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

Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

It was a rare sighting. I was on the floor at the gym doing some fancy ab moves, which required holding both legs straight up in the air and reaching for them in alternate lunges, with hands holding 2½ lb. weights. This is meant to target the upper region of my relatively flat but, to my mind, under-toned abdomen. (A six pack is hard to come by when one is 66 years old and enjoys life a tad more than is recommended for such things) As I proceeded to work those muscles, my loose-at-the-bottom exercise pants followed gravity toward the earth, exposing my legs. In a rest period between moves, I looked up and over to my right, and that is when I saw it. A lone pale hair jutting out of my right shin. I made a note to address this when I got home, which I, of course, forgot to do. I looked yesterday and it might still be there, but I cannot find it. It is only visible in a certain prism of light that is apparently only on offer in the ab room at the gym.

I suppose if I actually cared about this, I could tuck a cordless razor into my gym bag and assume the exercise position and reach up and nab the sucker, but as of yet I have not worked up the energy to enact this plot.

I have never had much in the way of body hair. My Mom was part Plains Indian and she had almost none. Not on any part of her body that would have been visible to a child, anyway. No armpit hair, none on her legs. I take after her in this regard, though I had a few strays in both areas in the past. As my age advances, they have all but disappeared along with my eyebrows, which went missing a while back. I have no argument with this regarding body hair, as we women spend a lot of time and effort trying to remove it. The eyebrows, however, had to be addressed. Two sessions with a tattoo artist gave me a fair semblance of fringe. Add to that a quick once-over with a charcoal pencil in the morning and…. Voilà! Good as new-ish.

Of course, men also spend their early years wrestling with unwanted hair. Fuzzy backs are a source of stress for many. Men endure waxing and the application of depilatories, just like women do. Ironic that we all spend so much time trying to be hairless in our youth and an equal, if not greater, amount of it trying to preserve hair in our dotage. This is especially tough for men. Almost every man I know over the age of 58 has the “donut” in the back of his head. This is torturous for many of them, and that irritation is exacerbated by the presence of newly grown sharp hairs in their ears and noses. There are devices created specifically for the removal of these errant whiskers, and their use can be unpleasant if not downright painful.

Our ears and noses continue to grow as well. Getting older has some good things to offer. This is not one of them. Easy to spot a gal who’s had a nose job in a retirement home. Hers is still a petite little ski slope of a thing, while the others have schnozzes which have developed sizably. Gravity, which is NOT our friend in these later years, will also give our noses a tug and create a bit of a hook on the end. If nature did not take things away from us, we would never agree to leave this life.

“Stick around if you must,” she seems to say, “but you will have Dumbo flappers on the side of your head and a beak like W.C. Fields. Your call.”

Her plan is brutal, but she gets that job done. Most of us exit peaceably enough.

Women also have hair issues as we age. We look up around the age of 60 and think, “Is my hair getting sparse on me? It looks a bit lackluster.” Yes, it most likely is thinning. There are remedies, of course. I take DIM supplements daily as well as Women’s Saw Palmetto and copious amounts of Collagen and Biotin. It helps. On my head, at least, my hair is hanging in there. It is not the great swinging mop I sported when I was in my younger days, but it looks okay. And it’s gray and white, so I am sure that not many folks are looking closely at it or me for that matter, so it will do just fine. I don’t know why these supplements work on hair in one area and not the others, but, the eyebrows notwithstanding, I am happy to bid adieu to the rest of it.

SPLIT ENDS.

Turkey has become the destination du jour for those looking to restore their locks. I have heard tell that flight attendants on planes from Turkey walk down aisles full of men returning to the U.S. sporting hats or some type of covering over their newly transplanted heads. It’s the place to be for a new or restored thatch of hair.

The politics over there are getting pretty dicey. Their “president,” Erdogan has recently arrested the Mayor of Istanbul, the country’s most populous city. Ekrem İmamoğlu is one of the biggest and best-known politicians to stand in opposition to the growing fascism of Erdogan’s regime. So far, his arrest has not gone over well. Millions have taken to the streets in protest. There is a lot of this sort of thing going on in the world around us, some of it too close for comfort. Totalitarian ambitions abound in many a nation, and they are gaining traction. So, we all managed to survive a global pandemic just in time to see a wave of fascism wash over the world.

