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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

It’s that time of year when the world falls in love. Every song you hear seems to say, “Merry Christmas” or something along those lines, depending on from which vantage point you view the situation and what you want to celebrate this season. I just want folks to have a happy something or other.

Happy Holidays, Happy Hanukkah, Happy Kwanzaa …. whatever floats your festivities boat.

It all means more or less the same thing, though of course many of the pesky details diverge, which has, throughout history, caused wars and such. So, for now, let’s set those aside.

What it ALL means in the main, what we can all agree on, is that we are ALL busy. Very, very. Busy, busy.

What remains of 2025 is being compressed into a December full of events and obligations, full of shopping and giving and taking and partaking. The notes are everywhere …

There are six performances of a new ballet by The Realm Company, all of which I am promoting, not less than four of which will require my attendance as the president of the board. It is a Christmas show, of course, but it is based on the legend of “Krampus,” the marauding bad boy of Norwegian legend. Not your grandma’s Christmas ballet, it is sexy and dark and thrilling and deserves to be seen. Work to be done there to spread the word. It is part of the job description and, make no mistake, I am a volunteer, but it is a job.

I got a note from a banker this morning saying that he never received the necessary forms from me, which I sent no less than five minutes after they were requested, but which somehow landed in the ether of the internet and never made it to his desk. I almost cried. Thought that was one tiny annoying detail off of my plate, but no, delivery was “incomplete”.

Argghhhhhhhhhh!

Of course, I took a good sharp inhale and phoned him, and we sorted it all out in minutes. But my bedevilment is a sign that I may be a tad overwhelmed. A teensy bit stressed out. I love this time of year, and I also hate it just a little.

Dinner with friends a few nights ago at the legendary Musso and Frank involved the requisite sighs of disbelief that the holidays are so suddenly upon us. Happens every time, of course. We are once again amazed that the year has gone by in a flash. We are, as always, worried that our packed schedules may be too packed. We don’t want to miss anything, but also, at some point, would love to sit down and take stock. Year-end and all. What worked? What didn’t? What are my priorities? Should they be different going forward? I try to attend to these thoughts, but am inevitably interrupted

DASHING THROUGH WITH JOY.

It will be my 36th Christmas party. The 36th time we have gathered together to create beautiful gifts for the women in the emergency shelter at the Good Shepherd Home. It is a longstanding event, attended by an ever-growing and changing group of folks. Don cannot make it this year but will send soaps. Ditto Bruce and Cookie, who have donated by Venmo, but Sabrina and Dani will come for the first time, as well as Carmen and a few others. Anthony and Miguel are holding it at their place again, which is truly a blessing. They have the perfect space for it and are consummate hosts. Laura and Sarah always have financial skin in the game but will be there in person this year as the baby is big enough to stay with a sitter. Yay! This is as much their tradition as my own. Elizabeth broke her toe at Thanksgiving, so cannot do the shopping, a full-day affair that involves crawling along the aisles in TJ MAXX and Ross trying to find 32 of everything we need. 32 mascaras, 32 lotions, 32 hair bands, 32 face wipes, etc., but she will be there on the night and is a whiz-bang organizer. Whew. It will be great. It is always great to be with good people doing good things.

That’s the big one. Once those gifts are delivered to the nuns, it’s a lovely sleigh ride down the calendar toward the big finish. There are other events, of course, and I am going to love each and every one of them. I am particularly looking forward to seeing my nieces when the oldest visits from Colorado with her lovely husband and child in tow.

Somewhere around the 22nd, I will be able to goof off a bit, go see Dean and Jim, hang out with the dogs and chill … until the 23rd that is. Then it will be time to finalize the menu, finish shopping, and start prepping for dinner on the 25th. I keep that one small these days. Just the sisters and a few others, and of course, the nephew. It’s his first. He is a year old this month, and of all the things moving at warp speed, that is the one that takes my breath away. It goes so fast. The other night I watched him pick up a pasta noodle and gnaw on it, and I could not believe that this is the same person as that little fellow I met 12 months ago. So tiny then and so sleepy … I would stroke his cheek to keep him alert enough to drink his bottle. Now he is 30 pounds and tearing through the house, able to stand long enough to wipe all of his toys off of the shelf. He is ever on the move and eager, getting into mischief with his best friend Bruno, a 110-pound German Shepherd.

He just wore a suit and tie to a wedding! And shoes! Shoes! DANG!

So fast. Too fast, and also perfect. December brings us home to the fact that another year has given way to memory. When I was younger, there was real consternation about how that time had been spent, serious determinations to be made about how to do so in the future. Now I am just grateful to have lived it.

New Year’s is a marker too distinct to ignore. There are others, of course, and at my age, they come tumbling toward me at a relentless pace. The children are ever-growing, and many whom I once held as infants are now full adults. There are new emails from the government which detail the future benefits available to me from Social Security and Medicare. There are new lines on my face that run in a crisscross pattern from my chin toward my earlobe. I have some friends with new hearing aids, some friends who definitely need them; and I am getting some not-so-subtle hints that it is only a matter of time before I will, too.

Someone on the street asked me how old my dog is this morning.

“Three,” I replied.

Then I realized that I have been saying that for two years. When I first got him, I would answer “almost three,” which was the vet’s best guess. Over time that became just plain three, but it occurred to me today that he is actually four and a half, almost five, which is half the life expectancy for a dog of his dimensions. I can barely grasp that, but there it is. Maybe I will just stick with saying three and avoid thinking about it entirely.

Whatever you celebrate, and however you do so, I wish you a joyous, messy December full of friends and feasts and frolic. January will be here soon enough and bring the chill and thrill of a new winter. We will once again get serious about a future, which is ours to behold and to mold. A lot of things have changed, as our country has taken a turn. Many uncertainties abound, but the holidays are here, by God, and we can count on that. The trees will go up, the gifts will be wrapped, and the candles lit. The pies will be baked and the toasts made. There is real comfort and true joy in that.

Time is passing and the ball will drop once more, but before it does, it’s time to get busy. Very, very. Busy, busy. After all that is said and will be done, these are, and ever will be, the good old days.

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

Clank, rattle, bang, hum. Uh-oh.

There were signs, of course. It had been clear for a good while that the machine which has served me dutifully since 2011 was losing the will to live. The mechanics of the thing had begun to lag, causing a maddening delay between my typing of a letter and its actual appearance on the page. It became easily confused and struggled to keep up with my various needs. It could not stay awake for longer than two minutes if it was not connected to a power source. In all fairness, the computer is not the only thing getting old around here. In my dotage I often forgot to plug it in and so disappeared in the middle of several important Zoom calls. It just conked out, causing me to frantically re-engage by phone, returning to the meeting frazzled and apologetic. Thankfully I am up front about my meager abilities in the arena of all things technical, and these unforced errors were accepted with grace by my colleagues.

It was painfully clear that my darling device and I were approaching the last of our time together, that we would soon have to part.

I put off the inevitable. There was the expense, of course, and the dreaded trip to the Apple store where people decades younger than myself would offer to assist and, in doing so, become very quickly apprised of my incompetence. There would be a cock of the head, a raise of the eyebrow, a smile which said, “Oh dear. You are one of those” when I explained that I had never been able to figure out the back-up machine thingy and would need a hand transferring my (to me) precious data. Also, I was truly attached to it. We have been writing together for years, taking breaks to search for goods on “Chewy” and “Amazon” and “Ortho-foot” We knew each other’s quirks and customs.

