of simply jumping in the car and going where I want to go when I want to go there. Sunday, I went to Home Goods for the first time in almost two years and spent an hour wandering dreamily down the aisles. There are negatives, of course. My cupboards are already full to brimming, and the freezer is packed. It is easy to overbuy when you can just shove it all in the trunk.
I have made a vow to do better, to buy less, and be more careful.
Boo-boo foot is still giving me fits, but I guess that’s just part of the deal now. I have a wacky disease, and weird things are gonna happen. My evening in the emergency room was a stark reminder that many, many folks are dealing with a lot worse things. I’ve got the best problems a gal can ask for …
…and a car which is properly old and was built in Japan. Ya now, Char!
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
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter Four: "Walta"
9 jul· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
How Walta found her way to us is anybody’s guess. MOMENTUM had been in existence for the better part of two years before she became a client. Walta was in the middle of transitioning when an AIDS diagnosis made a mockery of all of her plans, as it did for the plans of any and all who received one.
Life expectancy was six to eight months once an opportunistic infection got the immune disorder rolling. The only viable plan was made with one’s doctors in the hope of survival. AIDS mostly affected young men and women. When told they had been infected, not one of them believed that they might actually die. A twenty-year-old just cannot grasp the concept.
Peter Avitabile and I co-founded the program, which would become known as MOMENTUM, with a handful of other volunteers in December of 1984. It would be a minute before doctors knew what to call the phenomenon of “Gay Men’s Cancer,” and it took years before we decided upon a name for our organization. We were all flying blind.
Our program offered a sit-down dinner in the basement of midtown Manhattan’s St. Peter’s Church. We had volunteer chefs who cooked in the big industrial kitchen there, and folks like me who traversed the city scrounging up donations of food and other necessities. I always visited a bunch of guys in the wholesale vegetable district on my rounds. They did not really understand the crisis, but they knew the “church lady” as they called me, said young people were sick and hungry. That was enough. They gave generously. They gave every time.
Isolation was a huge problem for folks living with what we all now call HIV/AIDS. So the meal was a chance to convene with others; to be a part of the world. There was almost always entertainment as many Broadway performers lent their voices to our evenings. This thrilled the folks who came to dine and, in the middle of such heartbreak, it was a huge gift to all of us. The night that the great Barbara Cook came to sing for us, the room was packed with clients, all of them emaciated, deeply unwell, many clutching flowers they had brought to give her. I weep to this day remembering her kindness after the show as she sat with each person one by one, accepting their flowers and giving them a piece of her heart.
She was a hero, one of the many I encountered then. I am double blessed to have met more than my fair share of extraordinary humans.
We also had a makeshift “free clothing store”. People with the disease could lose as many as forty pounds in just a few weeks, which left them with nothing to wear. They could sort through donated items–some new, but most gently-used–and find new options. In truth, most of the items were donated by former clients who had passed on and wanted to help out those they left behind.
We had a “free grocery store” too. We cadged canned goods and other items from a diverse group of resources. City Harvest was our most reliable. They provided the bulk of our donations, but there was also considerable support from other food banks around the city. Food scarcity was a huge problem, as folks spent down their meager SSI benefits on medications which offered a whisper of hope, but which were not yet approved by Medicare or Medicaid. Most of our clients were financially strapped and desperately needed nutrition.
Walta became notorious for ransacking the tuna fish section of the “grocery store”. We once caught her trying to walk away with dozens and dozens of cans. We later learned that Walta came from a very wealthy family and could have simply called home for cash, but she resisted that with every fiber of her being. I am sure she had her reasons.
She had devised a plan to cadge the tuna and sell the contraband to buy drugs with the money. (Peter and I were continually shocked by the number of folks we met who had made a habit of shooting substances into their veins). Walta was a charming gal; it was impossible to get mad at her. But we had to get firm. We talked her into returning the bulk of her booty and thereafter a volunteer was assigned to “shop” with her, foiling any chance of another great tinned-fish heist.
OFF-SCRIPT.
I was spending every spare moment at the church with Peter as we frantically wrote grant proposals and searched every city system for support, but I did other jobs on the side as there was rent to pay. I had no money and mostly lived off cans of soup and corned beef hash, and Jolly Green Giant veggies along with our clients and that was just fine. Peter had a partner who supported him, but neither of us had much and we did not care. We were in the fight. It was all that mattered. The number of people who needed our help was growing fast, and we were trying to keep up.
I was no longer actively pursuing an acting career, but I had a commercial agent who got me the occasional voice-over audition. At one point I got hella lucky and snagged a “Coppertone” suntan lotion ad that kept me afloat for a time.
That agent somehow got me out to read for a role in a dinner-theater drama that was planned to debut in the Village. These sorts of entertainments were very popular back then. It was a live show where we interacted with the audience and ate dinner with them, and of course someone was murdered along the way, adding to the drama of it all. The whole evening culminated with the confrontation of and confession by the killer. If I remember correctly, we actors took turns being the guilty party.
Opening night was black tie, and we were excited to have a sold out show. I was backstage in the actors’ holding/changing area, which was just one big room, the length of which was lined with old tables facing chipped mirror pieces. A few were accented with bare lightbulbs suspended by bits of string to assist with make-up application. It was “half hour,” thirty minutes until the show would begin, when the producers rushed in.
“Beth, somebody named Walta is outside greeting the guests. He is holding a picture of you and telling people that you are in the center of a shrine at home with candles and stuff. Seems nuts and he looks a mess. You have to get him out of here.”
I guess Walta was technically male though it was certainly not her chosen identity. Folks were not as careful about pronouns then. I quickly changed into street wear and ran to the front of the building where our patrons were gathering outside. Walta was there. Rail thin, wearing short shorts with sky high heels and a ratty wife-beater tank top, she was, in truth, a sight. She had not bathed in a while and her hair was a wild, tangled mess. Many gay people were afraid to go outside. The fear of AIDS and animosity toward them was daunting, but Walta did not give a tinker’s damn about such things. She threw her arms around me.
“Dahhling I am so excited for your show!! I am just telling everyone how wonderful you are!”
I thanked her for her support. She was such a dear; I did not have the heart to tell her that she was disrupting the event. I ran to a pay phone and dialed Peter at home. By some miracle he was there and picked up the receiver. There were no cell phones then, no texting or any other way of communicating. The person you wanted to reach had to be home and in the mood to be reached.
“Go back inside Motha.” He called me Mother but his heavy Long Island accent changed the “e” to an “a” and left off the “r” entirely. “I will handle Walta. Go do your show.”
I ran back to the dressing room and leapt into my glamorous gown. Needless to say, all eyes were on me as my fellow cast-mates wondered just what in the hell I was up to and what on earth was happening outside.
The producers came back five minutes later to say that Walta had left, and everything was back to normal. Peter had arrived and offered to take Walta to the supermarket, where he would buy her as much tuna as she could carry.
Walta was one of a kind. She was brash and brilliant and naughty as all get out, but she had a huge heart and always meant well. I loved her.
The show went on and was a middling success. We ran on weekends and the dinner part of it provided the most nutrition I had consumed in years, though when it ended, it would be a good while before I ate another piece of salmon. One of my fellow actors, a woman named Sharon McNight, was a big AIDS activist in her own right. She became a treasured part of our program, lending her beautiful singing voice to our dinners and patiently riding around the city with me in a borrowed van, collecting clothes and groceries.
I would briefly date the handsome man who played opposite me, but he was terrified by the fact that I worked with folks who were sick and dying. Once, after kissing me, he burst into tears and exclaimed that he was afraid I would give him the disease. I hugged him tight and told him the truth. I could not guarantee that he would not die. I did not believe–had never thought–that the virus was airborne, but no one knew for sure. I wished him well.
Walta left the planet a few short months later. Her family actually contacted us and showered us with their gratitude for the love and care we had given her. They also made a donation in her honor. We were very touched by the gesture. I believe she would have been too, though she may have preferred to be loved by them for just being herself in her lifetime.
We kept fighting, and beautiful young folks with everything to live for kept dying, but we never gave up. Things did eventually get better, and real progress has been made, but I would add, at an immeasurable human cost. We could have—should have—done better. Our leaders could have—should have—done more from the start. I know from first-hand experience how important it is to choose them wisely.
This is a challenging time for every American. Let’s keep believing in each other, keep trusting that Walta and all of the other angels are up there guiding the forces around us toward the good that resides in the hearts of most men and women. Choose love. Always.
On we go …
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter Three: "Lovely Violets"
25 jun· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I did it on a dare.
It started in January of 1982. I was 22 years old and struggling to stay afloat in New York City. I had moved to the Big Apple in 1979, hoping for a big theater career, but had not gained much traction. I was waiting tables and scratching around trying to be serious, but not really knowing how. I worked at a restaurant in the theater district called J.R. The chef was Barry, but most of us called him Baaaar with a long “a” so it sounded like “bear.” He was “the bear” long before the fictional character of the same name who is captivating audiences on HULU these days. His best friend Harvey (Harv) was on point as the host.
I applied for a position well before the doors swung open to receive customers, the bulk of which would turn out to be folks trying to grab a bite before whichever show they had plans to see. We also became popular too among many of the performers who made their way to the stage. Jennifer Holliday, the original Effie in Dreamgirls, used to come by often, as did many of her castmates. There were a lot of people from the cast of Nine who dined with us regularly as well.
I was a good waitress, from a technical standpoint. Fast on my feet, with a dependable memory. I knew exactly who ordered what and how to serve it to them efficiently. I was also wild. I challenged customers to push-up contests during off hours, used the railing against the south wall of the place as a kind of makeshift ballet bar. I was definitely not a subscriber to the notion that “the customer is always right.” A lot of times the customer was rude, demanding, or lascivious, and I wasn’t the picture of tact when it came to coping with those behaviors.
Once, a man seated at a large table was trying to establish himself as the alpha boss of all thing’s dinner. He kept pointing at me from across the room with a menacing finger and shouting:
“Waitress! Hey you! Waitress. Over here!! Hey waitress!!!
I had taken that table’s order and turned it in to the kitchen, supplied everyone with drinks and a few baskets of bread piled high with pumpernickel rolls and sourdough sticks. They didn’t need anything more; he just wanted a preponderance of attention. He was showing off for the rest of his party. When I had had enough of his abusive behavior, I marched over to the table and said loudly for all to hear:
“Sir. I am doing everything I can for you and your guests. If you keep shouting and pointing that finger at me, I am going to bite it the f**k off.”
This did not sit particularly well with the owner, but Bear and Harv went to bat for me, and I managed to avoid being fired for a time. They were both very aware of how young I was and how much I had to learn. They tried to teach me about the unspoken rules of New York etiquette and keep me from plunging headlong into dangerous waters with difficult people. I did not then, nor do I now, have an adequate sense of judgement about whom to trust and whom to be wary of. I was raised in a crazy-assed household and had zero experience with standard intrapersonal interactions. My behavior was not normal. How could it be? I had no idea what normal was. I am still challenged in this area.
EVERY ROSE HAS IT’S THORN.
A woman named Susie, a fixture in the district, decided to befriend me and take me under her wing, and I was more than happy to be a part of her world. She was fun and savvy and knew everyone in town. She subsisted on a modest trust fund, had never really held a job, and so had lots of time to make friends and dash around the city being the life of the party. She had made a few halfhearted attempts to get somewhere in showbiz, but she had no appetite for hard work and having a career in the arts is nothing if not a tough proposition.
(Wages are so low these days that I think you might have to have a trust fund to even entertain the idea of being in the biz of show. Somebody is making money, I can assure you, but it ain’t the artists. )
Susie loved attention and fancied herself a bit of a legend. She was tiny, hella busty and had white, blonde hair cut short. At one point in her life, she had done a lot of stunts to get press coverage. She had dressed up as a newsboy circa the 1930’s and went to fancy establishments like Elaine’s hawking the late edition of the New York Times for a then-hefty five dollars. People paid it. It was a fun gag. She got interviewed on a few local talk shows and even made a brief appearance on Johnny Carson as a sort of bon vivant New York city character.
Susie was certain that I needed to pursue something equally attention-getting in the hopes of launching my up-til-then dormant acting career. The idea came to her in a fit of inspiration. I would dress up as Eliza Doolittle from My Fair Lady and sell violets on the streets of the city, with my target audience being theatergoers. I was to go up and down the length of the crowds of folks waiting to get into a show and sell my wares. Susie thought it best that I do a pre-show round of sales and then go back when the shows ended and work the late-night crowd. She dared me to take a chance on doing something odd and unique and sure to get noticed and I I took the bait.
I found a vendor in the flower district who was willing to order violets for me. Susie made me a hat that was an homage to the Broadway Musical. I found a blouse and skirt and used Susie’s old shawl to complete the look. I also went to Lincoln Center to study the Cockney dialect. Tom Courtenay, a wonderful actor starring then in “Nicholas Nickelby,” was a J.R. customer and he was kind enough to coach me a bit. I was going to use the line from the film “Violets here. Violets for your furs!” but Tom nixed the fur part; felt it was too limiting. When I began making my rounds in earnest, I would sing out “Violets here. Get your lovely violets here!" in my best Eliza impression.
It was kind of fun at first. Susie pointed me towards Shubert Alley and then headed for the bar at Charlie’s. She had found a sweater at Goodwill with a giant C (for coach) emblazoned on it and showed it off as she savored her beer. I had long underwear on under the blouse, and that was keeping me in pretty good stead. Lots of folks smiled and thought my getup was adorable, but sales were not strong. I was entertaining folks and that felt good, but the act was not exactly a money-maker.
Susie got someone at the Daily News to come out and cover the story. I was thrilled that I was going to make the papers. I suspected it would have zero effect on people’s interest in me as an actress, but at least I was doing something creative, and folks would know about it. Bear and Harv thought it was ridiculous, of course, and were pissed at Susie for talking me into doing the stunt and then sitting cozy at the bar, while I hustled in the cold. They repeatedly suggested that it was pointless and a waste of time, but I kept at it.
This went on for a good while. The weather went from cold to bitter cold. The winds were harsh and cut right through my flimsy blouse and single layer of thermal protection. My hands were stiff and blue, but every week I dutifully went out and purchased my violets and made them into little bouquets to sell. One night outside of Dreamgirls, a couple of gay men confronted me on the sidewalk.
“What are you doing out here?” one of them said. “It’s too cold. You are not dressed.”
“I’m selling these,” I said through chattering teeth and pointing to my basket of flowers.
“We’ll take them all,” the other man chimed in.