Life is a b***h sometimes.

That said, Turkey is a great place to get some repair work done on the old noggin. I am told that they also do a bang-up job of replacing or adding veneers to the teeth, and I think they are doing major plastic surgeries as well. That last offering gives me pause. Hair, though. That’s the biggie. That’s what started the whole stampede across the pond, so, my dear male readers, if that donut is giving you fits, save those miles and trot on over to Turkey. Maybe do it while a few freedoms are still enjoyed and the talented weavers have not been locked up for disloyalty or what have you. I say go get some now while the getting is good, because over there, hair today could be gone tomorrow.

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

“There’s a new injection that is proving very effective. We are seeing great results. It does have one black-box side effect, though. (A black-box side effect is one that is potentially, but not often, fatal.) Do you have a history of depression?” she asked.

I was in my Rheumatology office with Ashley, the Physician Assistant to the Big Cheese doctors in the practice. She is whip-smart and stays on top of my case, insisting on doing blood work every three months and giving me a thorough once-over. I prefer to work directly with her as she is more familiar with my health than the docs are and she’s just as knowledgeable.

“Well, I struggled with it in my 20’s and 30’s but have not had a bout of it in a long, long time,”

I answered.

“Okay, because with this drug, there is some history of suicide involved with its use. Depression and suicide.”

Suicide. Huh. I wrinkled my nose. That’s a pretty bleak black box. Depression is one thing (60% of the country risks falling into a funk every time we turn on the news), but suicide sounds a bit off-putting.

“We got anything else?” I asked.

“Yes, there is another one, a pill. How is your cholesterol?”

“Okay, I think. My GP says my ‘good cholesterol’ is off the charts, so I’m assuming I’m fine.”

“We don’t believe in ‘good cholesterol’ anymore,” she said, scrolling through my labs. “Oh boy. Yours is high. We don’t like that.”

“It’s high?”

“Very high.” She pointed to the number on the screen, but my poor eyesight could not grasp the image from so great a distance.

“Okay, okay, but it’s just because of the ‘good’. It’s the good that’s high, right?” I protested.

“The ‘good’ is bad.”

“The good is bad now? Well, shoot!”

Shoot and Gol Dang it! I was so happy about my “good.” I was planning on living forever and such, and now they tell me that it is actually bad. That doesn’t seem fair. It’s like when they told us to quit coffee and we Californians (who are wont to comply with those sorts of suggestions), clutched our respective pounding heads, only to be told two years later that it’s actually good for us. Now there are studies that confirm that coffee is the ONLY thing that actually aids with memory loss. Forget about that stuff made from jellyfish and all the other crap they are trying to sell you. Just enjoy a cuppa and get on with it.

“The pill is raising those levels for some people. Its use is associated with a higher risk of heart attack and stroke.”

I have first-degree AV Heart Block, Mitral-Valve Prolapse and a hole in my heart (ASD), none of which are terribly worrisome, except the latter makes folks more vulnerable to stroke.

“Heart attack and stroke. Huh.” I pulled on my ear.

This is why I had hoped to stay on the current medication, which is not very effective, but has exhibited no side effects over the last year. I was hoping to stick with the devil I know, but it has proven impossible.

It stopped working. The N17 blocker I have been on for a year just up and quit. They all stop working … even the best biologic medicines, after two to three years. Just one year felt like too short a time to be changing meds, so we had decided to muddle through a while longer. It was worth a try, but this disease made a mockery of our optimism. It broke through with a vengeance.

Pain. It’s mostly pain, which hits my joints, hands, feet, knees, back and jaw. It is sharp and brutal but short-lived. To turn a doorknob can be agony, but not for long. Thankfully it comes and goes. Then there is the burning sensation in my feet, which flows down in wave after wave. That is just plain weird, but it doesn’t hurt and is mildly entertaining, so it’s my favorite symptom. The skin issue is mostly confined to my heels and soles where the psoriasis creates lesions and hard scabs … I call them carbuncles. This makes it hard to walk without copious bandaging. I order boxloads of Band-Aids, the healing, rubbery, disc-shaped kind. My feet look like they have been through a war, which in some respects they have. But as my pal Kat once said when I was worrying about how unsightly they are: “They are just feet!” Overall I felt flu-Ish and achy and fatigued. We would have to deal with it, because things promised to get worse, and when things get worse with psoriatic arthritis it’s no fun; no fun at all.