I petted it, offered encouragement, and deleted as many files as I could to try to reduce the burden on the slender laptop. I became fanatical about plugging it in and learned to accept the starts and stops, the hiccups, and the general lackluster performance it offered. We were scraping by, getting along, and then one day it all changed. The dear thing struggled to awaken after an afternoon nap. I would carefully connect it, only to have it insist, against all evidence to the contrary, “You are not connected to the Internet.” It would complain and stubbornly refuse to acknowledge its errors. Then the racket began.

SURVIVING THE ICE AGE.

Clank. Rattle. Bang. Hum. It sounded like one of those ice machines that lives under the stairwell in an old motel. I dearly love an ice machine, have made many a trip down the hallway or around the back or wherever one is located. The plastic liner, dutifully if clumsily installed into the bucket, provided to gather the precious cubes as they rat-atat-tatted down into view. I have spent days, weeks, and months traveling for work, and ice is a big part of how I adapt to my new surroundings. At night it can be used to chill wine or sparkling water or a brick of good cheese. In the early mornings it is often required for filming—a washcloth can be soaked in the icy water that’s left. This can then be applied to the forehead and eyes in hopes of soothing and contracting the heavy lids and under-eye bags that I don’t want the cameras to see. Those machines are always a welcome sight.

I love the click, rattle, bang, and all, just not when it is coming from my computer.

It was time for hospice, time to get serious about winding the old girl down and heading out for a newer model. I could not find the time before leaving for Cancun on a modeling job. It was impossible, so I dragged her to Mexico, planning to use her only in an emergency. I am totally dependent on my computer, and I could not think of leaving her behind. I was also terrified that she would give up and go to her grave taking all of my writings and passwords and saved bank codes with her. Dammit, why had I not tried harder to figure out that external hard drive business?

I hesitated for a long time before entering the computer age. I clung hard to my old ways. I loved writing full story lines out on crisp white paper with my cherished rollerball pens. I was certain that embracing the new technology would have a bad effect on my creativity; could dull the edges of my thoughts. Ridiculous, of course, but that’s how I felt.

I had come of age when telephones were still attached to the wall. When there were “answering services” wherein messages were retrieved by live humans who were on call to respond to our telephones. I had to call in and talk to one of those folks to find out who had called to talk to me.

When I began my career, my agents would send me scripts, printed out on real paper and delivered by messenger. Paperwork like taxes was done by hand and sent in by mail. There was no such thing as an “e-bill.” Bills were sent by snail mail and returned in envelopes which contained handwritten checks. Anyone under 40 reading this will think I speak of a Stone Age, but to my mind, it was not long ago. Not long at all.

Now all of these things can be accomplished with the press of a few buttons, the stroke of a couple of keys. It is a miraculous invention, the computer. It influences every aspect of our lives. Our cars are computers, our phones are computers. We have “smart homes” where the lights and locks are controlled by remote machines. We have no choice but to embrace them, no option but to dive into the technologies that now support our very existence.

I am in. I am not all that good at it, but I am in, if a tad reluctantly. I am not entirely convinced that all of this is a positive. We have gained so much in terms of ease and immediacy, but we have lost things, too. The speed at which we now process information is rapacious. I sometimes think we know too much of the world outside ourselves and not enough of the one around us. Every waking moment (and some of the sleeping ones) of our lives is informed by the fact that we are wired in. We are all expected to be reachable at all times, no matter our location, no difference the hour.

Now, when I travel, I meet mostly the tops of people’s heads as they glue their eyes to their phones. We used to exchange greetings, engage in conversation, but no more. Even in the glory and green of nature, most of the folks I encounter on my hikes are plugged in to some kind of machine. The beauty of birdsong is lost on them; the sound of wind rustling, of leaves crunching underfoot, or the scurry of a small animal never heard. And yet …

I have just typed those sentiments on a brand-new computer that is a joy to behold. It is sleek and black and matches the ebony paint of my wooded desk. My old one was filthy and banged up, but this new machine is pristine, the screen larger and clearer, the mechanics whiz-bang. The girl who helped me with the sale and transition spent three full hours of her day at work trying to make sure that I could transfer all of my data successfully. There was so much of it that what was begun in the store would take another 4 hours to finish at home, but she made certain I was set up to have a great outcome.

All of it was handled with ease, and I was giddy with excitement when I brought my new treasures home. She also sold me a new watch and set that up, too. This required me to download a new operating system on my old phone, which is very old and will soon need to be retired. The young saleswoman told me all about the marvel of the new iPhone 17, and it sounds like a humdinger. The need for a new one looms, but I am not ready. I have had a great good helping of New and may need to cling to some Old for a while yet. I am fond of my giant iPhone 10+ and, ya know, it still rings, still calls my sisters, and registers my texts.

I will get the 17 someday, someday soon, or at least soon-ish. Gotta keep up with the times, right? And that new camera, come on now! I am going to get to the getting of that. Any day now, the getting will be gotten. I swear.

Happy, Happy Thanksgiving to you all. I am truly thankful for your readership and support. Your appreciation and encouragement have given me a new direction in life and I am profoundly grateful.

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

It happens on a regular basis. I will poor myself a glass of wine from a favorite bottle of Chardonnay and think, “Ewww. Yuck. I hate this.” I have learned from experience, however, not to pour it down the drain in disappointment. I simply pour it back into the bottle and re-cork it and plan to visit it another day. This is because there is a very good chance that a glass of wine from the very same bottle will taste delicious on the morrow.

This is happening with a wide variety of foods and beverages now. One day I love that bite of cheese, the next day I spit it out in distaste. This is especially true of the condiment that I adore and cannot live without. The item that is always stashed in my carry-on in small portable packets. The great, creamy wonder sauce that makes all things more delicious. Mayonnaise.

I f—king love mayonnaise.

I have four different kinds of it in my refrigerator at any given time, because I go off first one then another and so need a variety in rotation in case my steadily declining faculties of taste and smell decide against a former favorite. There is the vegan one, “Just Mayo”, which I love until I don’t. There is another plant -based one from Hellman’s that is not bad and is faintly reminiscent of Miracle Whip, which my mother ate exclusively. An acquired taste to be sure, but it was all we knew as kids. It was not until I moved to New York City and tried real proper mayonnaise that I knew what I had been missing. There is also the kind made from olive oil and of course the standard Best Foods cholesterol-be-damned classic mayo.

A quick dive on the internet reveals many, many articles which discuss the phenomenon of changing tastes in us as we age. This is mostly attributed to a decline in our ability to smell, though I have a strong aversion to many odors, particularly body odors. Some people just smell weird to me. So, my sniffer, though unreliable, is definitely intact. Our taste buds themselves also begin to deteriorate. This makes sense, of course. Mother Nature is sending some not so subtle hints, as she begins the long process of convincing us to slide off of this mortal coil.

My Dad spoke of this often and with great frustration. He was a foodie and for the last two years of his life would wax poetic about foods he missed, wanted to eat again. Brown bread in a can. I loved it as a child; it is a weird Midwest thing, I think, though the name of it is Boston Baked Brown Bread, so who knows. We found it and ordered it for him and warmed the can, then we all shared a bite. I must report that from my adult point of view it was some nasty stuff. My palate gave a hard no to it. and no amount of re-tasting could change that. No just no.

He dreamt of lamb chops with mint jelly. I had to have the jelly delivered, because no store in his small town carried it. I carefully marinated the lamb chops and seared them in a hot iron skillet. He took two bites, then sat back with his arms folded. The taste was not what he remembered. This went on with a large eccentric menu of dishes that he longed to eat again, but ultimately could not. He said the only taste he really could register was sweet. This led to him asking for candies and cakes and pies that he remembered from childhood. I searched out Mincemeat and Look Bars and Necco wafers and I never arrived to visit without a box of See’s Candies peanut brittle.