He reached into his pocket, pulled out way too much money, and insisted I take it. Then they gathered up all of the flowers and headed off. I made a beeline for Charlie’s to tell Susie about this stroke of luck. As I entered, the warmth hit me like a blast from a fiery engine. It burned. My hands hurt more as they began to thaw. We had a few drinks and chatted with a bunch of the regular customers at the bar. I had enough on me to take a cab home, and that felt luxurious and, more important, warm.
Any normal person would have given up the ghost, but I did not know that I could say no. I did not want to fink out on my commitment to the dare, and I did not want anyone, especially Susie, to think I didn’t have the grit and guts to keep on going. So, on I went.
March blew in on the tail of a blizzard. The streets were icy with dirty half-melted snow, and folks picked their way along carefully, mindful not to fall. The Daily News article finally came out, and I was excited to see my photo in the Arts section along with a personal-interest story about my life thus far and my motivations for pulling such a stunt in the middle of a cold New York winter. I still have a copy. Reading between the lines, it is easy to surmise that I came from a troubled background and was determined to make good, though the fact that I was doing such a nutty thing would lead any sane adult to see that there was something amiss.
One night I was outside the show Sugar Babies on Shubert Alley, trying to keep myself in the violet game. I was frozen stiff and exhausted, and I knew this was stupid and had proven to indeed be pointless, but I just did not know what to do about it. At last, the chimes rang, indicating the curtain was about to rise and the final stragglers went inside to take their seats. I started the long walk back to 46th street. It was not actually long but, with me in a blouse and high-heeled boots with only a shawl and a prayer for protection in 10-degree weather, it seemed a million miles away.
I was trudging back, bent over against the wind, when I heard their voices.
“Hey," Bear called out. “Enough already!”
They approached me, and tears came to my eyes. Bear took his coat off and held it out to me.
“Give me the posies!’ Harv said and took the whole basket and marched it to a trash can and threw it in.
They wrapped me in Bear’s coat, and each held an arm as we made our way back to J. R. Once inside, Bear kissed me on the head and told me to keep the coat on for a while, then went back to the kitchen. Harv ordered me a hot toddy and sat with me.
“You are done with that now. That crazy Susie is over at Charlie’s with her stupid Coach sweater, and you are a mess. Two people came in and told us that you looked really bad, miserable. This is dangerous what you’ve been doing, and it’s done now. Tell Susie no more, or I will.”
“It’s okay. I will tell her. You are right. It was getting so hard.”
“Yeah well … you did it. It took guts, but we are done now.”
Susie and I stayed friends for what might have been a record amount of time for her. A heavy, heavy drinker and, let’s face it, a dilettante, she had a hair-trigger temper and no interest in seeing anyone else’s side of the story. She had never grown up, never had to compromise or reason with others. As she drank harder and harder, her world got smaller and smaller. She broke up a friendship with anyone who dared to disagree with her, banished them if they looked at her sideways. Our relationship ended on the same low note as all of her others. I disappointed her somehow and she wrote me a hate-filled letter so overflowing with vile sentiment that I had to go outside and throw it in a dumpster because I did not want the ugliness of it inside my apartment. I cried reading it, and cried many times after, but I was also relived. It was hard to be her pal.
I have been life-long friends with Bear and Harv. They have been staunch supporters of mine through thick and thin. I had lunch with Harv and his lovely daughter Christina recently, and we laughed about this story. She looked at both of us like we were nuts. She might be right.
I still think of Susie fondly. I have never been able to hold any kind of a grudge against anyone. She was generous in her way, and she taught me a lot, even if it was not what she meant for me to learn.
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
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter Two: "V"
11 jun· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Many years ago, I was walking down the hallway of an elite women’s day spa. I had already changed into my plush robe and slippers, and savored a cup of chamomile tea in the cozy lounge. I was heading to a treatment room when a woman pointed at me and doubled over in shock. She kept screaming:
“It’s you, Oh my Lord! It’s you!!!”
It took me a minute because the whole scene was so out of context, but I soon realized the woman was “V”.
“Oh my God! V! You look amazing! How are you?”
I hugged her tight as she began to cry in earnest. There was an avalanche of emotion coming from her, as if she was keening. Doors began opening as women, who were sporting green goo masks and such, responded to her cries and made their way into the hall. We all stood around her and tried to soothe as she explained our history.
I had met V when I was a member of the “City Light Women’s Rehabilitation Program Celebrity Action Council,” which is a name that only a bunch of well-meaning “celebrities” could come up with. A giant, ridiculous word salad of a title, but that’s what the committee decided on.
You gotta love a committee. I held my tongue.
The program was, and most likely still is, an outreach effort by the Los Angeles Mission in downtown L.A. Women were/are offered a place to stay and food to eat if they are willing to undergo rehab and religious education, then, of course, job training and life-skills classes, etc. All of this was designed to help the residents begin or return to productive lives. This was the late late 90s, early 2000s, and the homeless problem was not as enormous then as it is now, but it was sizable. The streets of most of America’s cities have always been temporary campgrounds for folks with nowhere else to go.
This points to the fact that all of our efforts to contain and curtail the issue have profoundly failed, but that is a topic for another day. The one thing all of the experts will tell you is that nearly every person on the streets has experienced serious trauma, and most began to self-medicate for lack of any other way to cope.
V was exactly such a person. She was a single mother with three kids and had been employed as a low-ranking health care professional for many years. She was coping, working hard, and raising her children as best she could when the unthinkable happened. Her oldest child was caught in the crossfire of a gang dispute and gunned down while at play in front of their apartment building. She got the call at work. She never returned to that job.
V spiraled into despair. She took to living in her car a block away from her former home. She could not face going back to the apartment or near the scene of the crime. She drank and took whatever drugs she could find. The two youngest kids were taken in by relatives as she could no longer care for them. This went on for over a year, before she found her way to the Mission and secured a residency there. She was a star. She cleaned up from the drugs and alcohol quickly and studied hard. She was with us for 8 months with one to go before “graduation” when Sara (not her real name) approached me. Sara was on the “council” with us and was very proactive and practical. She would have most likely voted with me to shorten the group’s ridiculous title, but we were both content to leave that be. There were bigger fish to fry.
“V wants to go to beauty school. I want to help her, but I cannot do it alone. Can you chip in?” Sara asked me one day.
“Yes. She is amazing and she deserves a chance. How much is it?”
Sara explained the parameters and costs, and I wrote a check for half that day. Done and done. What was the point of all of our efforts if I could not help someone achieve their dream?
This was a question I often asked aloud before writing checks in those days, much to my financial manager’s dismay. I bought cars for people and paid for all manner of things that folks needed. I long ago had a trainer who was short the 10 k required for a third round of IVF. The young woman was desperate to have a child of her own. When I gave her the money, there were of course all manner of assurances that it would be paid back. The good news is that the third time was the charm! The bad, from my accountant’s point of view, was this meant she would not be able to take care of a baby and also pay me back. I honestly never gave it another thought. She had a happy healthy child, and to me that was worth every damned penny.
I am not applying for Sainthood here. I also spent money on ridiculous things. Beach houses I never had time to go to, clothes I never wore, shoes that hurt, My parents were terrible with money and I dutifully followed their lead.
When I first met Alec Abbott, the man who would try hard to steer the ship of my savings for many years, I declared:
“I believe in the philosophy of abundance.”
Alec sat back and gazed at me; his face expressionless.
“I am a financial planner from Orange County. I do not believe in that for one second. I believe in…planning! “
Thank God for him. He applied gentle but even pressure and somehow hornswoggled me into a successful retirement. A good man.
Back at the day spa, V finally recovered long enough to step back and catch her breath.
“You believed in me. You believed in me!” she said over and over as tears kept falling.
“Well,” I said through tears of my own, “I had faith in you, and you proved me right. I am so happy to see you.”
There were more tears and hugs all around as I learned about what had transpired since we last spoke. She had her kids back, and they were thriving. She had moved out of that terrible neighborhood into a place nearer to the spa with decent schools. My faith was just one small part of her journey to recovery. It was her willingness to learn, her determination to build a life for herself and her children, that sealed the deal. In the end, V had rescued herself. Brava!
“Thank you, thank you,” she said
“You have just given me all the thanks I could ever want or need. You take care, okay?” I replied.
Then it was time for V to apply her trade and for me to submit to the beauty regimen I had come to indulge in.
A NEW MISSION.
I parted ways with the Mission when it came to my attention that they would not provide services for anyone who identified as gay or who was not or could not be a “Christian.” This meant they would offer no help for anyone who was Jewish or Muslim or Buddhist if they could not be persuaded to denounce their origins. This also meant immediate expulsion for anyone who was thought to be gay or bisexual. This infuriated me.
I saw so much of that type of bigotry during my years on the front lines of the AIDS crisis in the 80s, when I co-founded “Momentum” in New York city with a handful of other volunteers. There was fear and prejudice everywhere as alarm bells were sounded about the spreading of a new disease, originally called Gay Men’s Cancer. A lot of people behaved very badly in response, but the worst to me was just how devastating religious intolerance could be. Many families abandoned their children, left them to die alone in New York City because they were deemed by the good church to be “sinners”. It was f’ing heartbreaking to behold. A lot of these very young people died with only a volunteer to see them to the gates of heaven, which is where I absolutely believe they went. I cannot, will not, believe in a God who would deny them.
For the record, we had tremendous support from some religious orders. The Catholic Church answered our call, as did the World Lutherans, who allowed for our program to take place in the basement of St. Peter’s in NYC. Many synagogues, too, opened their doors and hearts and offered what they could.
Still, I spoke at too many funerals which were attended by not ONE family member. Terrible stuff that, for the young men (and yes, women) who died frightened and virtually alone, as well as for the families who left them to that fate. In doing so, they made a choice which must surely haunt them to this day. A tragic situation for all concerned.
So, I left the LA Mission, and have spent the past 34 years working with the Good Shepherd Home for women and children in need. It is a Catholic organization, but their doors are open to any woman or child who is without a home. They welcome all and see each of us as beloved of the lord and blessed in the eyes of God.
There is not one of us who has made it into adulthood without help. Without that teacher who saw our potential, the parent determined to provide, or the friend or counselor who held us while we cried.
I have told Fairness, my new rescue pup, this and many other stories about people and pets who found themselves in desperate need and were offered a chance at a new beginning. He had his last treatment this morning, is on the mend, and growing fast. He is brave, full of love, and is really trying hard to learn how to be a proper dog.
When I’m holding him in my arms at night, my anxious mind finally at ease, and ready to drift off into a soft sleep, I smile and wonder just whom it is that is being rescued. If you are reading this, then I will bet that you can guess.
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
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"Rescue Me" The series. Chapter One: "Fairness"
28 mei· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
“Fairness Fairness, the wonder dog.
He is not a silly old frog
He is such a good, good boy.
He is Mommy’s pride and joy.”
This is the song I have been singing to Fairness, the rescue dog who has found his way into my life. Neither one of us consider it a particularly good song, but his name is in it along with the words “good boy”, so we are rolling with it for now.
The rescue woman Rhonda (an independent operator) calls him Rufus, but he prefers Fairness, and it is in keeping with his predecessors “Democracy” the Wolf-dog, “Social Justice” the Terrier, and “Roxy Votes” the Shepherd-lab mix.
I was walking along San Vicente Blvd when I met him. I was preparing to head up the hill to Sunset and then East to La Cienega or thereabouts, with a further plan to derive my way towards the Sunday Farmer’s Market on Melrose Place.
Waiting for a walk signal at the traffic light, I stood next to Rufus/Fairness and his foster Mom, Heidi Jo, when he leaned toward me and nudged my hand, seeming to kiss it.
“Oh my,” I said. “He is a love.”
“He is such a sweet boy,” she confirmed. “He needs a home.”
“Really? Oh my God! Can we talk for a minute?”
We sat on the wall that abuts the post office and talked for a good while.
“I am supposed to be rescuing a small dog this time. My friends want me to make sure it is an animal that I can pick up and carry,” I stated but gave her a look that said, ‘I have not yet cottoned to that idea.’
“Me too, I really need a small one. I travel so much for work. It’s just not fair to leave them behind as often as I have to,” said Heidi.
“Kills me when I have to do it,” I nodded. “But I always make sure my dog is in the best possible care when I travel. Still, it kills me.”
We talked for a little while longer and exchanged numbers. We have very similar lives. She is a producer, and I am an actress, but the demands on our time and the travel requirements are same-same. We broached the possibility of co-parenting. An idea that has merit, but also offers a host of complications.
I practically skipped up that steep incline. I felt certain, knew in my bones, that I had just met my next dog.
“Just one more big one,” I said to the heavens. “Just one more.”
I know my friends are right in urging me to find a smaller, more portable pet, but the specter of so many larger pups in need haunts me. In LA as in most cities, the shelters are mostly full of dogs that are over 60 pounds. This is due to weight restrictions in many apartment buildings and estimated cost of feeding and caring for a large animal. I am good with big dogs and difficult rescues; it just feels right to lend myself to that cause, to meet that need.
THE HERO’S FLIGHT.
Fairness is a Doberman Pinscher/Hound/Great Dane? He is long of leg and, thankfully, has his tail and ears intact. I don’t believe in the cutting off of tails and training up of ears and such. Let a dog be a dog. He is also a troubled guy. His startle response is off the charts. I reached over to put a piece of paper in the trash can at the park, and he leapt up, did a full 360 turn, and crouched down in terror. A man who swings his arms as he walks is an imminent threat. A car backfiring, an automatic door opening as we walk past. Anything can set him off.
When Heidi Jo was fostering, she had a few people over for brunch, and the dog was so terrified of one very tall fellow that he hid under her house for almost a full 24 hours. She thought he had run away.
No one knew where he was, so rescue was called. I had been in touch with Rhonda (the rescue lady), and was awaiting the paperwork to become a part of his foster team when she texted me that Rufus/Fairness was missing. I went over as soon as I could. It’s just a twenty-minute walk from my house. I roamed the nearby streets, looking under bushes and into thickets, but no sign of him.
Rhonda was out as well, going up and down Heidi Jo’s street, astride her pink bicycle, calling out for him. We both gave it over an hour, but it was getting late, and I needed to get home. Heidi Jo found him the next morning when he crawled out of his hiding place. That would not be the last time that he disappeared, his fight-or-flight mechanisms redounding to flight in every instance of adversity. Each time he returned ever more distraught.
I was hoping to keep him in foster care until I finished the movie I am shooting. I would have loved to have a lot of alone time with him in the very beginning, just the two of us figuring each other out, but that was not to be. Heidi Jo had to go overseas, and the other foster gal, Elaine, had to go help her dying mother, so there was an urgent need for someone to take over. I just put my head down and said yes.