I am not complaining. Compared to a lot of folks, I’ve got it good, and I know it. Everyone I know in my age group is dealing with some kind of malady. This is mine. It’s a b***h, and it would have been a catastrophic diagnosis 25 years ago, but now there’s good medication and, when that fails, a shot.

When I lived in Austin, no one told me there was a shot. I went through many a flare with my doctors nodding empathically and prescribing pain pills which I will not take. I fill the order in case one of my pals has a dental emergency or some such, but I don’t take any because if I took medication for the pain, I could end up taking it every day and we all know that’s no bueno.

BURNED BEFORE.

I had only been seeing my L.A. docs for a short time when I had a serious flare.

“I was in a car accident and ever since, everything is on fire and I feel like I have the flu, but I don’t,” I explained. “I guess the blunt trauma triggered it. I know there is nothing we can do; just thought you should know.”

I was at my three-month check-in at my new doctor’s office in Los Angeles. His practice is renowned in the Rheumatology field. My physician at the time (he has since retired) was a pre-eminent specialist. He was also a likable fellow.

“I have a shot for that,” my new doctor said confidently.

“You do?” I asked, mouth agape.

“Yes. I’ll have the nurse prepare it. You’ll feel better in a few hours.”

He was right. It worked quickly and I felt myself again. I was grateful, but also had half a mind to call up my docs in Texas and tell them such a thing exists. Why had they not known? That sort of thing baffles me. American medicine is oft times a crapshoot.

When I was back in Ashley’s office last week, she stepped out to get the syringe and vial we would need, and I contemplated my options. The black-box side effects of the two new meds did not sound appealing, but I would need to pick my poison. When Ashley returned, I stood up and pulled my pants down slightly so she could give me the blessed shot.

“I think I’m going to go with suicide. It has got a nice ring to it,” I said.

She might have smiled, but I don’t know because she was wearing a mask.

“Okay, we’ll start you with one dose per month, but it’s approved for two if we think you need more. Let’s do some more labs and I’ll get you some samples.”

“God, please let the one shot work. Two shots a month is a lot of suicide-y shots,” I thought as I wandered down to Room Five to squeeze the ball while the nurse tied on the tourniquet. She couldn’t find a good vein, so she had to go through my hand, which left a nasty bruise, but we got the blood drawn and according to Ashley everything except my formerly good, but now bad cholesterol is stable.

The shot worked wonders, and I will start the new medication in July, so things are looking up. Now I suppose I will have to get after the whole high cholesterol thing. Or maybe I will just pour a big ole cup of java, slather some mayo on my B.LT. and wait a couple of years. Might not be long before “bad” is “good” again. Or is it “good” is “good” again? Tossup really; hard to say.

Let’s go with the latter. More my style. I am pulling for good, no matter the evidence of bad all-around.

I’m pulling for good every damned day.

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 in Fredricksburg Texas, sitting across from the twins. John and Don have been known in some circles as “The Gay Twins from Arkansas” for as long as we have been friends, which is a long, long time. Mostly, though, they are just known as “The Twins”. Both men are tall and lanky, with the kind of impressive physical strength that comes from labor and not the gymnasium. They can lift anything, fix almost anything, and think through problems that leave the rest of us mouth-breathing and adrift.

“Well, I don’t know if you should do thaaaaat,” John remarked with his trademark laconic drawl. “You are kind of clumsy. No offense.”

None taken, of course, because I am not just “kind of” clumsy but notoriously so. I have walked into walls, through screen doors, fallen up the stairs as well as down, and banged my head on countless cupboards. I am strong and fit, but do not possess a whit of hand-eye coordination. I could not hit a ball with a bat if my life depended on it.

A call from my modeling agent had prompted the discussion.

“I need you to come in and do a runway-walk audition for us. They are looking at you for Milan.”