My Mom’s last years were one big trip to sugar town. Her freezer was chock full of sweet foods:

Honey Dipped Corn Dogs

Drumstick Ice Cream Cones

Rocky Road Ice Cream

Neapolitan Ice Cream Sandwiches

Trader Joe’s Orange Chicken (Also full of sugar, but a nod to nutrition,)

Her countertops overflowed with her absolute favorite Caramel Popcorn, which she lost more than one tooth crunching into. Her refrigerator contained Coca Cola and champagne, both of which soothed her throat, which was always sore from chain smoking and the slowly growing cancer it had caused.

If I took her to her favorite place, Denny’s, she would order the French Toast platter with extra syrup and gleefully drench her meal in it. Afterwards we would stop at Ross and pick up more Caramel Corn and cookies. Then we would head to her favorite bakery for brownies and blondies. They also served ice cream, so I would get her double scoop to eat in the car on the way home. Mom was rail-thin and had zero interest in eating right or exercise or any of the recommended behaviors we are supposed to pursue for our health. She sat in her big chair, watched her programs, read People magazine, washed her cigarettes down with Cola and scotch, and had an ever-present bowl of gooey corn by her side. She lived to be 83 and died on her own terms. Dad made it to 93 and heard his own drum to the last. They had a pretty darned good run.

Here is the conclusion from a study run by Pub Med:

Conclusion: Losses of taste and smell are common in the elderly and result from normal aging, certain disease states (especially Alzheimer disease), medications, surgical interventions, and environmental exposure. Deficits in these chemical senses cannot only reduce the pleasure and comfort from food but represent risk factors for nutritional and immune deficiencies as well as adherence to specific dietary regimens. Chemosensory decrements can lead to food poisoning or overexposure to environmentally hazardous chemicals that are otherwise detectable by taste and smell. Use of flavor-enhanced food can increase enjoyment of food and have a positive effect on food intake and immune status.

Whew.

SEASONED.

The take-away? We are all going to experience change in our tastes as we grow older. Both of my parents ended up eating very little toward the end and what they did consume was not exactly healthy stuff, but it kept them alive. Why drink Ensure when there is champagne in the house? They both spent their lives working in hospitals. They had seen a lot of illness and more than their fair share of death. They knew they were lucky to live so long, and they weren’t about to compromise in a vain attempt to extend their stay. They wanted what they wanted, and they got it, death be damned.

There is a good chance I will end up taking a page from their playbook. After a lifetime of discipline, of food combining and rigorous exercise, of zero-carb days and step-counting, it might be fun to dive headfirst into a plate of maple-laden French toast. I am not sure how I will approach those final years when they are upon me. Right now, it seems doubtful that I will indulge in Dad’s favorite breakfast of pie with ice cream and champagne but check back with me if I make it to 91. All bets will be off.

I draw the line at candied popcorn though. Ewww. Yuck. I hate that!

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

The note was written on a legal pad. It was a bit Catty Wompus, had been written hastily and not within the lines of the paper, but rather at an angle. There were other, more orderly scribblings, such as: “Call Elizabeth” and “Pay Insurance,” but this one read:

“My hands are too crippled to apply the anti-wrinkle cream. Haha!”

It sounded promising enough. “Anti-Wrinkle Film and Contour Body lotion.” It had popped up on Amazon as I searched for body lotion. Maybe the algorithm suspected (rightly so) that a woman of my dotage would cotton to the idea of firming and contouring. I am 66 and still modeling, sometimes in swimwear, so you betcha! I ordered a bottle of it toot sweet. I added Biotin capsules, DIM supplements and eye cream to the delivery list. All of these items are supposed to fight off the inevitability of wrinkles and bags and dull lifeless locks of hair. I have no idea if it works—I suspect that there may be a placebo effect in play—but I am a sucker for this stuff. Given its popularity, it would seem that I am not alone.

I try to buy as much as I can from brick-and-mortar establishments, but these days the shelves in most have limited offerings. Also, many of the items I wish to purchase are locked behind glass doors, which means I have to push a button to “call attendant.” Then I have to stand there while a voice booms from a speaker throughout the store, “Assistance needed in the wrinkle cream department.”

Some days I give in and consent to enriching Jeff Bezos, in spite of the fact that he is not a shining example of rich-guy-dom. He is busy spending his gazillions hurtling rockets into space and hosting ridiculous, lavish events. Not my favorite human, Mr. Bezos, but he has figured out how to satisfy my needs almost instantaneously, and some days I have needs that want meeting right quick.

The miracle lotion came in a long cylinder with a cap that could be twisted into an “ON” or “OFF” position. This took a bit of doing, as my hands are, as the above note would suggest, a bit stove up. I managed to wrangle the thing into the “ON” and then tried to squeeze the bottle. No dice. I grimaced as I forced my toddler hands to press into the plastic, which finally produced some cream that I could apply to my legs. This went on for a bit, me wincing as I tried to get my ridiculous hands to wrestle the promise of firm, contoured flesh from the rigid bottle. I gave up after one leg’s worth. Life is too short. I am just gonna go ahead and live it without a “miracle repair regimen.”

We all want to look our best. I think this is true at every age, but the pressing, desperate need to be attractive is meant to wane at a certain point. When your hands are too crippled to apply the anti-wrinkle cream, there is a good chance you have reached that nadir.

“No matter how you tell yourself, it’s what we all go through …

… those lines are pretty hard to take when they’re staring back at you.”

—Bonnie Raitt

That is from a song titled “Nick of Time,” which is featured in an album of the same name. Bonnie writes eloquently about finding love later in life when she really doubted the possibility of doing so. She married an old friend of mine, the lovely actor Michael O’Keefe. He adored her, and they had a good run, but it was not to last. Life is like that sometimes.

“I have to do it.” I told my nephew Journey. “I have never done it, and I do not want to do it but, it’s got to be done.”

“Never?” He looked at me askance. For him and his peers, it is par for the course.

“No. The thought of it makes me want to lie down and smother myself with seven weighted blankets.”

I am working on ideas for a book. I do not have a deal yet but, it has been strongly suggested that it might be time for me to seek one. In the book I plan to write about the topics that you all have empowered me to cover. I am trying to tell the truth about aging and how it feels to be in the third, bordering-on-fourth quarter of life. And stories, of course. I am telling stories.

In order to write about the experience of “later dating” I am going to sign up on one of those sites. I have no interest in swiping right or left or whichever way one is supposed to swipe. I have zero interest in dating and even less in being in a “relationship.” I am not good at it, have never been good at it, and I am good with not being good at it.

I had a friend for years, what the kids call a “friend with benefits.” A brilliant fellow who had a schedule as busy as mine. We met in a random way, made time for each other when we could, and developed a deep friendship over the years. We made no plans of any kind and had no intentions towards one another. It was perfect, and then I moved. Such is life.

“Turns out, you are hard to replace.” I told him the last time we talked. He laughed.

I may run into another person with whom that kind of arrangement could be made, but I am not holding my breath. I have a great life, a good dog, and work to do.

Part of that work is imagining the makings of a book.

THE PLOT THICKENS.

So. my nephews Journey and Conor have agreed to help me sign up and create a profile, or what have you, so that I can write about dating from at least some experience of how it is done these days. It is done online for the most part. A whole nation of singles are swiping away, all of them signed up on sites with hopes and dreams of meeting their true match.

It happens.

My sister was on a dating site for years and found it wildly discouraging, and then one day her wife appeared. They have made a fabulous life together. Another friend of mine met his match on a site very late in life and will soon marry for the first time. Both are in their seventies.

Another pal who lost his wife signed up with a heavy heart and found a woman who has given him his smile back.