They brought him to me the day before I started the film. My old friend and former neighbor Rob, was called in to duty. I have hired him for the duration of the shoot.
“I don’t want him to be alone for the first week. If you have to spend the night here, I need you to do that, okay?”
Rob agreed to this in spite of the true imposition it would have on the rhythm of his day-to-day life.
Rob is retired in his seventies, a gentle soul with a great feel for animals. Democracy, the Romanian rescue, trusted very few folks, but blessedly Rob was one of them. They got along famously, adored each other. Rob was a Godsend when my marriage blew apart and I was desperate for help with the dog. He was there for us, when we really needed him, and I will ever be grateful.
Rob also has a great, good, gorgeous case of OCD. Things have to be just so with Rob. He has rearranged every cupboard and moved all manner of objects from one place to another in a logic all his own.
Of course, I arrange things with nary a nod to logic and almost exclusively toward what feels convenient in the moment. There is an order to my life that is discernible only to me, which has been a tetch disrupted. So, I now have no idea where somethings are and find myself digging into stacks of others because I am that person who has to eat pasta out of a specific bowl, which has been reassigned in the cabinet.
An excellent problem in the grand scheme of things.
He has also been here almost every minute that I could not be, and the time and attention are paying off. Fairness is gaining confidence and has put on a bit of weight. He is learning quickly to feel safe in this home.
Thank you, bless you, Rob.
THE CONDO CANINE CRUSADER.
There was some concern from Rhonda rescue about him being in an apartment, but I think this environment is actually calming for him. It is contained. He is fully house broken, so he must have had a home before his life went to hell on the streets. We will never know.
The apartment is working out for him. There is nowhere to run or hide, and boy howdy, does he LOVE my bed and the faux fur blanket which adorns it. Once he got in it, he rarely ventured out except for walks and meals. Thank goodness he is a snuggler, because we have definitely made our bed together.
There is real work to do to turn him around. He is underweight, was starving when they found him. His muscles are not fully developed and his nervous system needs soothing. I am cooking chicken and sweet potatoes, and fortifying his chow with high-end canned food as well.
I have asked Rhonda for his vet records, but she says I cannot have them because I have not officially adopted Fairness. When I asked her to send the paperwork so that we could begin that process, this is how she responded:
“Yes, thank you… I’m just letting you know I’m way behind because I had Covid and long Covid and now I have a concussion and it’s been setting out for six months and I’m not even handling things in my own life at this time that are highly necessary for me ... yet, I still try to save a few lives off the streets.
He is safe and fully vetted, that’s what’s most important, and if there is anything he can go back to Vet in the meantime. I never do fast adoptions, by the way. I always do a foster to adopt period. Lately those have been too long due to my own personal health situation. 😞
-Ronnie
????????????????????? Not sure what to make of this.
My old friend Jonathan Salkind, who is a holistic home health care vet and wildly in demand, will pay a visit this afternoon. He is not accepting new patients but has made this one exception, because he knows I cannot take the dog elsewhere without those records. He has advised me which foods to buy and we will start a vitamin regimen. He also gave me some organic calming drops which I will use sparingly, but am glad to have on hand. I will feel confident going forth using Dr. Salkind’s keen instincts toward how to heal my boy.
I don’t know the real reason behind Rhonda rescue’s reluctance to help me help him. She has been rescuing dogs for a long time, and it takes a special kind of person to engage in the work she does day in and day out, so I am giving her the benefit of the doubt. Her need for control in understandable, if perhaps in this case mis-guided. I am hoping she will come to see that Fairness is in good hands and receiving the best possible care.
In the meantime, I have been telling Fairness stories of other dogs and people I have known, who were rescued from difficult situations and went on to thrive. This has inspired the content of my next few installments of this column.
This is chapter one of the “Rescue Me” series. There will be more to follow. Fairness’ rescue story is to be continued as we navigate the next steps, but one thing for certain: I will help him heal his past and I will give my all to build him a beautiful future.
And hopefully, for both of our sakes, I will write him a new song.
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
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Christmas in May
14 mei· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I will be starting a new Christmas movie this week. It will be my tenth. It’s all a bit under wraps because this particular company doesn’t want us sharing information about it until they give us the thumbs up, but it will be a fun one. I have worked with these folks before, and they are lovely.
The world of Christmas movies is a special place. We shoot them year-round. I have spent many an hour sweltering in winter gear on a summer’s day. I have also been outside in freezing weather, twice in high heels, my wee toes turned to ice, hands stiff with cold. I didn’t mind. It is almost impossible to be unhappy shooting a Christmas movie. I am sure there are folks who have managed it, but I am always in the best of spirits.
The hours are long and, like any film endeavor, hard, often exhausting work, but on these projects, it is also a respite. One has entered an alternate universe where folks clink their cocoa cups and swoon over gingerbread men. I am almost always surrounded by the most beautiful lights and decorated trees. There is usually a backlot which has become a town square decked to the nines with Christmas cheer and action-packed with festivities. And of course, snow. It’s not a Christmas movie without snow.
I am a native Californian, and I had once seen snow on the ground on a trip to Big Bear, but it was not until I moved to New York City that I saw it fall. I looked out the window of my shabby apartment on my sordid street and saw the beautiful flakes falling from the sky. I stared out that window for hours. Snowflakes can make any landscape magical for a time, and in the Christmas game, magic is the coin of the realm. There are snow blankets and snow machines. There are techniques for wetting asphalt and making it look icy in a certain light. As the song goes:
“Let it snow. Let it snow. Let it Snow.”
The plots almost always involve a young woman who finds herself in a small town when the holidays are looming large. There she encounters a man who is earnest and usually dedicated to helping others. On many occasions, he is also a foster parent of a young boy, or the volunteer who keeps the lights on and the roof repaired at the local old folks’ home. She likes him but is still hearing the siren call of big city life and a career on the rise.
I am usually her mom, but a few times I am the owner of the Inn she is staying at or the main coffee joint in town. It has been hinted at more than once that I might, in point of fact, be Mrs. Claus on a mission from the North pole to set things right, when our heroine has lost her HO HO HO. I am always gently urging her to stay, to get out and discover the wonders of life in a bucolic rural setting. I am always hoping she will see that this small town has everything she needs to be truly happy.
Ironic that I am tasked with getting this message across time and time again. I am definitely a city mouse. I like the pace and diversity, the hum of a major metropolis. I like big airports and museums and the wide variety of cultures on offer. Still, I have to admit that I am moved by these stories in the same way that the audience is, and there is a massive audience for this content. These movies are a touchtone for people who hail from all walks of life. A chance to take a break from the churn of everyday pressures, to check out completely from the news of the day. To see community at its sweetest and most coherent. To watch love develop in adults who are returned to innocence by the holiday spirit.
HO-HO-HOLLYWOOD.
I have worked with a few production companies several times, and there is joy in that simple fact. I know the crews and the teams, have had long chats with the producers at some point. We are comfortable with each other. It is like slipping into a familiar rhythm, entering a safe space.
I am honored to be asked to return time and again and they, in return, feel confident having me in the mix. We know it will all be fine, better than fine, it will be fun, and that will translate on the screen.
They have not always been perfect experiences. There was a hairdresser on one who was so mean to me that I did not know what to do. I begged her not to put any products in my hair that have a shine component or any trace of oil. She angrily sprayed me down with the stuff, and I had to shoot 7 scenes on my first day with terrible hair plastered to the sides of my face. I asked her assistant to take over, which of course pointed to the notion that I might be a “difficult” actress. Because it is always assumed that the actress is the problem. I spent the day clinking cocoa and holding back tears.
As the weeks went on, it became clear to the AD team and production company that I am a pro and ridiculously easy to work with, so there was no lasting damage to my reputation, just seven whole scenes of a big film where I look like hell, but whatever. That’s show biz. I am not sorry to report that it took a bite out of her cache. They later told me after the film came out that they swore to never hire her again.
On another one, the director kept calling me wanting to talk. I was wrapping up some business and texted her that I would be happy to, and we could meet early on set. When I arrived, she rushed into my trailer.
“We are in trouble here. I am afraid we might get shut down.”
“What’s going on?” I asked.
“Our lead actress is really struggling. She has a three-month old baby and there is some drama. I guess the father left her, and she is a wreck. Cannot remember her lines, can barely focus. The network is nervous, very nervous.”
“Okay well I am here now. I will help her. I will get her through it. You just direct the movie. I got this.”
She was skeptical but agreed to let me try to handle the situation.
I learned that the actress was from the stage and this was her first film. A first film In the lead! That is a daunting and terrifying situation without all of her attendant troubles. I walked on to the set and put my arms around her and whispered.
“I am here now. I will be by your side every minute. I will run lines with you over and over and explain the blocking, so it makes sense to you. I have done thirty five films. I will not let you fall. You will be great.”
We sat and ran lines while the crew readied the set. I told her she was a true talent. That I admired her Broadway credits, and was jealous of her soaring vocal ability. I was playing Mrs. Claus in that one, and I called on every ounce of Christmas magic I could muster. She began to brighten.
“That’s good. We are good. Let’s go.” I said when the director called action.
She stood a bit awkwardly in front of the counter. I gave her an action to do, a prop to pick up and place down as she walked into the scene. She said her lines perfectly but was still a bit stiff. Having cameras aimed at you at close range is scary at first. I smiled at her and nodded, then whispered.
“That’s it. That was great. Now this time let me see those eyes shine. Let me see you.”
I never left her side. Went with her to lunch, to feed the baby, went over the material over and over again.
At the end of the day the director once again came into my trailer.
“The dailies look good. Network is calming down. Everyone is breathing. We are back on track. Thank you.”
“No need to thank me. What’s the point of being a veteran if I am not here to help someone who is starting out. And you know there is the mystery of my origins, I am Mrs. C and all, there is good reason to believe that I am a chip of the old Kringle block.
The actress did a fine job; her beauty and talent rose to the occasion. The movie was adorable. Christmas came right on time.
I love that part of the job. A lot of older actresses feel the sting of not being the focus anymore, not being the “money” and they can be a bit testy with the young ones. There are actresses who would have made it even harder for that girl. I was happy to help. It is now my job to help my movie children shine and send them forth into success. That’s a very good job.
TINSEL TOWN HUBBY.
Some of the most indelible memories are the time spent with my “movie husbands” For one, they have all been happily married or partnered gents who are a joy to work with. To me, it is always fun to have a “rent a husband” for a few weeks. To spend time with a male peer and hear his thoughts on this stage of life, on how it feels to still be making movies. Some are repeats. Men I have worked with before, as comfortable as an old shoe. Others I am just meeting and getting a chance to know.
Robert Pine was Mr. Claus on one of my jobs. We played gin rummy in between scenes and made each other laugh for a month. Greg Evigan (B.J and the Bear) regaled me with stories of his family and his “other life” in music. On location, we will sometimes grab a glass of wine or a bite and talk world affairs and politics. Michael Gross has been my movie husband more than once, and working with him is easy and soft as butter. My friend Mark Humphrey is a walker like me, and we were stationed in a beautiful but remote locale. On our days off, we covered mile after mile, telling stories and seeing the sights.
I do not want a real life husband. Been there. Done that. Big no, No, NO. But it’s fun to rent one once in a while and enjoy their company.
Once, I had dinner to meet my new husband, John Newburg, who has played that role with me a few times since.
“Tell me about your family. Your wife,” I asked.
“Two wonderful sons. I’ve been married to my wife for forty years. My only regret is that I didn't meet her sooner.”
A lovely fellow. It warms my heart to think of him.
An actor’s life can be hard. Lots of travel and upheaval. Time away from loved ones. We pine for and worry about our people and our pets. The talk about Hollywood is that it is a rough place filled with vicious wild behaviors, and I suppose there is a cut-throat aspect to some parts of the business, but I don’t pay that much mind. Most of the people I work with are dedicated, delightful, big-hearted folks who all make personal sacrifices because they are compelled to tell stories and create a vision for others to enjoy.
It is a privilege to work among them. Whether it is a Christmas project or not, the spirit of community on set and behind the scenes is almost always true-hearted and a joy to behold.
Blessed.
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
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Ouch!
2 mei· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Ouch! Gol dang it!!!! I think I say this every single day of my life. It is rare that one goes by when I do not hit my head on a cupboard door, bang my hip bone into a countertop, find myself mopping up a mess of some kind. I have been known to walk into glass doors, have missed the bottom step countless times, and will trip over anything, often actually nothing. Just fall for no apparent reason.
I once got up to pee in the middle of the night in a hotel room in Washington D.C. and on my way back to the bed walked smack into the wall I had forgotten was there. I had a proper shiner after that. Took ten days to go away. Apparently, this is not uncommon; it happens to a lot of folks. There are plenty of good travel guidebooks which recommend that one map out the new environment and take a few practice runs to avoid calamity in the wee hours.
When I lived in Austin, my dear next-door neighbors would see me with a ladder, or any kind of tool and Vicki would call out:
“Oh no! Alex will help you do that. Don’t try to do that; he’ll be right there!”
Alex, the 6’5 brilliant high-school student, was pressed into service on a regular basis. He had to help me shovel things and move things and assemble things. He was very good-natured about it, given his age at the time. He is really a fantastic human. He is in college now studying to be an engineer. If anyone can figure out how to sustain life on Mars, he is our guy.
This past weekend, I babysat my sister’s cats. I was knackered from a long, hectic week, and it was a pleasure to take catnaps with for realz cats. I did pretty well. Walked into the shower door because I forgot to close it, but I was moving slowly so no biggie. Banged my head a minimum of three times on the dryer door of the stacked laundry machines, but all in all not a bad run on the klutz meter. The last day I put fresh sheets on the bed and tidied up a bit, then decided to water the new trees they planted just over a week ago. On my way to grab the hose I slid down the gravel and did quite a number on my left leg. It is scratched up pretty good in some places, lightly gouged in others.
Ouch! Gol dang it!
I went for a walk in my neighborhood later that day to pick up a few supplies at my local target. I was so lost in thought about how I had managed to screw up my leg on that watering mission that I forgot to step up at the curb. I lurched forward about seven feet, grocery bags swinging wild, begging myself not to fall again. I somehow managed to stay on my feet. And then it was time for the talk. The one I have with myself on a regular basis.
“Idiot! Stupid clumsy cow! Why can’t you look where you are going!!! For the love of God please pay ffing attention!!! Jaysus!!!!!”
After a few breaths, the “talk” calms down:
“You have to slow down. You have to watch what you are doing. You must focus on your surroundings. Breathe Breathe Breathe. You could get really hurt. You must try to be PRESENT!”