Milan, huh? Could be fun. A good story to tell, at the very least. Y’all know by now that I love a good story.

“I think I can walk down a runway,” I chirped back. “I mean, I am not going to attempt American Ninja anytime soon, but I can walk!”

John took a big sip of his morning tea.

“Well, an awful lot of those gals fall during those shows, and most of them are at least 40 years younger than you. Seems like it’d be a lot easier for them to get back up. That’s all I’m sayin’.”

He had a point, but I have fallen enough in my lifetime to have lost the fear of it. And also … the runway in Milan. That sounds like an adventure, and I am ALWAYS up for an adventure. I have done some runway stuff in the past and have managed to stay upright, so it seems doable. It is, of course, highly doubtful that they would call a woman of my years to model for them, but if Gucci rings me up, I am fixin’ to go. They had me at Milan.

The day before the runway-walking audition, I was up in Griffith Park with Fairness. We go up on a regular basis to hang out with some nearby residents and let the dogs off leash to play. The whole scenario has been master-minded by Dave, the neighborhood dog walker/expert. He has culled a group of like-minded folks with well-behaved (or at least mostly so) mutts to join his cadre. It has become a ritual for many of us.

To say that Fairness was hesitant at first is to greatly understate the situation. He hid behind me, tail between his legs, and shook with fear from head to toe, poor thing, even his teeth chattering. Folks were nice about it; these are serious dog people, and they have seen their share of terrified rescue pups. I felt for him, and kept our initial visits short, but we continued to make the trek. We always go on foot. I like to start the day with a solid 10,000 steps under our belts.

“A tired dog is a happy dog.” That has been my motto with each of my big dog rescues, and I swear by it.

Slowly but surely, Fairness warmed up. He is not big on playing with the other dogs, but he greets them politely. He mostly visits their owners, sniffing pockets for hidden treats and nudging hands for pets and ear rubs. He has only gotten into a tiff on one occasion, when he and another male, that one non-neutered, took an interest in the same female, a gorgeous white retriever. The other dog went after mine and when I ran toward the scuffle, Dave was already there, having immediately headed into the fray and Steve, a regular visitor, had hoisted my 86 pound pup into the air and held him aloft until the aggressive male could be corralled. These guys are very experienced, and any scuffle is instantly de-escalated. Fairness was fine. He is generally nonplussed by naughty dog behaviors. He came to me as soon as Steve set him down and we walked to a different side of the park. No harm done.

He runs now, has begun to act more like a canine, and sometimes we play “hide and seek” behind boulders and up the small hills. Just last week my formerly too-scared-to-play pup brought me a stick to throw and then flabbergasted me by chasing it. He has a special friend named James who always has a pocketful of peanuts. He carefully places the shelled ones in strategic nooks and on high ledges for the crows to find. The birds watch and clock their location, swooping down when the dogs have retreated for the day. James always has a few shelled treats held back for the dogs, who know to ask for them. Fairness caught on to this immediately and has learned to sit for the soft-spoken man in order to get his nut.

My dog has also figured out how to follow in James’s footsteps looking for shells left behind by the birds. On that particular day Fairness trailed James and his pal Tom up a very steep hill on the assumption that where he goes, shells will often follow. In addition to caring for the wild birds, the two men often carry water up that incline to nurture some of the rare native plants which are struggling to adapt to our warming climate. Two other dogs, Max and Blue, both Huskies, were looking for rabbits in the bushes. They have never found one, but this does not dissuade them from the search.

“Fairness! Come now!” I said with authority while clapping my hands slowly and deliberately.

He ignored me. He was climbing higher and higher, searching for treats. This was absolutely unacceptable. Our deal—the criteria he must meet in order to be off-leash—is to come upon command. He also has to stay where he can see me and return to my side the moment of my asking. That morning, he broke all of the rules. And one thing for certain with a giant dog: they MUST obey the rules. Any dog, but especially a big one who does not, is a danger to himself and others. That is that. I asked him several more times to come down, and he continued to ignore me, so up I went, intending to physically retrieve him.