I know plenty of others who have had a rough go of it and who swear off dating for months at a time, only to find themselves resigned to trying again. It can be a painful experience, an exercise in frustration for those who are really looking for a partner. In Los Angeles, especially, it can be daunting. This is a tough town, and folks are not inclined to explain themselves, or let one another down easy. They don’t care enough or are afraid to care too much. Hence the new and pervasive habit of “ghosting.”

Not communicating is the new communicating. It’s weird. This does not just happen in dating, but in many aspects of showbiz. Folks have simply disappeared from each other’s orbit. This even happens in friendships.

I had a young man contact me recently who really wanted me to sit down for coffee with him. I finally made time, because I believe in being there for young folks. I mean, what’s the point of old folks if we are not available to assist the young? He was super smart and fun, and we had a great conversation. We talked about movie ideas and what we are both working on. We exchanged screenplays and made plans to meet up again to discuss them. I read his pilot and wrote back to say that I thought it was terrific; a good, muscular piece of writing with great characters and a thrilling plot.

I never heard back.

I got “ghosted.”

I think it’s pretty hilarious. I mean, really. If I thought he could hear me, I would say, “You can steal the movie idea I have that you liked so much. I don’t have time to write it anyway. We can still be friends.”

I wish the kid well; it’s a good idea. Ghosting is on trend in Hollywood.

If you are going to sign up for those sites and swipe away, chances are very good that you will be “ghosted.” The internet has hardened us, made it easy to walk away from others, to avoid dealing with people or situations that disappoint us or don’t hold our interest. I am wary of the habit; my old-fashioned sense of manners tells me that it is rude. But it is the new normal, and that is that.

Meanwhile, I have a profile to fill out. How about this?f

“Older female seeks very, very busy older male who will not expect much. Poor eyesight a plus.”

That oughtta dazzle ’em.

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

BINGO! The story of how it came to be that I called BINGO wearing feathery garments and (for a time, at least) a tiara for two hours at Hamburger Mary’s. For a worthy cause, of course, why else?

It all started when Jeff mentioned that he was going to see a student’s dance performance in Alhambra. Jeff is one of the premier acting coaches in town, and he often goes to see his students in plays, recitals, and performances of varying kinds. He is deeply invested in their well-being and shows up in their lives.

In Los Angeles, this can mean fighting hellish traffic to go to a remote locale and see a very iffy production full of well-meaning young folks who aren’t quite there yet. I accompany him on occasion. We try to find a great place to eat beforehand to take the sting off what we may be in for when we arrive. We could be in for spotty “reimagined” Chekov, all-new Shakespeare featuring roller skates and flaming batons, or spoken word events that reveal limited vocabularies and bizarre proclivities. If it’s weird, we’ve seen it and seen it and seen it.

For a variety of reasons, a dance performance in Alhambra sounded like a very heavy lift. First, Alhambra is not a place one hears of often. There is the rare review featuring one of the many Asian restaurants that line the main artery of town, but otherwise, the word on Alhambra is crickets.

There is no word.

Then dance. There are some wonderful companies that make their home here, but there is also the chance that one might run into an “experimental” revue featuring clogs, rubber chickens, and who knows what else. I once sat through a performance in downtown L.A. where a very small woman was shoved into a sack and dragged off stage, only to find her way back out and get herself shoved back in. I was in the middle of the second row, so there was no way to escape without causing a scene. Ugh boy. That was a long night.

“Dance in Alhambra, huh? Okay, Jeff, I’m in. I can’t let you go there alone.”

On the day, we piled into his Mini Cooper and made our way to the exotic locale just east of L.A. proper. It was actually a pleasant drive wherein two people who know a lot about Los Angeles learned a few new things. There were a lot of nice tree-lined streets and housing stock that charmed with historic Craftsman domiciles and classic ranch-style spreads.

Jeff had his sights set on dinner at a place he had read good things about, but we could not find it. The address did not exist. Maybe it was a food truck that moved on to greener pastures? Who knows. We punted and turned toward the main street and “Eeny, meeny, miny, moe’d” it to a place called “Sichuan Impression,” hoping for the best. It was fantastic. The food was off the charts. We ordered the crab and literally moaned with delight at the perfect blend of spice balanced with the sweetness of the seafood. Also, and this is a big one because Asian joints are not notorious for their beverage selections, the waiter poured me a damned good glass of Chardonnay. Heaven.

Alhambra. Who knew?

YOUR NUMBER IS CALLED.

The performance took place in a very cool space and was so well attended that we were lucky his student had thought to reserve our seats. And it was good. Really good. Three different choreographers had pieces in the show, all of which showed talent and poise, but one stood out from the rest. Jeff’s student, Chasen, had created something truly unique. We made a note to be sure to see his next show.

There would, on the surface, seem to be no reason for a person such as myself, a person with two left feet, zero athletic ability, and no aptitude for dance, to be the newly elected president of the board of directors for The Realm Ballet Company. I just kept seeing their work and believing in the artistry of Chasen Greenwood and our in-house composer, Taylor Briggs. They asked for my help, and I could not say no. It will be a steep, steep climb to fully establish our new dance company, but we are selling out performances and grinding away at the task of finding financial support.

I have, in the main, served on boards that dealt with politics or social service delivery. Though I have made my living in them for 30 years, ironically, I don’t have much board experience in the arts. Nonetheless, I dove in because we need the arts, and they are under attack in some cases, underappreciated in others, and underfunded at every single turn.

The fellowships and grants are dropping like flies. The NEA recently ended its decades-long writing fellowship. Numerous theaters that had secured federal grants have been told that they will now not be forthcoming. At a recent conference of ASCO, the Association of California Orchestras, several groups from across the state shared that they were considering shutting down their programs. The money just is not there.

Markets are roiling. The price of gold is skyrocketing, a sure sign of instability on the horizon. Artists from every walk of life are feeling the pinch. Good jobs are few. Jobs that pay well are even fewer.

“The drag queen who calls with me isn’t coming. I need you to step in.” he said it as a matter-of-fact. A done deal.

Bingo Jeffrey was calm. He had decided before I got there that I was the solution. The Realm Company had invited friends and family to come play BINGO as a fundraising effort. Jeff is the king of BINGO in L.A. He gives charities a 75/25 split of the take on these nights. There are prizes for the winners and a few live auction items. My fellow board members and I stepped up to the plate and donated great loot. The drag queen who was supposed to call the numbers was MIA and it was decided that I would need to take her place.

“Okay, I’ll sub in. I got you. But can you find me something to wear? You know, give me a bit of drag glam?” I asked.

“There are a few things upstairs.” Jeff went up the steep, winding staircase to look for drag-worthy items.

Michael ordered me a veggie burger and insisted that I take a few bites before the show started. I got through half of it and tossed back a few fries before the thing began.

I made my entrance sporting a giant rainbow boa made of some kind of synthetic fabric that weighed a ton and was hot as Hades.

“Let’s start with B-12!” I called out into the microphone.

“The vitamin shot we all need!” Bingo Boy, a.k.a Jeffrey, called out after me.

“I… IIIIII… I have an inkling that the number is I-29.”

“Good, but slow it down,” Jeff nudged me.

“Whoop! I have a naughty N! N-70! N-70! Everybody got that?”

There was a murmur of consent from the crowd.

“G! Let’s hit that G-spot!” Jeff said next. “G-54!”

“Oh! OOOOOOOOOO my! I’ve got 0-14!”

Folks were having fun. The winners were told to run through the dining room while the rest of the players pelted them with used bingo cards.

I got rid of the boa after two rounds. It weighed more than me, I swear, and was a nasty, stuffy thing. Being a drag queen takes serious stamina. I made the effort. I kept the tiara on for a bit and entered after the break in a wacky red peignoir that Bingo Jeffrey had scrounged up.