The talk is trying to protect me, and I try to pay attention, but it seems to go in one ear and then, well, who the hell knows?
My sister is by no means a close second in this area. She is a good driver, can fix things, untangle necklaces, and figure out why the garbage disposal won’t work. She has actual athletic ability too—can hit a ball with a bat. Something I cannot do. It’s fun to watch her play volleyball in the pool. Laura is very tall, 6’, with a wingspan that is something to behold. When the ball flies past her she just stands there, puts one of her long, long arms out and bats it back without so much as a how-de-doo. If a ball flies in my direction with any speed I reflexively duck.
You do NOT want me on your sports team.
Laura does, however, share my proclivity toward taking the odd misstep and the propensity to shatter all manner of glassware. She was recently on a cruise in Europe with close friends. It was a small boat, and she went to bed every night when it got dark because she was worried that she might miss a step somewhere and fly overboard in some type of watery death scenario.
We avoid costly stemware and sculpted tumblers because they will be broken in short order. I will go to set a glass down and miss the counter entirely. Laura has been known to do the same. You will not be served in a fancy glass at either of our homes.
Her wife Sarah reports one incident where, at the end of a long day, Laura poured herself a glass of good Zinfandel and sat down in her favorite chair, preparing to relax and watch the news. She must have had a sudden thought toward heading outside, because she decided to put on her sweatshirt and as she pushed her hand into the armhole, she managed to punch her glass of wine which sent it flying, sloshing red liquid everywhere. After sweeping and mopping and vacuuming, she still found small shards of glass turning up for the next 24 hours.
Sarah is gobsmacked by this phenomenon. She is sure of foot and her hands follow orders from her eyes. I once entered the gym and saw a woman on the treadmill, running with a beautiful easy gait, arms swinging in a gentle rhythm. ‘That woman is an athlete.’ I thought. As I got closer, I realized it was Sarah. There are a few women at the gym who like her have a physical competence I find fascinating. I watch them with a curious awe.
HALF EMPTY/HALF FULL.
A few months ago, when the old PTSD was acting up, I poured myself a glass of ice water and went into the living room to read a bit one afternoon. I set the glass on top of the side table, which must have been jostled by the dog, so the tumbler slid off and shattered. I cleaned it up, mopped and wrung out the towel, then poured a second glass of water. I went back to the sofa and set it down in the exact spot with the exact same result: water everywhere, the glass in pieces, tabletop upturned. I had somehow failed to resolve the situation before repeating the same mistake.
It was my umpteenth accident in a short period of time. I was near the breaking point.
I told the “talk” to take a hike.
I cleaned up the mess and fetched another glass of water but chose to sit on the other end of the sofa. Success. I have not strayed from it since. Will never sit in that original position again.
When I was a child, I was treated for injuries so often that my pediatrician jokingly suggested that my mom keep me in a cage. I once dove off of the diving board and smashed into the side of a pool, which then turned red with blood. I fell off of playground furniture and crashed my bike repeatedly. I once shut my fingers in the door of the old Peugeot, which necessitated a trip to the fire department because none of us could open the damned thing. Then there was the fallout from any attempt at skating or tumbling or any normal kid stuff.
I am not complaining. I have other gifts. I was and am generally non-plussed by it all.
CHIP OFF THE OLD BLOCK.
In his last few years of his life, my dad fell often. He was blind and stubborn about using his cane. He would bang his head and go for a few stitches and just get right on with it. I called him “Bumble” after the giant white Yeti type creature from the 1964 film “Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer” The big, sweet monster would fall off a cliff and just bounce right back up in the best of spirits.
I like to think that I inherited some of Dad’s buoyancy. Laura did too. We go down hard, but always get back up, sweep up, bandage up and head back into the fray. Between us we have the world’s largest stockpile of first-aid items. Band-Aids, rolls of gauze, ace bandages—you name it; we have it. If there is ever a citywide shortage, a raid of our residences ought to keep the folks of this great metropolis taped together for a good while.
A few years ago, my eye doctor inquired about my depth perception.
“Are you asking me if I can parallel park?”
Yes. That’s a fine example.” He replied.
“I absolutely can. After the fifth try.”
I would have to park, then get out and look, realize that I was not anywhere near the sidewalk and try again, then park, get out and discover I was not even close to between the lines, then re-park, get out …. ad infinitum. I could deal with that, but I finally stopped driving because I was going up over the curb every time I turned right. The world is a safer place without me behind the wheel. I am content to just walk or rather ‘bumble’ my way down the road.
On we go …
P.S. I am delighted to report that I will be the keynote speaker at the “On the Move” convention for Los Angeles Metro next week. There are lots of good reasons to get out of the car and use transit whenever we can. There is every good reason.
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
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Clean
23 apr· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
“Your house is pathologically clean,” my old friend Lawrence said as he looked around.
I was in the Hollywood hills then, in a house selected by my first husband. He was someone who could not abide the notion of a fixer-upper, so we bought one that was turn-key, and moved into its rather sterile environs. We then proceeded to get unmarried toot sweet. Not a good fit for me. The man or the newy-looking home, but Lawrence was right, boy oh boy was that place clean.
The house I grew up in on Park Street in Huntington Beach, was not. It was flea-infested and filthy. My Mom would set out white bowls filled with water that she said would attract the little pests. The bowls had to be white. Her theory was that the biting bugs would leap toward into the bowl, attracted to said whiteness, and unwittingly drown themselves. There were, at all times, a few insects who met a grim fate in the soiled water, but there were plenty left in the carpet that would bite your ankles as you walked across and would terrorize the pets.
Mom lived that way throughout her life. Shelved beautiful things, and was on the borderline of being a hoarder. She crowded the walls of her homes with lovely paintings that were subsequently caked with dust and streaked with nicotine, but she still found them beautiful and somehow so did we. She collected wooden ducks, anything gold, and was knee-deep in the dried flower arrangements she loved to make. They pleased her no end; just to steal a glance at one of them brought her joy. She did dishes, but she never cleaned. Never. When we had to move her out of her last place, the smoke and filth were so overwhelming that we had to wear the kind of masks that professional painters need, like full-on Darth Vader-looking things.
She just didn’t see the point, I guess. She was smart and talented. A good painter and sketch artist with a keen eye for those kinds of details but, zero interest in housekeeping. She loved things, loved jewelry, and clothes. Her closets were stuffed with outfits she had no use for. We found hundreds of boxes of footwear, many of which were repeats. When she wanted something, well, by God, she was going to have it. This impulse led her to buy the exact same pair of shoes time and time again, and most were never worn. Every box we took down released clouds of dust and debris, but inside the shoes were brand new, pristine.
My sister Laura and I are both meticulous about keeping our homes neat and clean. We got the clean gene. My older sister lived in a home buried with knickknacks and stocked floor to ceiling with crafting materials and endless amounts of holiday decor. Any and every holiday was observed with tremendous gusto. There was just too much stuff to get anything clean. One would have had to dive beneath piles of art supplies and gewgaws. It wasn’t “Park Street” dirty but it for sure wasn’t Beth-and-Laura clean. None of us cared; that was just her deal. Her daughters have taken different paths. Lauren is the tidy one while Meg’s surroundings seem to have been hit by more than one cyclone.
I have no judgement about it. We all miss Kim and her excessive … everything, and we are all happily hearing our own drum.
ABRACADABRA.
Gloria was my housekeeper for almost twenty years in LA. She came three times a week, a blessing as I was working crazy hours and maintaining a full social and social service delivery schedule. Gloria and her husband Rogelio were on hand for any occasion of import. They helped me move from home to home, something I did every couple of years for reasons that are not entirely clear to me but, I am pretty certain, have something to do with Park Street. They helped me cater fundraisers at my homes, and host the wild and wooly parties I used to throw. I paid her a proper salary, on the books, so that she would be entitled to Social Security.
I had a business manager then, who at one point called me in to scold me: “You pay your housekeeper more than any of my other clients do. I think you should cut back on her wages.”
Yeah, no. I had only to endure a ten-day period without Gloria when she visited family in El Salvador to know for certain that her efforts were worth every single penny. She was also a friend and a blast to have around. When I cooked for the multitudes, she stood by me in the kitchen for hours at a time. She would only chop vegetables with a steak knife. Her favorite was old and worn—I could never have pushed it through a carrot—but she insisted that was the correct instrument. I once tried to get her to cut back on her use of paper towels. She refused. She explained to me that she had come to America in the trunk of a car with her infant son in her arms and she planned to take advantage of its every offering. She loved paper towels, dammit! She was okay with cleaning up other folks’ messes, but she was sure as shooting going to do it her way, on her own terms.
I got a different business manager.
Gloria is retired now, and we still catch up occasionally. I am overdue to make a meal for her and the family. She loved my food,
“Oh Mrs. Beth! En la cocina, su hands son como magic!”
(In the kitchen your hands are like magic!).”
I made her lunch on the rare occasions that I was home when she came, and would always make extra whenever I cooked to send home with her after her workday. Her kids are all very successful. She and Rogelio raised a pack of professionals who are making them proud. Gloria was and is a wonder. Her tiny feet were housed in shoes that have been very hard to fill.
POOF! IT’S GONE.
In Austin I had Paisley for a while. She is a sweetheart, and Democracy, my rescue wolfdog, loved her. This was key, because he was very particular about folks and scared the wee-billy Jesus out of most. Marcella took over after I bought a house down south out of Paisley’s range, and she was darling, though dependent on her husband to drive her to work and he was not reliable, so her attendance was hit and miss. When I moved back to Los Angeles, I decided to try doing it without help.
I did it for a year. Cleaned my two bedroom/ two bath apartment on my own. I kept telling myself that I should absolutely be able to manage a small space such as the one I occupy. I spent a lot of time doing it. As I have previously noted, I can be a tetch obsessive about cleanliness, The floors were scrubbed on hand and knee. The refrigerator was frequently emptied and scrubbed down, then rearranged with a vengeance. Bathrooms were cleaned and re-cleaned. I bought a gazillion tools to help with this endeavor: a special scrubbing-mop head attached to a long pole to use on shower walls, an endless supply of Mr. Clean sponges, and all manner of eco-friendly sprays and polishes.
I gave it a whirl, but no.
It just takes up too much of my precious time. My time. I cannot just clean a room. I am a nutter. I have to remove every object on every shelf and clean behind and under them. I can spend hours on a cleaning mission, and those are hours that would be better spent on other things. So, I have been on a search to find someone to help me.
The first woman who came to clean was recommended by a good friend. She did a fine job but was never available when I asked for her to come. She would then text me out of the blue at 10 o’clock on a random night and tell me she was heading over the next morning. I needed a plan of some kind; some way of knowing about her schedule in advance, and she could not or would not provide one.
The next woman that came was from a cleaning agency. Her name started with an I but that’s all I can remember about it. She had an accent that sounded Eastern European. On our first encounter she was here for several hours and spent them cleaning the fridge and organizing it in a very strict, rather remarkable way, but that was it. She told me that she had not had time to do anything else. Huh. I mean, I love a tidy refrigerator but ….
My friend Don recommended Maria Elena, and while there are a few eccentricities in her manner, I think we may be a match. Don warned me about her habit of putting household objects in unlikely places. The centerpiece of his long dining table contains four vases which routinely hold lovely fragrant arrangements of eucalyptus. After she cleaned one day, he was down to three. She has been known to move an object from one bathroom to the other, put the odd piece of glassware in with the pots and pans. After an extensive search, Don found the missing vase in the laundry-room cupboard. I was missing my 2-cup measure for several days but finally located it in the under-cabinet beneath the wet bar.
The missing items turn up eventually, and I think it’s kind of interesting to follow the patterns of her mind regarding the placement of ordinary items in new and unexpected places. She might also be a match for me in terms of obsessiveness, maybe even a fellow nutter when it comes to that.
I came back the other day after she had been here, and the apartment was so clean it was almost unnerving. The floors were scrubbed to a shiny and slightly slippery perfection. Every photo frame polished, every surface gleaming. I took the guest-bathroom tissue box, which had made its way into the living room, back to its rightful place, jostled the barstools into position, and re-sorted the items on the kitchen countertop, then ran a bath in the sparkling tub.
My favorite tea-ball steeper thingy has gone astray, but I am sure to find it somewhere, someday, and when I do, I will be grateful to have it back.
I have the problems that everybody wants good problems, blessed problems, and a clean apartment to boot. Ya now!
On we go …
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Model Citizen
11 apr· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
“When you see me again in the new year, I will look brand new.” My dear friend said this to me just before Christmas. At the time, we were dining on croissants and some kind of sugar bun, one of the many holiday feasts we had recently consumed, but soon, he promised, it would be time for famine.
“I think you look good now,” I said.
“You are old and blind and deaf so you can’t really see me.” He replied.
“I just heard you say that I am deaf. I HEARD you say that, thank you very much, but I’ll give you old and blind. You’ve got me there.”
On the advice of his masseur/ healer guy, my pal spent January refurbishing the goods. He had to abstain from alcohol, gluten, and sugar while adding copious amounts of exercise to his regime.
I have never been a great giver-upper of things. I once swore off of Chardonnay for Lent and was thereby forced to drink champagne for weeks on end. That is more of a hardship than it sounds. I am not a big fan of bubbles, but I made it through.
I recently signed with a new modeling agency, and they requested a new editorial shoot, as well as “digitals” and an intro video.
Here are some of the instructions:
Digitals are intended to be taken on a cell phone, and if taken with a professional camera be sure not to edit or retouch your body and/or skin. Take your digitals against a white or solid color background/wall.
– Avoid patterns and complicated designs. A basic and understated design is best. If not specified by the agency, always wear an outfit that is flattering to your body, much like what we have already described in the Appearance section above.
– Clean and fitted white/black t- shirt or tank top with slim, dark jeans is always appropriate.
Swim or Body Digitals:Ladies – Wear a 2-piece solid color swimsuit.
The above shots are meant to be taken with as little of the usual accoutrements that usually accompanies a photo shoot as possible. They want the most minimal make-up and lighting. Hmmm. I am 65 years old and the whole “two-piece bathing suit” thing sounded challenging enough without these “digital” requirements.
At the very least, this would cause a reassessment of my willingness to do some giving-upping. I have been subbing in sparkling water for my beloved Chardonnay at home. I have been doing my best to adhere to the “food combining” rules I remember from my earlier days. Only protein in the morning. Protein with vegetables for lunch. Dinner can be more protein with vegetables, or a carb-loaded veggie meal with zero protein.
SHAKE IT OFF.