That hill is steep! The two men and their canine company made the whole situation seem a lot more approachable than it turned out to be. I kept climbing wobbly and awkward, having to turn sideways in hopes of getting some traction that way. I was about five feet from my naughty pup when I slid the first time and found myself on the ground. Max, a normally not-too-observant dog, was immediately by my side with a curious look on his face. I reached over and used his ballast to hoist myself back to my feet and called for Fairness one more time, then promptly fell again.

The humans were really not able to help at that point without risking a multi-person tumble. Max again appeared by my side, this time a bit more concerned. As I reached for him, Fairness, having finally realized my predicament, came up to my opposite flank, and I used a bit of both of them to get back up and then sort of ran-hopped back down to firmer ground.

Fairness kept a close eye on me after that and did not leave my side for the rest of the morning. My attempt to establish dominance over him failed completely, but he has never gone back up that hill. I saw him consider doing so the other day, but he eyed me sideways and thought better of it. I could see him thinking: “Maybe it’s best not to risk my idiot human falling down the mountainside, else who then would prepare my mashed potatoes?”

FROM DOG-WALK TO CATWALK.

The next day Sabrina, the lovely gal who often does my makeup for such occasions, gamely covered the scrapes and bruises on my left side. It was time to go for that runway audition. I headed for my agent’s office downtown, clad in the model/digital photo shoot uniform of shorts and a snug tank with a low heel. The president of the United States had unleashed the Marines in the area the night before, in response to every level of government in California—from city to state—including the police and other safety organizations, asking him to refrain from doing so. Nuts is the new normal I suppose. The streets seemed dicey and uniformed officers were visible from the freeway in every direction. Many of the off-ramps were closed, but 7th Street, my exit, was undisturbed and there was no commotion anywhere during the five blocks I drove to meet with my representatives.

Two interns were assigned to shoot me first in digital form (stills from every angle—some full body, plus three-quarter and close-ups) Then we headed out to the streets to shoot my “runway” walk. I walked. I posed. I smiled. I un-smiled. I turned from side to side, showing every detail of my imaginary Gucci outfit.

“Great!” said the young man behind the camera. “We got it.”

Except that we didn’t have it. Stasia, my lovely and entirely brilliant agent, sent us back outside.

“The walk is good, just do that. Just walk. No turns or pauses; they don’t do that these days.”

There seems no end to the number of ways a person can show their age, when one is my age.

Back out we went, and I walked and walked. They filmed me doing this from the front and from the back, and once we were confident that we had it this time, we again headed in to show Stasia. She looked at the footage and gave us the thumbs-up.

“The walk is good.” I was happy to hear it. I mean, she could have said, “You walk like there’s a rock in your sock,” or, “The walk is good, but we can see the cuts and bruises … you are scuffed up like an old shoe.” I could have caught a heel in a rut of the decidedly irregular sidewalk and gone ass over teacup, but I remained upright, and that was an accomplishment of sorts. The whole thing felt a little silly for someone of my years to be doing, but I made the best of it. You can’t win if you don’t play, and there are still stakes for me in the game of it all.

Also, the runway in Milan. That would be a story, wouldn’t it?

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

Four A.M. The alarm woke me out of a deep sleep and interrupted an odd dream. I have lost the plot of it now, but it involved my old colleague Nate Richert, who played Harvey on Sabrina. We were college students, and he was in trouble, and I was trying to get him out of it. That’s all I’ve got; the particulars of the story are lost to the night. The dream is good news in that it means I was actually asleep and not in the fitful twilight which often precedes a plan to bash into an early and very long morning.

Nate is not, for the record, a guy who gets in trouble. There is no readily discernible meaning behind the meanderings of my subconscious mind. I know folks who find real value in the analysis of dreams. I am not one of them. Dreams are weird, just like life. I am always grateful to have slept and even more so to have wakened.

As I write this, the clock has just ticked past 5 A.M. The morning is moving on with things. The shuttle from the airport Marriott arrived promptly at 4:45 and delivered me to Terminal 2 in under five minutes. I had carefully packed two carry-on bags, so I breezed through security and headed for my travel refuge: the Delta lounge. It was too early for food, but I could make myself some tea and maybe pick at a bit of fruit.