“BINGO!”

My sister Laura had dutifully shown up to support me while her wife stayed home with the new baby. They are both always in my corner.

“Oh my God! That’s my sister! She got BINGO!” I shouted into the mic. That was not BINGO protocol, but who cares?

I was thrilled. Laura won! Then another winner came forward, and the game ended up in a tie. My sis lost the “ball” draw to another gal, so she didn’t win the prize, but she once again won my heart. It’s a blessing to have sisters like mine.

After ten rounds and a successful live auction, our winnings were not stellar, but we were happy. Many of our dancers were in attendance, the stakes are high for them, and they know it. My friends and family showed up in a big way. Thank you, loves.

Just another day in the life of a group of artists determined to succeed. The odds are against us, and so what? We will keep plugging away at it because it is what we do. It is who we are. All of the screens in the restaurant showed clips from our ballet seasons over the last three years, and everyone commented.

“Oh wow. They are really good. They are really are something spectacular, so original and gorgeous,” one attendee after another said to me.

Yes, they are, and I will do all I can to give them their shot, to promote their singular vision. I have had a great run as an actor, writer, and model. It’s my turn to give back.

It’s a lot of work, but there is joy in the doing.

Art matters. Art makes us better. Art helps us heal. Art is an essential component in our lives.

If the boa fits and that’s what it takes… I am gonna wear the damned thing.

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

“Hey. I think I should check in with you more, like a lot more, if you are going to be on that medication.”

My sister Laura found out about my new prescription by reading this column. We see each other once or twice a week, but I had not discussed it with her yet.

“It seemed like the lesser of two evils,” I told her. “But yeah, that ‘black box suicidey’ thing is a little worrisome. It would be great if you could keep tabs on me.”

My old medication had stopped working, and the pain had been breaking through. There are a lot of treatments for my disease, but we were looking for one that specifically blocks the N17 immune response. The two new ones the doc offered both have “black box” (potentially fatal) side effects. There was the one that causes heart attack and stroke, and the other, which carries a great big dose of depression and can lead to the above-mentioned suicide. I went with the latter because… stroke… Ew! Plus, it seemed less likely to kill me out of the gate.

The new medication, Bimzelx (where do they come up with these names?), worked like gangbusters for my skin, which had been sporting painful psoriatic patches for so long I had forgotten they could be cured. The jury was out on the joint pain, but I was willing to bet that with time that would improve. One week in, things were looking good.

Of course, I knew better than to get excited.

I was on a medication a while back that worked really well until the day I got into the shower and screamed in pain as my whole body turned lobster red. The touch of even a drop of water was excruciating. Turns out that sort of thing was a mean old “side effect.” I was given steroid shots and pain pills, and we moved on to a different regimen. You win some, you lose some in this game.

In the main, this stuff is a blessing. Notwithstanding the ridiculous assertions of our new administration, modern medicine is a wonder. It has completely altered the future of people living with diseases like mine. We are thriving. I have a crippling illness that has been chasing me for years. It has not caught up. I can still walk ten miles a day, hit the gym, and lift my gorgeous nephew to the sky. Modern medicine rocks big time. I am grateful for it every damned day.

Still, there are cautions.

THE FINE PRINT.

Most of the time, the warning labels on medicines are laughable. I gave up reading them a long time ago, but I will have Laura do it so she can recognize it if I have taken a bad turn. She dutifully combed through the many mishaps that could befall a gal on the new shots. Laura surmised that if the patient managed to not kill themselves, then the worst of it was the potential for serious IBS (Irritable Bowel Syndrome). A person can live with that, I thought.

Then the dreams started, or rather the nightmares. They were the worst I have ever had. They had a psychotropic quality that assaulted my nervous system. I woke up crying a few times, screaming others. My sleep patterns were disrupted. I felt edgy and weird, but I was pretty sure I could overcome that. I started adding a quarter dose of trazodone at night, and it helped for a minute. I got eight hours of sleep the first time I did that and was sure I could navigate the troubles.

Then the depression landed. It felt like an alien had straddled my cranium and was sucking up whatever good stuff might exist inside my head. The thing was the very definition of a “killjoy.” I was numb and had trouble focusing (let’s face it, I can have trouble focusing on any slow Tuesday, so I did not count that part). I kept on walking the dog and trying to work, but my body felt heavy, my eyes ached. I tried to take naps, but that made me anxious. I just kept plodding on, sure that the clouds would lift. The “black dog,” as Winston Churchill used to call depression, would stop barking.

“Hey. Just calling to see how you are doing.”

“Not great.”

My voice felt tight, my breathing shallow. I had been on the verge of tears for three days, and at last they fell and fell and fell. Laura listened as I tried to articulate what was wrong. I was worried that I had failed somehow, had given in to the power of suggestion. I was certain that the problem was me.

“No. Sis. It’s the medication. When did you take your last shot?”

“Eight days ago.”

“Ah, we’ve got a ways to go, but it WILL wear off, okay? This is not a permanent situation. It will wear off.”

She called every day, and Michael checked in every evening. I worked, I wrote, I did a few auditions, I went to the gym… whether I wanted to or not (I did not, but I went). I visited the girls and played with their baby boy. His joy can lift even the saddest of spirits. The days passed, and I felt lighter, more myself. Most of my friends never knew that I was struggling; I am a very good actor, after all. The stuff wore off eventually, thank God. My joint pain had never lessened, and in a way, that was a comfort. The medication had not worked, so it was a no-brainer to get off of it. I wasn’t taking any more chances.

My doctor and I decided to forgo the other new N17 blocker. That heart attack/stroke business held little appeal for me. We settled on Enbrel. It’s been around for years and has a good track record. It is more broad-spectrum than the other two, but there are no “black box” warnings. It is delivered by a weekly shot into the abdomen or thigh. I took my second one about an hour ago, and there have been zero side effects so far. It will be a month or two before we know if it will work, but as long as it keeps me at a pain threshold that I can cope with, I will be happy to muddle along.

There were a lot of black clouds over Los Angeles last week as various storms threatened our city. They have passed, for now at least. The tropical storm headed out to sea, the interference of the newly politicized FCC finally challenged. The skies are clearer for the moment, though none of us knows what lies ahead. We are in for a lot more weather, and some of it could get very bad indeed. We know for certain that it cannot be good that so many of us are afraid to watch the news, afraid to look at the phone past a certain hour. Every news cycle presents us with a whole new set of reasons to lose sleep. I was lucky to have something to blame for my wakeful, watchful nights.

We need to remember to check in with each other. It’s been a rough go, and it’s going to get rougher before things take a turn toward the light. Even an antelope knows that there is strength in numbers.

I pulled a full Lucy in the park with Fairness a few days ago. I went down hard, and my right knee is not happy about it. It has been giving me fits. I’ve got it in a brace by day and am soothing it with an ice pack at night. I am still doing my ten miles, ‘cause that’s how I roll. Going uphill is a piece of cake; the trouble starts on the way down. I have come up with a solution of sorts, whereby I descend going sideways, crab-walk style. Fairness gives me the side-eye whenever I use this technique, but he slows his pace and sticks close by in case whatever cockamamie thing I am doing trips me up again.

Yesterday, at the top of the hills, my knee carefully wrapped, my head blessedly clear, I looked down and could see the whole of Los Angeles. I could see to Century City and well beyond. It was a crisp morning, and the skies were cloudless and the bluest of blues. The words of the great Maya Angelou rang in my head:

“Every storm runs out of rain.”

Yes. Yes indeed.

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

“You shouldn’t be pretty. I mean, you are, but you shouldn’t be.”