I read a book years ago called “Younger Next Year.” It was recommended to me by my then-optometrist, who treated a lot of Hollywood folks who were getting up there. We needed contacts for reading in order to get through auditions while holding a script. Most of us did not want to be seen needing the reading glasses that we did, in fact, require.
Then, as now, younger is the stuff.
In the book, the author basically makes the claim that when one is older, one has to commit to trying harder, doing more to stay fit. If, for example, one used to walk two miles a day in one’s thirties, that would need to be three miles in one’s forties, three and a half in one’s fifties, and, well, in your sixties, you had better be prepared to “shake a bun” if you want any hope of appearing as svelte as you once did.
I have been hitting the gym with more gusto and challenging my usual lack of enthusiasm. I have stayed there for a full hour and change rather than indulging my habit of recent years, which involves running in and doing five exercises then getting the heck out of there and meeting a friend for an improperly combined lunch.
I am kind of liking the challenge of it all, though, in order to get through it. I confess to making promises to myself such as these:
“When you are 68, you can have cookies. All the cookies.”
“When you get to the end of this ‘modeling’ thing (again, most likely in a few years unless I just completely flame out), you can have meat AND potatoes.”
“When we retire, I promise you, we are going to change every darned light bulb in the house to 25 watts.”
I am not even sure I will be good at this job, but it sounded important to try. I am proud to be this age, and this kind of work seems like a way to share that. We shall see.
I shot some of the “digitals” in my pal Nate’s garage. I sure as heck was not going to stand next to a wall in my neighborhood of Beverly Grove wearing a bikini. I, of course, did not read the instructions thoroughly enough and appear in the ghastly unlit photos in a two-color suit.
I did the introductory video and managed to say my name and agency, though I forgot to tell my height. I added my age in though for good measure because, well, I guess, I felt like it.
Tomorrow is the editorial shoot. I will have hair and makeup on set, and my friend Bonnie, who has dressed me in a few features, on hand to help with styling. I am actually looking forward to this one. This is something I know how to do.
The “digitals” and “intro?” Well, there is a learning curve there. The whole concept goes against everything I have been taught to do for the past 35-odd years working in front of a camera. I will get it right one of these days.
FACE VALUE.
I confess I saw my doctor a few months ago, the fellow who helped me get my jawline well … in line. Everybody in my business does that. If you work in front of a camera and plan ever to turn sideways, you are at some point going to need help with your sagging profile. I stopped by, hoping to get a suggestion for a little in-office touch-up or some such. A teensy bit of fill, a dab of refresher--that’s what I was looking for.
He examined me quietly and carefully then gave me this advice:
“I think you need a full face-lift.”
He may just as well have said: “Well, Beth, the only thing for it, really, what we will have to do, is set you on fire.”
Nope. Not doin’ it. No. No. No. No.
I just got my Medicare ID in the mail. I’m thinking of it as a sort of “Get Out of Jail Free” card. It is quite liberating to no longer be teetering on the edge of it, but to be undeniably and properly old.
If I cannot model that, then what’s the point? This face, the one I am wearing as I write this. I am rather fond of it, so it stays.
I am old and blind and going a tad deaf, and I can still wear a bikini, dammit! In a garage with almost no make-up or hair help and “digital” lighting—well sort of—I think I managed it, in my own, not-very-good-at-following-the-rules way.
Going to let y’all be the judge below:
I confess to looking forward to tomorrow when the lights, camera, and action of it all will feel familiar and therefore be a comfort.
In the meantime, I am off to the gym for a final attempt at keeping it all together before we roll.
I guess a little bout of “give-upping” is not gonna kill me.
But soon, someday soon. Cookies. All of the cookies ….
On we go …
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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
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Mugsy and Babs and All...
28 mrt· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
Sunday was the big MS walk in Los Angeles. I have participated in that parade of humans many times. I am certain to be a life-long member of the big boisterous group “The Jiggy Wiggits,” spearheaded by my childhood friend Michael B Gerber and his family. The Jiggy’s gathered an army of friends and family for these events over the years and have raised over 800,000 dollars for the cause and honestly, had great fun doing it. We all missed it this year. Too much on our collective plates: a new daughter for Jenica, logistical challenges for Adam and his family. The two of them have known me as Auntie Beth since they were born. I am now Great Auntie Beth to the four kids they have between their two families and that is exactly how their Pop would want it. He would also want us to do that damned walk. Next year, I promise.
I met Michael when I was thirteen years old. He was new in school and cut an exotic figure. He had a big city haircut, and wore shoes with a slight heel. Huntington Beach high school was not generally a fashionable joint. At least not on the men’s side of things, so he was a standout. He was also ‘tribe’ and had made a beeline for the theater department, which, at the time of his entry into our midst, was run by a woman whose name escapes me. Mrs. Howl? Mrs. … well, Mrs. something. She was, to put it mildly, a bit of a nutter.
She had us doing weird initiation rituals and whatnot, which only served to cement our reputation as outsider freaks. It was also just dopey and had nothing to do with the art of the theatre. We were as a group not well-regarded and I don’t remember giving much of a damn about that, but no one liked Mrs. Whosee-what’s it. I think she became a theatre teacher by default. Someone had to do it and it seemed they had “eenie meanie minee moed” it and picked her. She did not have a feel for the ‘craft’. Anyone could see that.
Mrs. Howl!!!! We’ll go with that. Michael took an instant dislike to her; he had participated in programs which were taught by serious theatre scholars. He was not having it. Michael was a determined guy, and his mom Lila was a tiger. Mrs. Howl never stood a chance. She was out at the end of that year and replaced by Al Madalena. A serious guy who knew his stuff. Things improved immensely and we started to learn about the art for real, though in truth Mike and I were terrible scene partners. Couldn’t help cracking each other up. We once did a piece where I was supposedly losing my mind from being at sea too long and he had to say:
“You ain’t mad be you, Annie?”
We never made it through. Collapsed into fits of laughter every time we tried. This was not an uncommon occurrence for us, much to our new teacher’s consternation, but Al had a big heart and an even bigger impact on the department. Our besties Jenny and Bryan, Mike and I all loved him.
Michael and I became the best of friends. He dubbed me Babs, was the only one to ever call me that, and over the years he would become Mickey, Mugsy, or sometimes The Gerbs. We both loved to debate and to explore ideas. As kids, we would stay up for hours drinking coffee, playing Scrabble, and talking about the world, and our possible futures in it. We wanted justice for the downtrodden and civil rights for all. We were worried about the planet and our role in threatening to destroy it. Would we end up learning to live on Mars in our lifetime? The world was changing, birth control was available at last, and the Women’s movement had made great strides. I was in the “Mobilization for Survival” anti-nuke movement and the teen chapter of NOW at our school. Michael was involved in a ton of extracurricular activities.
Like most teens, we drank alcohol too, and I think we all smoked cigarettes then—Jenny Mike and I—but not Bryan. He never took it up. There were lots of wild nights at my house. We only had to wait until the scotch kicked in, and my mom would be out like a light by the early evening. We had the run of the place after that, and we acted like ridiculous teenagers but mostly stayed out of any real trouble. The four of us were engaged and talented and wanted to succeed.
Michael’s house was fascinating to me. His Mom was very Mom-mish; there was always tons of home-made food in the refrigerator and exotic things like wild blueberry jam. At my place, it was tv dinners, kraft mac, and canned veggies. Jam was strawberry, jelly was grape, period, end of story. In fairness my mom worked very hard to keep a roof over our heads; it was a miracle that she put food in the fridge, but she managed. Lila did not approve of me or of her son having girls at the house, especially um, me. She worried that I was too wild, could be a bad influence, but Mike ignored her, and we stayed tight. We were never physical with each other; I was two years younger and not ready for any of all of that, but there was a kind of romance in the depth of our friendship.
THE MYSTERY.
One night after several games and a long chat which kept us up until at least 2 AM, I grabbed a blanket and hit the couch, and Mike turned in. When I woke, the place was in chaos, flashing lights were casting circular red shadows on the walls. There were lots of people in the house, a flurry of activity.
“Go home!” Lila barked at me. “Now! You have to go home now!”"
It was around four AM, cold out, and I was a couple of miles from my place, but I did as I was told. I was terrified walking in the pitch dark and could not decide if it was safer to cross through the golf course, where I would be entirely alone, or stay on the main road, a longer route but maybe safer? I had no way of knowing then, still couldn’t say for sure, but I was freezing, so I chose the golf course and made it home in one piece. I had no idea what had happened or if Mike was okay. Was it him? His brother? Lila’s boyfriend? I had no clue who was in the ambulance that I heard speed away as I was leaving the development.
It was Michael. He was epileptic and had himself a whopper of a Grand-Mal that night. They had taken him in for observation, but he bounced back, and was released the next day. I would not learn of this until he got home and could call. I was cross-eyed with worry.
He had as a child been so seizure prone that he was forced to wear a crash-helmet for most of his early years. You gotta give Lila credit; she wasn’t ever very nice to me, but boy howdy did she love her son. She searched high and low for answers, went from city to city looking for a doctor who could treat him. She finally found one in Chicago, and Michael lived in a hospital there for a time while she commuted back and forth between the family in California and the specialists in Illinois. It worked. He emerged from those treatments a healthy-ish young man. He had become so reliably stable in his teens, that he didn’t think to tell his friends about it. He was determined to be done with it, and mostly he was. Mostly.
After high school, we all remained close even though we were at different colleges in different towns. I went to acting school, Bryan to art school, and Jenny to U.C. Berkeley to study Poli-sci and Lit. After I got done with acting school, Michael, Bryan, and I lived together in L.A. for a while with our new and now very long time pal Michael A. The two Mikes became best friends and in many ways were each other’s hero throughout his life. Before long, I headed to New York City, Jenny was still in Berkeley, and Bryan headed North. We were all trying to begin our lives in earnest. When Michael B (Mugsy) met and married his wife Gail, the rest of us were shocked. It was so adult, so real life adult, that it took us a minute to wrap our heads around it.
They became the center, the grounding force in our lives, the backbone of our family of friends. Mike opened his own mortgage company and employed dozens of folks. Jenica was born and then Adam. He adored his children, wrote songs for and about them, spent as much time as he could being a dad. I stayed there whenever I visited; I loved it. He and Gail had a real bona-fide happy home—not perfect, but happy—something I had never known. Home is a concept I still have no real sense of for myself, but the notion wrapped its arms around me there. Home.
NOW WHAT.
Mike loved to run, and he had noticed some changes in the way his feet hit the ground. Had felt a little different for some time, but he shook it off. He was accustomed to having a body that could betray him without warning and had grown used to entirely ignoring that fact. It was not until he and Gail were making their way through a local mall on a back-to -school shopping trip with the kids that the thing got his attention. He fell. Repeatedly that day and for days after until finally he was persuaded to seek medical attention.
MS. M. frigging S.
None of us were thrilled about this diagnosis, but Michael took it in stride, and we followed his example. His basic health was pretty good, and his spirits never waned. He was the most optimistic person I have ever known. He had his worries like all of us, around money and the kids’ futures, and the world at large but he remained relentlessly upbeat. A therapist friend of his once suggested that he had “MS Euphoria” Mike’s response to that was:
“Wonderful! Given the circumstances, I cannot think of a better thing to have!”
I remember taking him to get a tuxedo for some event for one of the kids. We parked, and we were making our way down Wilshire Blvd toward the shop. He asked if I could hold on to him as we stepped off the curb and into the crosswalk. I grabbed his arm with my right hand and wrapped my left around his waist. He was quite a bit bigger than me, but I was sure I could help him maneuver. When his leg gave out and he toppled into me, I went down like a paper doll in a windstorm. We looked at each other and devolved into fits of laughter in the middle of the road. This made it doubly difficult for us to get back up; we were literally crying with laughter. This went on until someone finally got out of their car and helped to right us and send us on our way.
He laughed his way through the cane stage, ditto when it was time for the walker. When we got to the wheelchair part, we died laughing every time we tried and failed to transfer him correctly to a chair or toilet seat. He never missed an event or an adventure. Never. No matter what the challenges were. When he was unable to use his arms, he got a dictation machine and kept right on working, and writing, and staying in touch with pals. Our on-line Scrabble game continued without him ever missing a move. Gail and he traveled far and wide with a companion to help maneuver him in and out of airports and hotel beds.
We got together as a group whenever we could, meeting in Austin, New York, and Chicago as our schedules permitted. He was always up for an adventure. We drank, and dined, and laughed, and loved, and knew we were blessed to have one another.
His only complaint was that he did not like looking up into people’s noses in big crowds. They eventually got a wheelchair that could raise him to be at eye-level with the rest of us. He loved that chair. He truly loved that thing.
There were other gizmos. A standing machine that could hold him upright in the hope of retaining some muscle strength. There was a machine that could lower him into the pool and keep him safe it he water. There were transfer aids and all manner of equipment. Gail cared for him throughout, a task that would have overwhelmed most folks, but she maintained the same high spirits and equanimity that Mike never lost.
He and I sat talking for hours as we always had, whenever we got the chance, his dog Jiggy asleep in his lap. We still worried about the world and the future and wondered if the kids would live on Mars in their lifetimes.
He made it to both of his children’s weddings. We all did, wouldn’t dream of missing them. With Mike A. at his side, he somehow managed to escort his daughter down the aisle in his chair after a rainstorm turned the path to mud. He met his granddaughter Zoe and wrote her a song. He loved his life and lived it full throttle MS be damned. A talented writer and speaker, he was a big influence in his MS support groups and was engaged to give talks all over the country. His big theme was gratitude. He encouraged everyone to keep believing that they could make a difference, could be a part of the solution. The Gerbs is a grandfather of four now, and I know he is up there somewhere over the moon about it.
He watched every show I did, every movie I made, and attended every live performance I ever gave (even when that meant traveling to other cities and counting nose hairs in the crowd from the vantage of his then, short stubby wheelchair.) He was a dedicated friend, father, and husband.
As the end grew near, we all visited as often as possible. When he went into the hospital, our old gang of pals flew in several times fearing the worst, only to see him rally and be released, flashing us the old Mugsy grin. The last year must have been a tremendous strain on Gail, but she never complained. I thank God I was in LA when the time finally came to say goodbye. His body somehow, against all odds, survived the massive heart attack, but his brain did not. We all gathered for the vigil, begging the nurses for more morphine to help him leave.
“If I can’t be a part of the conversation, I want you guys to let me go. No heroics!” This had been his edict from the start, and we tried to get it done for him, but his will once again ignored his body, and he lingered all that night and most of the next day.
We buried him with his old worn Scrabble set and a good bottle of Bourbon.