The airport lounge at daybreak is sleepy. Most folks are rumpled, their bodies still trying to adjust to the brutal hour. There are always a few couples, though, who wing past dressed impeccably in designer wear, every hair in place. They insist upon sartorial competence, and my hat is off to them. There was one such couple here this morning, and if we are going by appearances—and this is America, so we mostly do—they look fresh, confident, and sure-footed, while the rest of us appear shell-shocked and are scuffling about.

This morning, I wrestled myself into comfy loose pants with a mussed T-shirt half tucked in and threw an old sweater around my shoulders. I am not a particularly stylish flyer, though I do wear clothing and attempt to at least start the trip with well-combed hair. It will be matted if I am lucky enough to take a long nap taken pressed into the sides of my seat by arrival time, but I made the effort. There is a trend amongst some travelers, (most of them young) these days to arrive for their flight clad in old pajamas and clutching a home bed pillow. If you are tempted by the sound of that, try to resist the urge. Do it for me.

Most of the people in the lounge are sipping coffees and waters, but there are always a few, and today I counted seven, who are consuming alcohol at 5 A.M. Made of stronger stuff than I, those few. One couple has, respectively, a good-sized glass of what looks like a Sauvignon Blanc, and a deep red, maybe a Cabernet. Dang. Another fellow has procured a beer, and the remaining partakers have chosen champagne, a more traditional morning drink, but a drink all the same. Yowza.

If I drank that at that hour, I would need to board the plane on a stretcher; would definitely need “extra assistance”, which is always the first zone to board. Mostly, the people who line up for that first call are in wheelchairs or have serious and obvious mobility challenges. I have, though, noticed of late that there are a lot of spry, gray-haired folks pushing down the aisle on the pretense of needing extra time who are clearly able-bodied. I guess they are taking the whole “age has its privileges” thing to heart. (In truth, there aren’t that many, so go ahead and fake your way down that aisle, Grandma, but you aren’t fooling anybody.)

“Don’t tell her that I’m coming. In case the plane gets delayed or some such,” I warned.

Her mom kept the secret. Maya had her big high-school graduation party yesterday, and I was determined to show up but had only one workable flight option (hence the pre-dawn wake-up call), and air travel can be dicey. Texas had major storms recently. Hail the size of oranges, they said. That’ll delay a plane flight right quick, but blessedly clear skies prevailed, and, with just a few minor bumps, we cruised into Austin right on schedule.

I sent flowers ahead of time just in case, to ensure that I had some kind of presence on her big day.

“To marvelous, magical Maya. Congratulations on this major milestone. I cannot wait to see how your future unfolds. I know you will make your mark. I will love you always … Auntie Beth.” Corny, I know, but heartfelt. Corny is often how I roll. Not sorry.

Maya is one of several young people who think of me as a relative, and I am honored to fill the role. She is a wonderful young woman, and I have been close to her and her family since she was six years old. I am so glad that I was able to surprise her. I was late to the party, but not by much. I got a bit discombobulated en route. So, there was much urgent texting with my friend Kat, her mom, who, of course, had her hands full with forty guests, but graciously hid any annoyance I might have been causing.

“I cannot find La Trattoria. Did you mean La Traviata? I am heading there.”

The LYFT driver was almost to that location when her text came back. “Trattoria Lysine.”

“Oh, okay; so no ’La,’ I thought. It was the “la” that had thrown me off course. Doesn’t take much, as we know. I leaned forward:

“Um, sir. I am sorry, but I have to change the destination. We are going the wrong way.”

The driver was very patient as he made the U-turn that this news required. I was a full twenty minutes out, and the party was in full swing.

“Don’t wait for me. I am goofed in the head, but finally heading in the right direction.”

PRESENT AND PROUD.

As we drove through the scenic Texas Hill Country, I made myself put the phone down and just observe the beauty of it. I arrived at the scene a full thirty minutes past the starting hour, toting my carry-on suitcase and a big, ugly backpack. The hostess spirited them away into a coat closet, and I headed in and snuck up to my darling niece.

“Hey, kiddo.”

She turned and burst into tears when she saw me, and I held her tight. “These are the moments in life that matter,” I thought.