I was 27 years old at the time, and my friend proceeded to go down a list, feature by feature, of what was wrong with my looks.

“Your hairline is too low. I think your eyes are too close together. Your nose has a hump, and your cheekbones are too square.”

He went on and on, and I allowed it, because I was 27 and did not know that I could say:

“Thanks for your thoughts, but please don’t share any more on this topic.”

I didn’t have that in me then. I have it now. Now I would most likely say:

“I love you, and you can feel free to shut the fffff up!”

I guess it is human nature. If you hold yourself up and out as a looker, folks will hunt the flaws. And we all have those… except maybe Gisele Bündchen, not counting her taste in men.

I get a lot of compliments. People often comment on my looks, almost always in a positive light. I barely register it, except to feel that I have done my job, which is to solicit that response.

“It’s always so great to see you!”

A man who also hikes on the trails I love says this every single time he sees me.

“You and your dog are just beautiful. Always look so nice.”

He often slaps his knees for emphasis. His wife, meanwhile, sports a look on her face that says, ‘Not all of us are happy to see you.’ I can’t say I blame her.

My dog drinks in compliments. He loves to be told he’s beautiful. He is remarked upon more often than I am these days, and I am good with that. Let the dog have his day.

Of course, I have always had my critics, a great, good gaggle of them. My favorite was a powerful casting director who regularly told anyone, and often whole crowds of people, how little he thought of me.

“Beth Broderick. Ugh. I mean, I don’t get it. She’s ugly, and she can’t act.”

It hurt my feelings, of course, but they were assuaged by the fact that I was getting great roles and more than my fair share of positive attention. If you put a shiny object in their path, some folks are going to shoot at it.

I have heard so many women who are over 50 say that they feel invisible. I have certainly experienced that. Last year, I attended a Christmas party with my pal Jeff at a young friend’s place. The attendees ranged in age from 28 to, say, 34. They were not impolite; they just had zero interest in we two oldsters. We made the rounds and attempted a few conversations, then turned to each other and made the mutual decision to head on home. We had dogs at home, pajamas, and a few Times puzzles yet to be solved. Home sounded great.

TURN THE OTHER CHEEK.

In the main, though, I don’t feel invisible. People know, or are pretty certain they know, who I am. I still feel obligated to look my best when I go out to restaurants or a show, but I have made a new resolution about that. My new mantra is: You are 66. There’s no time left for trying to live up to who you once were. You can’t. It’s impossible. There are wrinkles and spots and droops and drags. It’s time to let that go.

For the most part, I do. I know it’s a part of the laws of nature. We need to attract mates so that we can keep this species going, at least for as long as nature can abide us. She’s showing signs of wanting a few billion of us to take our leave. We are draining the life from this planet, polluting the waters, fouling the air, and crowding out the wild places with Walmart fulfillment centers. You can’t blame her for tossing a few hurricanes our way, a good-sized earthquake here and there, or the occasional tsunami or two or three. She’s a wee bit angry with our lot.

I am certainly not in the “mate-attracting” business anymore. I can barely remember to get a massage. I have to write it down.

GET MASSAGE! NEED HUMAN TOUCH. MUST HAVE CONTACT.

I’ve been meaning to for six months. It’s, you know… on the list.

It was only a matter of time before this topic took us to the subject of young people today and some of the “beautifying” features they are adopting, because this stuff drives me nuts. I have become that old lady who tsk-tsks at the new trends I see around me. I know that the young need to be concerned about appearances, but in this age of artificial everything, some of it is getting out of hand.

There are four young women (at least; there could be more that I just haven’t run into) who have had their behinds enhanced to the point of parody. They are huge, and they don’t move in a way that resembles human flesh. Each butt cheek looks like it contains fifteen baby raccoons fighting in a sack.

One young gal has a teeny frame. She has a waist about twenty-four or twenty-five inches, tops, and above it an obviously fake set of breasts, much too large for her body. But when she turns around, the mind is boggled. She has a prosthetic posterior that is enormous, wildly out of proportion. I try not to stare at the poor girl, but my eyes are drawn to the sight, like those of drivers straining to see the accident on the other side of the freeway. I have to force myself to look away. I saw her seated on a machine the other day, and the material beneath her bubbled up around her like a balloon squeezed from the middle.

There are three others that I have counted with the same sort of glaringly obvious artificial behinds. They also have enlarged lips so pouty that they threaten to be sucked into nostrils, breasts that do not match their body types, and my pet peeve, those weird fake lashes that look like spiders perched on eyelids.

I blame the Kardashians. They are just doing it to hold our gaze; I guess that’s their job. But their influence is startling and pervasive. They are the actual accident on the other side of the freeway. It seems we are all staring at them, trancelike, trying to figure out what new surgery they’ve had. It’s actually reported in the news. The unveiling of each new procedure is an event. “Khloé gets new knockers!!!” It’s news!!!

Gone are the days when folks had to slip in through the back door at the surgeon’s office. The K’s dispense the “gift” of surgical advice as words from the wise. Young women flaunt these dubious enhancements like badges of honor.

I am sure that older people looked at the fashions and glamorous posings of my generation and thought we were outrageous, silly, and lacking decorum. They were probably right. Americans have not dressed well since the 1940s, and this surgery stuff has been around in my business forever and in the general population for a good while.

I am guilty of wanting to look my best, of submitting to the siren call of beauty trends, so I suppose I am not one to talk. But those butts! Seriously? I mean …

… Dang! Double dang!

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I am writing this while seated on a train, heading west to the historic Union Station in downtown L.A. My friend Don and I are returning from Anaheim, where we spent the night at Howard Johnson following a fun jaunt through Disneyland’s “Oogie Boogie Nights.” The party celebrates Halloween several nights a week from now through All Hallows’ Eve proper. It is a very popular attraction.

There were the rides, of course. My personal faves were the “Incredicoaster” and “Little Mermaid” ride. We did as many as we could while making sure to take in the “Villains Grove” and the parade. We even went on a trick-or-treat trail and cadged some free candy. We also ate the obligatory weird foods, a burrito stuffed with Taki corn chips and French fries, and an ear of corn dipped in shrouds of cornmeal coating and then deep-fried. One bite of each, and the obesity crisis in America needs no further explanation.

It was fun, and if you had told me 20 years ago that I would not only agree to such an excursion but suggest it, I would have told you the notion was ridiculous. And yet.

“Don, did you see this? The Oogie Boogie thing. It’s starting next month. Dare we dive into this?”

Don replied in his most sensible way:

“Let me do some research, but yes, it looks fun. Maybe we should.”

Don knows everything about Disneyland and its sister park, California Adventure. He religiously checks out the YouTube channels offered by park guides and experts. He knows not just the physical details of each park, but the stories behind their creation. It is great fun to be there with him, though he is a hard-driving “parktaker” (I just made up that word, and I’m not sorry). My smartwatch clocked 28,315 steps: 12.5 miles at the end of the day. We see it all, by golly, or get damned close whenever we go.

Don is a moderate conservative, and I am a moderate, leaning left, but we both share a passion for and commitment to using transit. This means catching the DASH bus to Hollywood and Vine, then hopping on the subway to Union Station and catching a ride on the Metrolink to the park. Then a free city bus that runs every 20 minutes picks you up and delivers you to Disney’s door.

It’s a great way to get there, and if you had told me 20 years ago that I would be a devotee of Los Angeles public transit, hopping on the buses and trains on a regular basis, I would have looked at you like you were from crazy town. Of course, 20 years ago there were no subways to speak of, and the bus back then sucked big-time, but you get the point.

LIFE ON MARS?