I still miss him. I still break into laughter at some memories and tears at others. I will forever be pissed off at stupid shitty MS for taking my friend from me, from all of us, but I am grateful too, for the many years I had with him. He never complained, and I try not to, but I am not quite as huge of spirit. I do, however, want to continue to be a part of the solution whenever and however I can. He would have it no other way.
On we go …
Dystopia Tonight: March 28th at 4 PM Pacific Time
I will once again be appearing with the amazing John Poveromo on ‘Dystopia Tonight’ for their 24 hour marathon podcast to raise awareness and funds for the MS Society. I wish Mike was here to do the show with me; he was the all-time best communicator, but I have his memory to guide me, and I will do what I can to honor it.
You can tune in on March 28th at 4 PM Pacific Time. John will have been at it for over 20 hours by then, so you never know what he is going to say at that point, but I guarantee it will be fun. To tune in or donate, you can use the link below.
https://bit.ly/dystopiaallnight24
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
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Altitude Attitudes
14 mrt· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
The young man barely looked up. He took his seat beside me, with nary a glance in my direction. He immediately opened his small portable laptop computer and fixed a dark screen over the top of it. Perhaps to reduce the glare? To take the heat out of the blue light that screens shed, which is said to be bedeviling our eyesight and disturbing our sleep? Or to ensure privacy while working in a public space? Who knows? He dutifully tucked it away for the few minutes it took the plane to reach a stable altitude and reoriented his laser-like focus toward his phone.
He was young, just entering his thirties, and quite handsome, with dark curls tousled over one eye. The shoes he was wearing said ‘straight guy,’ the pants leaned ‘gay.’ I find it impossible to tell with young people nowadays, and who cares? I say let them be polyamorous, non-binary, sexually fluid, and whatever else they want to be. It’s their world now and they should live in it and love in it, however they choose.
The minute we attained cruising level, the laptop roared back to life, the screen-darkening apparatus was set back in place,and his full attention returned to his work. He held the thing on his knees to accommodate the long reach of his arms. I watched in awe as his fingers flew across that keyboard.
I was tired, heading back to LA from a modeling job in San Antonio. It was a fun shoot, but a demanding one. I planned to have a glass of white with the dinner I had pre-selected and take a good long nap. I had brought along a magazine I almost never read. I am obsessed with periodicals about cooking but had already read all of the latest, so Vanity Fair would have to do. One thing for certain: It would definitely ease me into a gentle airplane goodnight. I used to love reading about rich people’s problems in the old days when the work of Dominick Dunne reigned supreme, but now I am bored by it all. I simply do not care about how many Rolexes were taken during the heist that shocked Beverly Hills or wherever the haves hang out.
The dinner came and the young man next to me just worked around it, not touching his food. He tucked his arms beneath the flimsy pull-out tray that held it and kept up a furious pace of typing. I dug into the Asian chicken thing and even allowed myself several bites of the cookie that came with it, a rare indulgence. I soon put my napkin on top of it to signal to my body that that was enough of that. One thing about modeling at my age is there is not much cookie-eating involved. I can gain a pound just looking at one.
When the stewardess came to clear my tray, my seatmate had not looked up. Honestly, it seemed a bit worrying, but not really my business. I turned off the light above my seat and settled back for some shuteye.
When I woke, the young man had his arms folded tight across his chest, the laptop finally closed. I glanced up just in time to see a tear roll down the side of his face. He hugged himself tighter to stop it, but another fell and then another. He covered his face with one hand and looked straight down into his lap. I pretended not to notice, trying to give him the space to collect himself.
I have been there. Many times.
Tears falling in a steady stream all the way from Texas to California as I tried to will my mother to wait for me. More tears in the taxi as my sister held the phone to her ear.
“I’m almost there, Mama. Wait for me, okay? You have to wait for me.”
She could not answer me, but she must have heard because she waited, drawing her last breath in my arms just thirty minutes after I arrived.
I was once heading home after a horrible work experience when I completely melted down in the security line.
It was a TV show. The man playing opposite me in that mini-series-ish kind of thing, (I’m still not entirely sure what that show was), had made it known that he felt I was too old to be his love interest. This three- inches-shorter-than-me, roughly-my-age, hair-challenged, giant-bellied fellow thought himself so much of a catch, that a prettier, younger costar was in order. Ewwww!
The only thing to do of course, per the production, the only way to remedy the situation, to relieve the portly fellow of the imposition of my ancientness, was to kill me. So, I had lain on the floor in my death scene while a day player pretended to beat my head in, the baseball bat landing with thud after thud mere inches from my face. It was unpleasant, but honestly, I was relieved to be done with that project. The little troll of an actor was a nasty piece of work, and I looked forward to never seeing him again.
I went back to the hotel that night, had a glass of wine, and went to bed. I thought I was fine. I thought I was completely in control of how I felt about it all until the next day at the airport, when the woman behind the screening booth asked:
“Is there anything in your pockets, ma’am?”
I looked at her and burst into a bowlful of tears, of wild hot sobbing. She was horrified.
“It’s okay, ma’am. We have to ask. I didn’t mean anything by it. It’s okay, ma’am. You’re okay”
It was no use. I was by that time officially a crazy airport crying lady. I raced to the ladies’ room and barricaded myself into a stall, the shock and trauma wracking my body.
Our feelings do not always announce themselves in convenient moments. I’ve been there.
The young man was losing the battle for control. I reached over and put my arm around him.
“Hey. You, okay?” I asked.
He looked at me with what seemed like relief, perhaps he was grateful to be done with trying to pretend that he was not having a terrible time of things.
“Yes. Yes. Really, I’m fine.” he said. He was not of course. Not at all “fine.”
“I know. I am sure you are, but sometimes it’s hard. I get it. I understand.”
“We … it’s over. He said staring straight ahead. We have to divide it all up now and it’s just … going to be so awful. I just…. It’s really over.”
The tears kept coming.
“Breathe,” I said, “In through your nose. Out through your mouth. In through your nose. Out through your mouth.”
I did it with him. We sat there, breathing in and out for a good while, and finally it started to help. When he was at last able to speak, he flashed me a gorgeous smile.
“I am sorry I have been so … I am usually a bit more, you know polite.” He managed another rueful grin. “Charming even.”
“I don’t doubt it, but please don’t worry about it. You were keeping busy for a good reason, and it actually worked for a while. You gotta give yourself that.”
“Yeah,” He shook his head. “Almost made it through this.”
We were instructed to prepare for landing and did so accordingly.
“There is only one way through this kind of thing and that is straight through it. Right into the heat and the hurt and the hell of it. When my first marriage failed, I was truly devastated. It felt like such a public display of my inadequacy, proof perfect of my stupidity, my un-loveableness. But then, ultimately, it was helpful. I didn’t die. What I thought was the worst thing that could happen did happen, and I was okay. I was actually more confident after that, like, “Go ahead, Life… go ahead and bring it, you b*****d; I can take whatever you are giving out. It doesn’t feel like it now, but I promise you it will be fine.”
I did not say any of that. What I said was:
“You will make it through.”
The bell rang, indicating that we were allowed to get up and retrieve our things. He moved his legs to the side so I could slip past him and then got up behind me. The fellow across the way was kind enough to fetch my suitcase and backpack. I put myself together and started to head out, but then turned back and reached for the young man’s hand and looked into his eyes. He let me hold him for a minute and then we broke apart and headed off toward our respective fates.
In through your nose, out through your mouth, young man. You’ve got this.
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
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LA Senora Idiota
5 mrt· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
First of all, “idiota” is not a word. The direct Spanish translation for female idiot is “estúpida,” but that feels a tad harsh. Fair or no, it’s an indictment that I would prefer to avoid. Idiota has a nice ring to it and perfectly describes the many mishaps that occurred during my fantastic time in the great country below our Southern border.
The grand villa that we found on Airbnb was said to be centrally located in San Miguel de Allende and walking distance to many of the experiences that lovely joint has to offer. It also featured a lap pool, which seemed a bit too good to be true given the wild temperature swings that occur there this time of year. As in many of our southernmost states, a balmy 75-degree day in Mexico can give way to a bone-chilling 40 in the evening. This made packing a bit of an oddness. We needed sun-protective gear as well as sturdy winter coats. I suspected (rightly) that the pool would not be heated but decided to invest in some new swimwear just in case.
Like so many of the things I have taken temporary possession of, the bathing suits I am sure I used to own have re-located. One at my sister’s house, another at a friend’s, yet another seems to have found its way into the ether, and lives somewhere else now. I have no idea where that might be.
There is an outlet store quite near me on Robertson Blvd. called “Eclipse.” They’re a clearing house for designer items that have gone unsold. Every other week or so, giant trucks pull up and crates of clothing are deposited just inside the entrance. The merchandise is quickly sorted, and the doors swing open as soon as humanly possible, inviting the public to come have a look-see. I do not need anything. Well--mostly I don’t, but I admit to surrendering to the siren call of discounts and peeking in on a fairly regular basis.
I just happened to be browsing about when I found a perfect little black one-piece bathing suit. It was my size and deeply discounted, and I snapped that baby up, satisfied that my swimwear needs had been solved. I put it in a drawer and did not think about it until I was really getting ready to pack for our ten-day adventure. I am not sure what possessed me to try it on before throwing it in my suitcase. I never try things on. After a lifetime in costume shops and fitting rooms, I just cannot be bothered to do it anymore. If a garment is a poor fit or it turns out to be a dud, it will be given to a niece or a neighbor.
The suit was cute from the front. A nice shape accentuating my bust-line, decent cinching at the waist-- but something felt off. I had failed to notice that the garment had no backside. Zero. I did not know there was such a thing as a one-piece thong suit. That is just an oddness. The thing covers one’s tummy but leaves the posterior exposed. Hmmm. Maybe it’s a “designer” thing?
No. Just No. It’s a ridiculous garment. I put it back in the drawer. Definitely a Goodwill donation. I don’t want anyone I know or love stepping on the sand in that thing.
Idiota.
I then made a mad dash for Nordstrom Rack and picked up a replacement, making sure to examine it for fabric in all of the appropriate places. This completed the packing portion of my preparation and set me free to settle in for an early night.
Ike, my favorite driver, picked me up at 4:30 a.m., and we made our way to Jeff’s. He was deeply unenthusiastic about a 4:45 pick-up time. Not a morning guy, Jeffrey, but he was game. He peered out at us with sleepy eyes when we arrived, but he was packed and ready to go.
The flight was uneventful. My good friend Jeff, aka “Boobs” and I both got a bit of shuteye, and I was truly excited to meet up with Russell and Andrew, aka “Stinks and Hacks.” They were coming in from the East Coast and had arranged for a car to pick us up and take us to our destination. The boys have been picking me up at airports (a terrible job, an act of true friendship) for years. I used to arrive in NYC to find them at baggage claim holding signs that said “Welcome Bomby!” They are the dearest of pals.
The information I gave them regarding our arrival was just a teensy bit incomplete. Flight number was AO 5152 or some such thing, which, due to my lack of clarity caused Stinks to think we were coming in on American Airlines. Oops. This put us in entirely different terminals and meant I would have to use my not-great Spanish to negotiate an extra stop with the driver. He scowled and made a call but conceded to the new arrangement.
¡VIVA LA VIDA!
We arrived in San Miguel in the pouring rain and found the majestic old villa to be gorgeous, a welcoming vision. Marcela, who runs the house for the owners, was there to greet us and help us figure out some of the basics. The place was not heated, but she showed us where extra blankets could be found and helped with a suggestion of a nearby restaurant.
It was a magical trip celebrating our four birthdays. We were all born within one month of one another and all interested in seeing that part of the world. I had made not one plan, done not one minute of research on where we were headed. So, it was mostly up to Stinks and Hacks, who deftly navigated our way through a host of adventures. We got first-hand knowledge of the town from the handful of friends and friends of friends we were put in touch with. Boobs arranged for us to meet up with a couple in their eighties who are long-time residents. They dazzled us with charm and goodwill. The days flew by.
The city of San Miguel revealed itself over the course of our stay. There are endless mysteries to be explored. Almost every drab doorway leads to an expanse of elegant gardens framing majestic homes or gorgeous chandeliered restaurants with fancy dining rooms. Boobs and Hacks took beautiful pictures of it all as we stumbled down the cobblestoned laneways. The rooftops teemed with nightlife. We watched flamenco dancers, heard live music everywhere. There was even a saxophonist serenading our favorite breakfast spot. One evening, we watched as an elegant young woman poured fiery liquids back and forth between copper pitchers, then into a stream of flames that settled in over ice to make an elaborate after-dinner drink.
I forgot my entire wallet / phone thingy at a place called M. B. which we had gone to mistakenly. We were supposed to be at Bacociega next door. Once we had settled into the correct place, a breathless waiter from the restaurant we had abandoned raced in to hand me my belongings. I had not noticed them missing–my wallet credit cards and phone–things one is well advised to hang on to in a foreign country. I had just left them behind oblivious to my surroundings. The man who returned them to me didn’t say it but, I saw it in his eyes.
Idiota.
On the one morning when I decided to venture off on my own, I saw a woman selling beautiful roses on the street. I decided to pick them up for Jeff as it was his actual birthday but would need cash. I somehow made it to an ATM and put in my card. I could not tell if they meant pesos or dollars, so I took out $300.00 when I should have asked for $3,000.00. This meant that after a huge transaction fee, I had the equivalent of about ten bucks in my pocket. Arghhhh.
I consulted my phone and was heading back where a man tapped me on the shoulder. A woman walking alone, I ignored it as I always do. He could have been trying to sell me something or ask me for something or—well, who knows? I had thought it best to put my head down and keep walking, my stride accelerating. Then someone really tapped on my back with such urgency that I cried out. I finally turned around to see a tiny older woman, breathing hard and waving my bank card in the air. I thanked her profusely; she had run after me for a good ways. She rolled her eyes and waved to the heavens in exasperation.
Idiota.
I had just enough cash to purchase the flowers and stopped at the store for supplies, eager to try out my newly working knowledge of “Apple Pay.” I’ve had it on my phone for a year and had no idea what to do with it until Stinks and Hacks gave me a demonstration. Success. I put some potatoes and eggs in my bag and headed back to prepare breakfast.
Not so fast. The villa was close by. We had taken that route from the market several times, but I could not find the path. I knew I could call, and Hacks would come to the rescue. He is adept at using all of the navigation tools that today’s travelers are armed with. Needless to say, I am not, but I wanted to prove I could manage on my own. I am stubborn that way, like a mule, or a bulldog with a frisbee in its jaws.
I had, thank God, the presence of mind to have grabbed a business card with the address of our home away from home printed on it before I left. I waved it at countless people trying to get advice on how to get there. One by one, people with better things to do patiently tried to explain where I needed to go. Finally, a good citizen walked me all the way to our street and pointed to the left.
There have been voices raised in recent years about the suspect nature of the Mexican people. There is a current candidate for the highest office in the land who has used slurs and base rhetoric to defame their reputation. This is ridiculous. As a rule, they are big-hearted, generous, polite, and maintain a high code of honor.
Mexico is NOT a third world country … has not been for quite some time.
Mexico is a HUGE manufacturing hub and has a trade deal with China that puts ours to shame.
Mexico is enjoying the highest-ever rate of tourism in its history as a nation.
Mexico is known for its innovative cuisine and spectacular arts scene.
Mexico is beautiful and is home to a population with a vibrant spirit and admirable work ethic—people who return your wallet and chase you with your ATM card. It’s full of folks who will walk you all the way home if they have to in order to make sure you get there safely. Folks like that.
Mexico, like most all other industrialized nations, has its share of troubles. There are huge climate challenges, a shortage of water being prime among them. There is corruption, of course, and an illegal drug trade famous for its violent antics. The current president is said to be on the take, but I am betting he cannot compete with the shenanigans of “the Former guy” and his offspring in America. I am guessing he is shy of, say, the two billion the “Jared Kushner Fund” received from the Saudis.
With just a few days left, we decided to check out the mineral springs at the Grotto or La Gruta as it is known to locals. Boobs had injured his ear (which for the record was attended to by stellar medical professionals) and wanted a day off, so it was me (Bomby) and Stinks and Hacks who waded in to the fray. The first thing we noticed was that our fellow future swimmers all seemed to be locals, and all were toting their own towels. We never found the cave the place is famous for, but we waded into the warm waters and spoke quietly.
It is the opinion of the people that it is time for me to get another dog. It will be a rescue, of course, just a matter of which and when. The boys have plans to return to a strict Paleo diet and stricter forms of exercise. There are financial goals and all manner of ambitions among us, and soon it would be time to think of those again, but at that moment it was fun to just float. To just be.
ADIOS AMIGO.
I was wearing the bathing suit I had picked up at the last minute and, of course, failed to try on. I was a tad concerned as it began to expand in the water. The crotch was dropping away and threatening to reveal parts best kept from view. Every time I hiked it up to preserve some modesty, I began to quite literally “bust” out of the top.
“Mind the left one, honey,” Stinks said gently, pointing to the escapee breast which was threatening to break free as we swam. Yet another sartorial fail.
It was freezing when we finally got out and we had no way to dry off. I ran to the ladies' room trying to stay in the garment, which had expanded, stretching this way and that, and dabbed the water off with paper towels, grateful for the change of clothes I had somehow remembered to bring. The boys just stood in the sun until they warmed. We drank Mexican beer and rested on recliners for a good long while.
Once home, I discovered that I had left my bathing suit in the back of the Uber which had returned us to the villa. Hacks immediately sprang into action.
“I can get it back for you,” He said as he searched our ride history for the driver’s info.
“Nah,” I said. “I think we can let that go. Hopefully it will find its way to somebody who can fill it out.”
I left a few other pieces of myself in the gorgeous country of Mexico: a blue polka-dot skirt, a handful of beauty products, a parasol, and that too-big bathing suit among them…
and of course, a big ole hunk of my “estupida” heart.
Happy birthday Boobs and Stinks and Hacks!! Thanks for the thirty-plus years of friendship and a celebration to remember. Cheers to the next memories in the making.
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
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You Are Starting to BUG ME
15 feb· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I brought him a strawberry. I know in hindsight that this was a ridiculous thing to do, but he seemed weak. I confess I also dipped it into the last dregs of white chocolate cream icing that had adorned that evening’s dessert. I was doing the dishes and straightening up when I saw him there, halfway in and out of the sink in the wet bar. I had thought him gone forever, but, no, it seems he had been hiding in the pipe below, awaiting his chance to try once again to integrate himself into my household.
The first time we met, I was emphatic about the fact that he cannot live here. I attempted several times to trap him beneath a glass so that I could slip a piece of cardboard under him and release him outside. He had ventured up during the “atmospheric river” that subsumed the streets of Los Angeles for several days. Like most of us, he had thought it best to seek higher ground.
The darned thing was fast—too fast. And he was big, like the size of a hummingbird, which made it difficult to center him beneath the tumbler. Frustrated but trying to remain kind, I tried to reason with him.
“I am sorry, Mr. Bug, but you cannot be here.” I tapped on the side of the sink, and he nervously inched forward into the drain.
“I can still see your legs, buddy. You have to go all the way. Go on. Down. Down.”
I tapped several more times, and he finally disappeared. As quickly as possible, I placed a book over the drain. “There is a River: The Story of Edgar Cayce,” a renowned psychic. It was my hope that with no way to come in, he would see fit to go back to wherever he came from. Things were drying off outside.
I left the book there, snugly situated on top, to make sure he got the message that he was not, is not, will never be, an invited guest. It sat there for several days, and I had just that afternoon removed it because I was having company and it looked odd—an old, worn hardcover sitting in a working sink amid an array of barware.
It was a fun evening. I made roasted salmon with a lemon-dill horseradish cream sauce and asparagus with garlic and pistachios. Jeff brought a yummy potato salad. Jason and Glen, some spinach balls. We topped it off with a slice of cloud cake garnished with strawberries and cream. Delicious. Elevated and homey at the same time; my favorite kind of meal.
My guests even consented to play a card game with me: a complicated seven-handed gin game that never ceases to be a challenge. (It took me playing it at least half a dozen times before I got the picture of it.) I have a great group of pals I play “Liverpool” with in Austin, but I am still looking for an LA card quorum. The guys were skeptical but gave it a whirl. They are really good guys.
It helped. This birthday is bugging me. My anxiety has been elevated, and my moods mercurial. My sister Laura thinks my need for puzzles, games, letters, numbers is interesting; possibly puts me someplace on the spectrum. (Honestly, aren’t we all some place on it?) I think I should just be better, should be more… more perfect, more lovable, more disciplined. I should listen better and always have the perfect response to any social query. I should not have said that… I should have said this. I think I should fit in better, be more in sync with the times, but yeah, no. Not gonna happen.
I would rather do some puzzles, play some cards, solve an equation. It keeps my mind from turning on me, and I rely on that. I sometimes make up crosswords in my sleep.
Life is long, but one thing is for certain. If I am lucky, my next birthday will arrive in a flash, and I will be grateful for it.
A SINKING FEELING.
So, bless its heart, this big old bug has been bedeviling me. When I discovered him the other night, he seemed a bit worse for wear. I worried that he had hurt himself when I forced him to scuttle into the drain. I had hoped he would leave the building, but he apparently took up residence inside the metal piping, which is really no place to live. I brought him food to see if he had a fighting chance. If it was worth me trying once again to “capture and release” the poor fellow, or if I should just send him down the drain in a flood of tap water.
I placed the snack on a piece of cardboard that I planned to slip under the glass I hoped to trap him with and placed a large dome over the sink to encourage him to stay put. It was getting late, and that kind of situation needed the clarity of day.
When I woke up and headed in to make tea, I found him sitting next to the fruit and cream, looking like a healthy specimen. He was in fine fettle. This, alas, meant I would have to try once again to re-situate the stubborn little thing. I placed two large picture books over the sink to sort of blockade him in while I went for my morning walk. I needed a plan.
“I’ll be back, Mr. Bug, and then you really will have to go outside. This is no place for you. Say the housekeeper found you here? She would smoosh you up in a heartbeat. I am leaving for vacation and some friends are coming to stay. That could go badly for you as well.”
I spent the entire walk devising my removal strategy. First, I would open the doors to the balcony so that once I had him, we could easily make our way outside. Then, I would remove the book on the right and place it on the chair, freeing that hand to grab a glass with an opening wide enough for him to fit safely beneath it. Once ready, I would lift up the book on the left and quickly trap him on the cardboard beneath his midnight snack. Then, I would slide a dustpan under the gray paper he and his strawberry were occupying and quickly head out.
TO BUG OUT.
I got home and gathered my wits and my tools. I was feeling a teence jumpy but determined. I proceeded to do exactly as I planned, and when I got to the final move—book on left swept up, glass quickly placed over the feeler-ed fellow—I learned it was all for naught. The little guy had bugged off. No trace of him remained. Hmmmm.
I don’t really know for sure that he went back down the drain. He was a tricky thing; it’s possible that he is hiding somewhere in this apartment. Let’s hope not. I am choosing to believe that, once restored by a taste of cream, he had taken my words to heart and decided to get while the going was good.
I took the coffee table books back to their rightful place and returned with the tale of the legendary spiritualist.
“There is a River” is back in the sink, where it will remain for the time being. I just cannot risk the arrival of another visitor from the pipes.
I have been meaning to read the story of Edgar Cayce for some time. I am partial to that sort of tale, but—well, not for the fore-seeeeee-able future.
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
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Green Beans
6 feb· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
I sent one just the other day: a texted photo of a can of green beans. My sister, Laura, knows exactly what that means, and her wife, Sarah, is now familiar with the practice as well.
It means I am having a rough go, feeling blue or stressed, or just downright cranky. It means that the only solace I can find in the immediate is a comfort meal that both Laura and I gravitate toward in times of unease.
Boxed macaroni and cheese with our beloved canned, slightly yellowish green beans on the side.
Not doctored. No adding of additional cheeses and some frozen peas or broccoli for interest. Just straight up. I like my over-salted, somewhat slimy veggies to be in the “French Style”, while Laura likes them “Whole Cut”. This had, for many years, been our only divergence from this shared custom, but now I admit to using the gluten-free version. That is now blessedly available in the old, familiar blue box.
Thank you, dear Kraft company, for understanding my plight.
I am not a purist about it. I don’t have celiac disease or any kind of distinct allergy symptoms, and as an accomplished cook, it pains me to do it, but I avoid gluten whenever possible. A protracted period of dietary trial and error determined it to be the biggest source of inflammation for me. A large portion of it can trigger my psoriatic arthritis, which hurts, makes me clutch various body parts in a sudden onset of agony. That is not fun. No bueno.
Thankfully, I can still have a bit of dairy and a black and blue filet mignon once in a while, but like most of us, I find myself making a whole assortment of accommodations for my health.
I will have the great good fortune of turning sixty five years old this month. Every time I mention this to my pal Caroline Rhea, she bursts into incredulous laughter. We began the rather definitive project of our lives “Sabrina the Teenage Witch” over thirty years ago. We were hot stuff. We wore high heels with a vengeance and skirts cut short enough to let the camera dwell on our shapely legs. We could stand on stone floors for 16 hours with little consequence, except that in our delirium we often made each other laugh until we cried. Now we would likely just cry in pain, our feet giving out, at around the 12-hour mark.
Things change.
The last year or so, he had a lot of questions: “I don’t understand, Bethy. Why is it so hard for me to get out of the chair now? Been doing it all of my life; it was never a problem before.” Dad was not complaining; he was genuinely baffled.
A formerly easy feat was now effortful in an epic way. Using his hands, he would brace himself against the arms of his chair, scooching forward inch by deliberate inch. When his behind was near enough to the edge of the seat, he would begin to rock back and forth, gaining in speed and momentum as he did so, one hand clutching the cushion near his thighs, the other ready to push off from the side. His wife and I often looked on with concern, but we stayed put in spite of our worry, and allowed him to manage on his own terms. This would go on for a few minutes, and then suddenly he would sort of shoot forward in a crouch, a gaunt giant of a man, somehow righting himself in the process. This was as impressive in its tenacity as it was heartbreaking to behold.
“Mother nature has to take things away from us Pop, or we would never leave. You are 91 years old. She is just trying to get your attention, make sure you feel it—that’s all.”
FULL OF BEANS.
She certainly seems to want a bit of mine. I still have a wild, almost manic energy level. I am always happiest when I am in motion. I can cover up to ten miles every day, but now it takes a minute to work through the stiffness I feel in the morning and cast off the hitch in my get-along that accompanies it. I still love to cook and can work for hours on end when I am entertaining, but now I often reach for copper gloves when the pain interferes. I have my dad’s natural buoyancy, and, like my mom, I can be stubborn to the point of mulishness. I will never give in, I tell myself, but have to admit that this whole aging thing is for real.
I strain to hear my companions in a crowded restaurant and my night vision is blurred by a preponderance of glare. My epic ability to sleep nine, sometimes ten hours a night, is now interrupted by a visit to the bathroom in the wee hours and my body’s development of a new inner clock, one which demands that I wake at the exact same hour every day.
Someone asked me recently what, in light of my looming ancient-ness, I am most wanting to do these days.
“Write.” I answered, (because I want to write more than anything), and then I followed this with: “And cook and act and model and sing and walk the whole world over and see the people I love as often as possible.” You know. All. I want to do it all. I don’t care about having, but boy oh boy is there a lot of “doing” that i want to do.
I should add “lighten up” to that list. I share, with many of my peers, a lot of apprehension regarding the upcoming elections, the wild dangerous weather swings of our climate, and the seemingly permanent changes to the way we live brought about by the pandemic. There are all manner of reasons to be at odds with the world around me. A lot of things that I knew for a fact to be true are simply no longer so. Maybe that’s part of the plan. Maybe it’s not just the physical things that nature alters for us, but the emotional ones, too. Our touchstones begin to change shape or disappear altogether. We have to learn to go with a new flow or risk falling into a dark place. Broken hips aren’t the only thing to be cautious about. Broken hearts and spirits loom large as well. The only way to fight it all is to stop fighting at all.
Quite some time ago I went to visit my friends John and Don in Texas. They had moved there from California a few years prior and found themselves engaged in a family business in Fredricksburg. This meant that they not only lived in the same house but worked in the same company. They are identical twins and share a host of common traits, but they are as different in some ways as they are alike in most others.
The close proximity was both a comfort and a source of conflict. They were getting on each other’s nerves and were, of course, expert at pushing each other’s buttons. Each had built an air-tight case as to exactly why whatever the problem was, it was the other’s fault. They were locked in a loop of making these arguments over and over again, neither one giving an inch. There was nary a nod toward the possibility of a peaceful resolution.
“Green beans,” I said. “That is your new safe word. When one or the other of you is going round and round on the same jag, the other one needs to say GREEN BEANS! Just keep saying it until the fight is over.”
They were highly skeptical about this, but perhaps because of the oddness of the proposal, it worked. Those guys have a great sense of humor, and neither could help cracking up at the sight of their brother drawing himself up and stating in all seriousness “green beans.” Once, during a particularly nasty fight, John just started yelling “green beans, green beans” at the top of his lungs then ran to his bedroom and slammed the door. That was a breaking point for the anger that had built up between them. They laughed about it for days and the tensions eased.