Things change. David Bowie famously said, “Aging is an extraordinary process where you become the person you always should have been.” He believed that as we grow older, we often realize and embrace our true selves. I think there is some truth to this, though you must be pretty darned lucky to discover it. A lot of folks who are getting older are so broke that they split their pills in two, eat cheap frozen foods, and watch This Old House on an endless loop.

Getting older is a privilege, but it’s not a guarantee of the good life. To age well, one needs, firstly, a big giant serving of luck, topped with a sauce of hard work and dedication to fitness of body and mind, the cherry on top being the willingness to embrace the new.

I have a few friends in my orbit who are stuck. They are stuck in living situations that no longer serve them, in locations that make them feel isolated and old before their time. They are stuck in mindsets that tell them change is too scary, the future too uncertain to think of taking a new direction. They are not thriving; they are depressed mentally, and they are challenged physically.

“I can’t walk that far.”

“I can’t bend that deep.”

“I can’t get on the floor; I wouldn’t be able to get back up.”

“I hate it here, but moving is too hard. All the packing and then learning a new neighborhood, a new system, being around new people. I just don’t think I can.”

We have tried to help, but they don’t want help. They are happy being miserable, comfortable being uncomfortable, and that’s just how they are going to roll. I have learned to love them and leave it be.

Meanwhile, I am finding out that who I “should have been all along” was apparently a Disney-loving transit freak who wants hiking gear for Christmas and a ticket to a place where she can kayak.

I spent the last thirty-plus years of my life in high heels and glamour make-up, when I would have been happier in sweatpants and a pair of Chucks. I have toiled away at yoga and Pilates when I really should have been cresting the hills and mountains in my beautiful home state of California, kayaking on clear lakes, and canoeing down serene rivers.

It turns out I love opera… What????!!!! Yup. Opera. Also, I think traveling in a Winnebago sounds fun. What????!!!!! A trailer kind of a deal? Yup. And I want to learn bridge. What?!!!! Bridge??!!!!! Bridge??!!!! Yup.

“Who are you?”

“Um… who I should have always been?”

I am still resistant to the notion of camping, but there is starting to be some wiggle room there.

In the past, whenever a friend or partner tried to talk me into going camping, I was absolutely having no part of it.

“I will hike up to the waterfall or whatever with you, but when we come back down, there needs to be a hotel or lodgings with at least a four-star rating and a decent restaurant in the vicinity. No tents, no porta-potties, no sleeping bags.”

Now I would consider a yurt, say, in a national forest. I would maybe, maybe cotton to a campground for the fictional Winnebago with clean restrooms and shareable outdoor grills. Or one of those “Airstream” luxury resort areas.

I still like to “slam the glam,” going to theater, dance, and art openings. I love discovering great new restaurants and falling into the comfort of the old, stalwart dining establishments. So maybe I am not becoming who I always should have been, but rather finding out there is more to the story.

I still work hard. I am still driven to create, to make, to do, to offer, but I am making time—sometimes forcing myself to make time—to play and wander and dream.

Odd that toward the end of life, when we are running out of time, we find ourselves with more of it on our hands. What a gorgeous irony. What a great gift.

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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I was sitting with an old friend in a comfy booth in the back of a very good Mexican restaurant on Ventura Boulevard. We were lingering after a hefty serving of fajitas with all the fixings.

“How is Lanny?” (Not her real name) I asked.

“Good, I think. She seems happy being retired. She got old … went gray, the whole shebang,” he answered.

I looked at him. He had, at that point, been sporting a head of gray hair for over two decades. The irony of this didn’t occur to him, nor did it cross his mind that the woman he was talking to (yours truly) had silvery white hair at that time. Our pal Lanny had gone gray, gotten old, and this was a simple fact, as far as he was concerned.

“Oh,” I said.

I thought better of pointing out the obvious contradictions. He is a Hollywood guy, and that is a common perception.

Man X gray = major movie star in a leading role, often with a wife in her 20’s and kids young enough to be his grandchildren.

Woman X gray = got old.

My natural color is reddish-brown, which I enhanced with red pigment in my younger days. Being of “Irish” (also Scottish, Swedish, and American Indian) descent, my hair began to turn white when I was about 27 years old. My sisters also experienced this. I had to touch up my roots on a constant basis to hide the pesky white invaders. My sister Laura and I both migrated to Los Angeles. In the early days, we took turns applying color to one another’s roots when money was tight. Our “salon nights” were fun, filled with good wine, card games, and our beloved “Spill and Spell,” but they were short-lived.

FADE IN.

As my film and television career blossomed, I became a regular at a high-end salon, and my hair color got more sophisticated, with subtleties like highlights as well as low ones. Laura’s fortunes shifted, and she found herself courting a more polished look as well. I played a lot of vamps back then, as well as call girls, and other assorted naughty types. My hair color and my deep voice lent themselves to “siren” roles.

“Broderick!” John exclaimed loudly into the phone. “I’m stuck here in the hospital, and I keep seeing you in movies. Why are they giving you the sexy part? You’re not, you know. Nice legs, I guess, but no ass, and your boobs aren’t more than a B. I mean, you’re no Kim Novak!”

John Randolph was nothing if not straightforward in his communications. He introduced himself to any and all as “John Randolph, the actor.” He was a dear man; I loved him, and in that instance, one had to admit that he had a point.

I had a manager who suggested several times that I engage in some strategic surgical enhancements. I never did. I had seen a lot of boob jobs at the gym. Some of the young women looked pretty good, but many more looked mutilated. They had weird rock-like protrusions jutting out of chests on frames too small to support them naturally. This was thirty-some years ago. The procedures have improved, and no judgment to anyone who does it, but it’s just not my style. I was getting the parts without all of that, so I pressed on with my B cup and size 27 jeans.

It wasn’t until the show Hearts Afire that I began tapping into my comedic side. I sported heavily padded bras and the shortest of skirts, my hair blazing with red, auburn, and a hint of gold. I played Dee Dee Starr, a gal who was several cans short of a six-pack, reputed to be “the dumbest girl in Washington, D.C.” I loved doing a half-hour show. It just felt right.

I switched to blonde for a role on the next series, and it was weird at first. It took some getting used to, but it turned out to be a whole lot easier to maintain. The white that was bleeding in was barely noticeable. The red hair of my youth was gone, and I missed it for a time, but not enough to hit the salon every ten days. A newly blonde Beth was born. A platinum blonde.

I continued to play ditzy sexpots for a while, which kept me in my beloved comedy. I also started getting cast in mom roles and some professional parts: doctors, lawyers, and the like, which were off-limits when my hair was red. The lighter locks gave me more flexibility. Win-win. I never looked back.

It was not until the pandemic that I really gave any thought to my hair color. It was a fact of my life, and nothing more or less, and then I suddenly had to think about it, really think about it. There were elaborate precautions of masking and testing in order to visit a salon. The effort to maintain my dyeing routine seemed silly at a time when so many were battling with the virus, in some cases losing the fight. I decided to let it be for a bit. No one was working. We were all jammed up in our respective homes, trying to “Zoom” away some of the accompanying loneliness.

I kind of liked my natural color and decided to run with it. The modeling agencies that I signed with were 100% in favor of the silvery white. It was a great relief not to have to color my hair every three weeks, and it helped me relax about getting older. My acting reps did not quibble with me about it; the natural look was “on trend.” Several potential employers took exception, though; some offers for work came with the proviso that I return to the color that had been on my calling card for decades. I switched to a golden hue once for a movie, and it was hell trying to grow it back out. I swore I would never acquiesce to that again.

Never say never.