Of course, for “safe words” to work, there has to be mutual respect and, ideally, love between those who use them. This is not an antidote to the anger and resentments we witness all around us. One cannot imagine a presidential debate where an annoyed Joe Biden would interrupt an overly verbose Trump with: “Well now, Donald, I ‘m just gonna say green beans to that.” I wish that Nicky Haley could turn to the phalanx of men telling her to give up her candidacy and say “green beans” in her lovely South Carolina lilt. Maybe we should give the gorgeous Taylor Swift a can of the veggies to take with her to the Super Bowl. Words will never work on the ding-dong contingent who are accusing her of loving one man in order to promote the candidacy of a different one, but she could hurl it at one of their heads in self-defense if need be. I like thinking about that.
I have struggled with a wide range of emotions in anticipation of this milestone of age. There is something about all of the paperwork involved that really brings home the message. I am older, oldish, old. Decisions about my healthcare and retirement plans have got to be made, or at least the need for them has to be acknowledged.
This one feels different. The path forward will be shaped by the fact of my age in ways that it has never been before. This is not necessarily a bad thing: there are physical and emotional things I will lose, to be sure, but for each of those there is a freedom gained. I have nothing more to prove and zero damns to give.
If it was still easy, if it all still worked perfectly for each of us, we would hang out on this plane forever. The earth needs us to understand that one day we will have to go. Nature is preoccupied with making way for the next generations. Babies are cute. Old folks are… well… a lot of things, but our visage does not cause folks to want to cuddle us and protect us and pinch our cheeks—though I have twice in the last week been asked if I wanted a “senior discount” without any proof of age. A cold comfort, but an offering. A kind of care.
NOT SO GREEN AROUND THE EDGES.
One of the great things about being older is I cannot hold onto things for long. For instance, I have no idea what was upsetting me the other night. What form of vexation required the one-two punch of relief that comes from that particular combination of box and can? No matter, the noodles were tangy with just the right amount of butter to chemical ratio. The veggies melted in my mouth, tasting of tin and sodium. It was as comforting as a pair of soft pants and a set of well-worn shoes.
It is a stormy season, a complex time in my life. I swing from deep bouts of grief for those I have lost to quick flashes of delight and happy plans for the future. I am blessed to have every one of the emotions that are coursing through me as I approach this significant marker.
I will be 65. Dang.
This fact has my full attention and that is as it should be, but I promise not to dwell on it for long. Life is a blessing and aging is a privilege and if ya’ll catch me failing to be grateful, you know what to do. Just look deeply into my eyes, tell me that you love me and say:
Green beans.
On we go …
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Punches in the Air
26 jan· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
“Mom, why are you hitting me?”
I always tried to reason with her: “I am trying to help you.… Come on, Mama, we can do this.”
We were trying to make one of her recipes for Easter dinner with the girls. She did not have dementia, but her COPD was very advanced, and she was not getting enough oxygen to her brain. She had confused the lime jello recipe with a canned cranberry concoction. I was trying to help her sort it out. The goal was to fill the green gelatinous goo with nuts and pineapple and cottage cheese. Yes. I agree. Ewwwww. Like I said it was HER recipe.
She threw her spoon down and gave me a sharp elbow to the ribcage.
“Because I am a useless piece of s**t!” she cried.
She stormed out and went to smoke a cigarette in the small apartment which was situated behind my sister’s home. We had relocated her to it after one particularly violent episode on my brother’s property convinced us that it was no longer safe for her to live there. My brother was and is an incautious individual prone to rages of his own, but in all fairness, he had been coping with her for a good while. It was our turn again and I had years before taken a long ride in the barrel of supporting her, so I was relieved and grateful when Laura and her wife stepped up with lodgings.
Once she arrived in Los Angeles, we all settled back into the relationship that defined my early life with her: Mom bedeviling and abusing Laura and her wife, as she had the younger kids in our childhood home; me riding into the rescue to absorb as many blows as possible. Mom hating me for it. That was how we rolled when I was young, and the pattern had returned with a vengeance.
When I’m throwing punches in the air. When I am broken down and I just don’t care.
-----Sheryl Crow, “Strong Enough”
I have been angry lately. I am not good at that. Anger terrifies me; it dislodges me from my rational mind. It has been haunting my sleep and distracting my days.
Having been exposed to relentless rage for decades, I have no idea what healthy anger might look or feel like, but I have recently thrown my fair share of hard right hooks into the wind.
This is not, thankfully, a frequent state of mind for me. It is due in large part to the predictable fallout from first the Pandemic (which is not over; I have several friends who are very sick right now), then the Screen Actors Guild strike which continues to wreak havoc on many of us, and now the start in earnest of a political season that promises to be exhausting.
It’s all just pissing me off.
BELOW THE BELT.
My qualifying period for health coverage through SAG began in April of last year when we all went on strike. Except the folks that didn’t--the “interim agreement” people rich enough to take their productions overseas, or poor enough to work on non-union projects for pennies.
The strike lasted deep into the Fall, running right up to the holiday season, a notorious dry period. This was followed by the “Sundance” break in January. This leaves folks on my qualifying track with about 9 weeks to make the requirement. A bit dodgy, that. I of course made enough in residuals to make the cut, but the good people who decide such things have declared that my 65th birthday at the end of February, approximately 5 weeks before my earnings deadline, means that they won’t count. If you are 65 and older, it has been decided that nothing counts. Most of us have enough “Age and Service” credits to be allowed to buy into our program for life, but that decades-long tradition has also been eliminated.
For the first time in well over thirty years I will not be insured through my union.
We are not supposed to talk about it. That is just not done.
Ms. Ellen Barkin has been very vocal about the absurdity of this and has been relentlessly attacked for having a net worth which should afford her whatever plan she wants to buy. She did not stand up and say, “I am too poor to be treated this way.” She just pointed out that this is going to affect a lot of people, and that the new “rules” are deeply hurtful to our veteran members and also clearly unfair and frankly ridiculous.
For the record, people’s “net worth,” according to the completely unreliable Wikipedia, is always greatly exaggerated. Last time I looked, mine was said to be about three times what I actually have, but while I am nowhere near the level of Ms. Barkin by most measures. I will be able to make it work, though, It will be expensive and it promises to be a tad tricky.
I have a “pre-existing” condition called Psoriatic Arthritis. This means I need medication that is both somewhat caustic and very costly. I am grateful to have it, side effects and all, because it is keeping me upright. The poorly insured are not given the option for this kind of disease management. Many are simply given steroids and pain pills and told to go away. I had a doctor years ago when this all began who refused to switch my meds, even after it was clear that they were making things worse, not better.
“I have patients who are in wheelchairs,” he told me. “You walked in here. You are fine.”
Needless to say, I got a different doctor, switched to a less toxic (for me; everyone reacts differently) injection and kept right on walking. But boy, oh boy, did that make me mad.
So here we are again. Like so many Americans and so many many older Americans, I am being thrown to the health-care wolves. I will be fine, of course. I am resourceful, and I have options, and I will find a way to thrive, but that is not the point.
The point is that this sucks, and folks are going to get hurt in more ways than one. I am angry.
I have been trying and trying to find a way to stop my brain from wheeling around and around making the same argument against it over and over again. A pointless exercise; a waste of precious time. There is no one in particular to blame. The people who led the strike are not the same as the ones who are now using it to purge the healthcare rolls. None of them asked for my opinion and if advice from the likes of George Clooney and Tyler Perry—men who are smarter than me, men who have built empires—has been ignored, then my words will most certainly fall upon deaf ears.
The person I am really pissed off at, of course, is myself. How did I let this happen? How did I not beat the nearly insurmountable odds of it all? Why did I think that the circumstances surrounding this situation would be taken into consideration? How could I be so stupid and trusting and fallible?
TAKE A SWING AT.
Deep breaths and long walks are helping. I fell into my sisters' house Monday night and we just hung out, made red sauce from scratch, and Zoomed with our nieces. The oldest, Lauren, is pregnant, and we are all thrilled. I am distracting myself with Spanish lessons and keeping company with folks I love. I got to make dinner for one of my ‘chosen” nieces and her family last night. I held her newborn one-month old daughter in my arms and thought.
“Okay, kid. I am on it. I am going to go back out there and do all I can to secure a better path ahead for you and for my other precious niece, and all of the innocents who are heading toward us into this world.”
The future will be what we make of it. That has always been so.
My Mom let her rage consume her. When it came on, she swung wildly at whoever was in her path. I don’t like feeling mad; it makes me truly uncomfortable. But I am determined to channel my anger in a constructive way. I don’t care about the “unspoken” rule against speaking out.
Life is long. I have always been up for the fight. I am just getting started…
On we go …
P.S. This is not a plea for advice. I will find a good consultant and buy Plans BCGDQ, etc. Also, darling actors, please don’t tell me to call our very own “Via Benefits” folks. I made an appointment with them and when I called in at the determined hour, a pre-recorded voice told me that the, “wait time” on hold would be 90 minutes. Yeah, no. My time has value. My life matters, at least to me.
I know that am not supposed to speak of this, and I don’t care. I deserve better. We all do.
P.S.S. If you see Ellen B., tell her I said 'hi.' Tell her I said 'well done.'"
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MINE
16 jan· Beth Broderick: Wit and Wisdom for the Ages from the Aged Podcast
Wit and Wisdom
by Beth Broderick
A bunch of white roses lay against the doormat. They had been bound together with a clear, two-inch-high band of tape which had a faint floral design. They were also fairly uniform in shape and size, so, definitely purchased–but from where? A grocery store with a flower department? A farmers’ market, maybe, or a big-box store?
The bigger question, to my mind, was: For whom? They were at my front door, but was this deliberate? Could it have been a mistake? Were they left at the wrong door, or are they actually for me? I live in a building with a keyed entry, so then, a neighbor. Possibly, but it would not be difficult to make one’s way past the endless number of Uber Eats drivers that are buzzed up daily with their overpriced fare. So, it could have been put there by anyone from anywhere; it was not necessarily an inside job.
There are two young girls in the apartment directly to my right. Perhaps the flowers were intended for one of them? A mix-up? Maybe there is a new paramour in the picture, and someone placed them there as an offering of interest? When they enter or exit their place, those two gals fly by my doorway at lightning speed. I tried once or twice to catch them to inquire after this possibility, but both times they were too fast for me.
The flowers sit in a vase on my dining table. I have tried not to think too hard about the mystery surrounding their arrival. Possession being nine-tenths of the law, they are mine, a lovely if quite temporary addition to my decor.
The concept of ownership is, it seems to me, a tricky business. Do we really own any of the things we call ours? My computer, my clothes, my sofa and chairs, my ever-present and completely essential phone are all “mine,” but, at some point, they will belong to another person or place. They will be refurbished and resold, or if they are too far past their prime, sent to occupy space in a landfill or be reduced to parts that will create a new possession, which will belong to another entity.
That art piece I love, that I would pay again and again for, could well end up with a price tag of $5.00 in a secondhand store. As anyone knows who has ever tried to sell a piece of furniture or get full price for an item of jewelry, their value does not hold. You might get a percentage from a winning auction bid or a decent offer from a pawnshop that specializes in gold and silver. You may get close to what you want on eBay, but this is hard to predict. Any good realtor will tell you a property is worth exactly what someone will pay for it.
Until it’s not. Until catastrophe strikes and that property and all of the personal belongings it held has been entirely disappeared, burned to the ground, washed out to sea, reduced to rubble in a quake. You might be lucky enough to rebuild and rebuy, but what was yours would be yours no longer.
I remember driving through a particularly bleak part of Southern Arizona on the way to Austin with my friend Dennis and the wolf/dog Democracy who lived with me there for years. He was mine, my beautiful dog, a wonderful creature, until he wasn’t. Until his body gave way to nature and he collapsed at a ripe old age. Dennis is fine and is still my great good pal.
“I cannot believe we killed people for this!” I said, looking around at the vast uninhabitable landscape. It was all rock and dust. There were barely any signs of life.
“Part of the United States of America now and forever … Lord help it and us.” Dennis replied.
It was and is hard to believe that wars are fought over such things. For all I know, that desolate area is home to some essential mineral or provides a crucial boundary between our nation and neighbor, but it seems pointless, nonetheless.
I don’t believe in open borders. In the interest of commerce and consensual government, dividing lines must be drawn, of course. But must we still kill for them?
The governor of Texas, a man I do not admire, has sent troops uninvited to small towns along the border. Last weekend in the small hamlet of Salinas, the border patrol agents who work there were ordered by state troopers to stand down and forced to watch in horror as a woman and her two small children drowned in the river that straddles our two countries. You see, this side of the river is OURS. Belongs to us, or more specifically to the “republic” of Texas. The governor has stated that were it not for federal law, he would simply shoot dead on sight anyone who arrived on its borders to petition for sanctuary in HIS state.
One of those children could have grown up to invent a life-saving treatment. The other might have become a novelist who enthralled us with his or her words. We will never know. Their human potential has been snuffed out because it was determined that they must not be allowed to set foot on the rocks which line the north shore of the river. Those are American rocks. And now, as ever, we are willing to murder people to protect that “fact”.
Ours.
Since reading this news, I have struggled to regain my normal buoyancy. I am obsessed with this story and completely undone by its cruelty. I don’t know if I believe in ghosts, but I hope those two little ones haunt Gregg Abbott and bedevil him for the rest of his days. I hope poltergeists put spikes in the tires of his wheelchair. I hope he is diagnosed with a rare disease which can only be cured by the removal, one by one, of the hairs in his nose. I hope he tosses and turns for a sleepless eternity until it is time for him to go. And then I hope he goes to hell.
“My” roses have begun to brown at the edges. Soon it will be time to turn them into compost, that they may feed a fellow plant which–who knows?–could end up feeding me one day. I am still not sure who sent them or why. Perhaps they were a response to some kindness I bestowed which I have now forgotten. It is possible that they were a sort of romantic offering, not directed at the young beauties, but perhaps at this older wizened gal. I am doubtful there, but I tell myself daily that my physical charms still have a few tricks up their sleeve. If the lighting is low enough, that is, and the eyesight of the beholder sufficiently dodgy, I can still be quite a doll.
No matter. My apartment, my bank account, my visage, and my vase are all on loan from a universe I am too dense to divine. They will continue to be mine until I am no more. I hope, when the time comes, that I will have the grace to let them go and send them forth into the ether with gratitude and love. What’s mine is yours, theirs, ours, and—well--everyone’s. And I am good with that.
On we go …
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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
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