I have given it some serious thought and weighed the pros and cons, and I’ve come to the conclusion that it’s time to hit the bottle, or the bottled blonde, as it were. It is not because I feel older this way or because the white makes me feel less attractive. I still think I’m all that and a bag of chips. I have worked steadily, both in modeling and acting, with the new look, but something feels off. The blonde is more in line with the kinds of roles I have traditionally played and that I am still sought out for. There is that, but the truth is, at the end of the day, I just miss it. I miss the blonde reflection that was so familiar for so long.

I love being the age that I am. I have never tried to hide it, and I never will; that would be pointless in our digital times. I am proud to be 66 years old and fully aware of the privilege it represents. I don’t have a dog in the hunt when it comes to trying to look younger. I just want to look more like, well … me.

I’m not sure if it’s true that “blondes have more fun.” I had some rip-roaring times as a redhead and some fine adventures with the white. I have certainly had my fair share of the good times, so color me grateful. I’m fixing to have some more …

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

It sits in the space next to mine, someone’s hot little brown car. I am told that it has been in the garage of my apartment building for two years and some change. It is covered in layer upon layer of dust and grime, but one can see that it was a sassy machine in its day—a Mazda sports coupe. Hot stuff. It has been waiting patiently for its owner to recover from whatever is keeping them apart, hoping for a wash, a jumpstart and a tune-up, so they can once again sail down the streets of Hollywood in style. I feel badly for the abandoned car and have long wondered about the owner.

Last week, I went down to the laundry room. (Yes, it is on the first floor, and yes, I hate that particular part about this place, but there were so many positives, I have made a reluctant peace with this situation.) There were two people there whom I did not recognize. They were busy filling all three of the machines available in the space. I tried not to frown or sigh or make evident my disappointment, but they must have sensed it.

“Sorry. We are doing laundry for our patient. We are from Hospice.” the woman said.

My heart sank. I have been through my share of hospice scenarios.

“Oh, no worries. You all do what you need to do. I can come back.”

When I decided it was time to set my dad up with hospice care, he was absolutely against it. He was certain that the personnel would arrive on day one, armed with killer narcotics, ready to put him down like an old dog.

“Dad, it doesn’t work that way. People can be in hospice for a long, long time. They offer care that we cannot get any other way in this town. There is no one here to hire, except hospice. They will just be here to help you out. You and Sara need some help.”

Sara, Dad’s wife, was furious about it. She was always pretty rough on me, but she became vicious. She did not want the intrusion; did not want what she felt would be scrutiny in her own home.

She needed help but would never admit it. My Dad was a huge fellow, not particularly fat, just huge. I often described him as looking like a refrigerator with feet. Helping him with the shower and other daily needs was too much for her to handle. I persisted with the arrangements, despite her angry protests.

“You have to trust me, Sara. They will be a Godsend.”

They were, in fact, a big help, and my dad adored them. It had been a long time since he had a pedicure. He was showered and shaven and felt as good as one can feel in his condition, which, though he was unsteady, was overall pretty damned good. He especially loved the registered nurse that oversaw his case. Her name was Meaghan, and she was fantastic. Even Sara eventually came around and was glad to see the caregivers when they visited.

Dad went along with his cancer diagnosis for a while, but then decided to reject it entirely, while very much appreciating the services that came with it.

“That was someone else’s blood work. It’s a mix-up. I am perfectly fine.”

“Dad. You’ve lost eighty pounds in the last few months.”

“Well, old people lose weight. You’ve all got this wrong. I don’t have cancer. Period.”

He was a character.

Before I left the laundry room, I wanted to ask the two hospice workers about the person in their care, but I did not. None of my business, really. Folks dealing with life or, in this case, death, have a right to their privacy.

It was only a few days later when items began appearing in the lobby. Someone had hastily scribbled on a piece of lined paper and taped it to one of the boxes. It read:

“FREE”

That first day, it was just a few things. Mostly a collection of vases of varying sizes and shapes. They had a distinctly feminine flair and sported swirls of pastel color and dainty patterns. Over the next few days, there was an avalanche of personal belongings. Too many for the lobby, so they were set on the street outside. A larger sign, now scrawled across cardboard paper, said again:

“FREE”

A tall lamp with a chipped shade, a table and chairs which seated four. The art was mostly posters from art shows and fairs of different kinds. She, it was definitely she, got around in that hot brown car of hers… saw lots of exhibits and frequented antique shops. From the looks of the sophisticated barware, she also threw her fair share of parties.

The sight of all her possessions caught in my throat. Her carefully curated belongings, which had once been arranged just so on the bookshelves, were now scattered on the lawn, and the bookshelves themselves rested along the low walls that line the sidewalk.

“FREE”

It’s just stuff. I know that, but it is also evidence—a testament to how a person conducted their life. When I left Austin, I brought only my artwork (which is a sizable collection), and my clothes, plus a few odds and ends. A gorgeous bench that I knew would look great in Jeff’s yard, a few treasured pots and pans. The rest was given away. Yes, I know I could have listed it on Facebook Marketplace or what have you, but I am not that person. We have pretty well established by now that I do not have a practical bone in my body. The pizza plates went to the family next door. The teens will use them on a regular basis. The woman who helped me with housekeeping got the place-settings and some of the glassware. I gave all the rest to pals, and it was a good feeling to leave bits of my life in the possession of folks that I love.

ONE MAN’S TREASURE.

The bad news for many of us is that most of the folks you love don’t want most of the stuff you own. That antique doll collection? Nah. The kids don’t want it. Nor do they have any appetite for Grandmother’s china, no matter that it is still intact, every piece accounted for. The prized collection of art books? They might take one or two. They have houses crowded with objects of their own curation.

There might be an estate sale, where strangers will set upon your prized goods with relish, asking if the price is negotiable. Some of your things will be got rid of that way, but much of it will one day, one way or another, be free for the taking. Goodwill may pick it up, or the kids may find another way to donate it. What do you care? You’ll be dead, and from what I can gather, there are not a lot of knick-knacks in the afterlife, so let it go.

I had hoped to see someone resurrect the hot brown car from its dormant state, but as of yet, she remains abandoned. I wish I were more of a driver; I’d offer to buy it just to see the poor thing washed and shined and gassed up.

Dad was in hospice for three years. They all got a kick out of him. He was awash in champagne and high hopes until the last. Much to their surprise, but with their generous assistance, I was able to soup up the wheelchair and take Pop on a few trips. We even flew to Los Angeles. Only in the last three months of his life did he finally agree to give up the ruse of being misdiagnosed. He was bedridden and forced into diapers, which he hated, but he still managed to hoist a glass of the good stuff on occasion. He had one possession that he cared about: his grand piano. He was a deeply talented and soulful musician. When he could no longer play, he got mad at the instrument as well as himself. He wanted rid of it, so in his second year of hospice he cajoled my sisters into transporting it down to their home. A happy ending for the beautiful thing that had brought him endless joy.

I talked to him for hours at a time on the phone. His mind was still sharp, though he had grown fuzzy on the details, and many times the conversation was a repeat of one we’d had before. He was a good patient. Having gone blind several years before, he had cultivated a profound level of patience. His nurse Meaghan called me after he passed. Said he cracked her up until the end.

“You know, Meaghan, I think this thing has finally caught up with me. Seems like it has.”

He winked at her. and just a few hours later, he died. After we cremated him, we offered his ashes to his wife, Sara.

“I don’t want that. It’s just a box of ashes. That’s not my husband.”

She had a point. The urn sits on my brother’s mantel, where it will rest until he goes on to the next plane of existence. Then it will just be a jar of ashes that someone will dispose of. It will just be part of some dead guy’s belongings.

We are all just borrowing these bodies and renting our time on this planet.

I like to think of my neighbor behind the wheel of her snazzy car. There was a time when they were both hot stuff. There was a time when Dad was too, a time when we all were. I like to think about that.

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