There had been some debate in my mind about whether I should make the journey. This trip, coming on the heels of a quick jaunt to New York City to participate in a memorial for my pal Harvey, was another elective expenditure, the likes of which I have been holding myself to account for, trying to rein in.

As I contemplate the coming years, I am trying to conserve now, so that I may have more options in the future. I want the freedom to travel and live with gusto, and wherever I choose. I hope to be unencumbered by financial worry. That’s what we all want, of course, what we all have spent the last forty or fifty years working to ensure. We all want to be certain of things, to be secure in our dotage.

Good luck with that.

The markets are roiling, their future is unclear, and from many vantage points, things look pretty grim for Americans who are invested in them. That includes everyone with a pension or savings, so pretty much all of us. What if things crash? What then? Now what? The one thing I know for sure is that I don’t know a damned thing. There is no point in trying to predict what lies ahead for any of us.

A colleague of mine recently passed. It was unexpected to most who knew her. We weren’t close, but I enjoyed working with her years ago and always thought very highly of her as a person and a talent. Valerie Mahaffey was just 71. The cancer took her quickly, which may or may not have been a blessing. I hope it was the latter for her.

We won’t know, until we are faced with it, how we will greet our impending death. Maybe I will want to fight for breath with every fiber of my being, cling to every moment left to me on this earthly plane. I hope not. I hope I will agree to my fate with equanimity and allow it to come in peace, but I have not had to make that choice.

One thing for sure, though: I hope Valerie didn’t spend the year prior to her diagnosis worrying about the cost of living later. I hope she bought plane tickets and spent too much on art, and went to expensive concerts, and dined on the finest foods. I hope she was free.

If time is money, then for now I am rich. I have my health, albeit compromised by the damnable psoriatic arthritis, which I am trying to learn to be grateful for because it does not kill, only maims. Ding, ding, ding! A lucky draw, I tell myself, and most of the time I mean it.

For now, I am blessed with a foreseeable future. That is not something that everyone gets. So, I am going to go for it. When I get the chance to put my arms around the people that I care about, to celebrate the milestones or commemorate a life well lived, I am going to leap at it. I am going to spend whatever it takes to show up for love. I have the time, and I will find the money.

These are life’s precious and priceless moments. Money comes and goes. Time is all we ever really have, and there is no way to know how much of it we will be afforded.

The long and short of it is, that if time is indeed money, then by God I plan to make it count.

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

I said goodbye to a dear old pal on Sunday. Harvey “The DON” Siegel was one of the first people to truly befriend me when I was young and stupid and on my own in New York City. My first year there I got caught up in a crowd that lived hard and long into the night, courtesy of cocaine and a few other substances that were favored at the time. I loved the drug, a little too much, to tell the truth, but thankfully I hated the life. I did not want to stay up until dawn with a host of folks who had never read Truman Capote. People who had never wept into the pages of a Hemingway novel, or at the very least, laughed their heads off at P.G. Wodehouse and his brilliant Jeeves.

I just had to get away from the druggie world, they were not my tribe. I moved downtown from the Upper West Side and made sure that every new friend understood there was to be no sharing of illegal substances. That is when I met Harvey, who never did drugs, so did not need to be told, though I did anyway.

“If you offer me drugs, we cannot be friends. I mean, thanks and all, but no, that is a line we cannot cross.” I was serious about it and all but one or two of the new people I met respected my wishes. I was no saint. I still ran wild and drank cocktails (often with “The DON” until closing time), but at least we talked about theater and music and the arts. It was an upgrade in every way.

Harvey and I were both hired as staff for the opening of a new restaurant in Midtown, the heart of the theater district. That was where I longed to be, and working as a waitress at J.R. at least put me in the vicinity. I was twenty years old and had been on my own since I was sixteen, so I put on a semi-good show, but was in many respects still a kid. The chef was Barry, the original “The Bear”, and he would become another dear buddy. He and Harv went back a ways and shared an ironic sense of humor and a love of good whiskey. They were street-smart city guys who did a poor job of hiding their hearts of gold.

I was a terror. I challenged customers to push-up contests, used a railing near the kitchen as a ballet barre and was, in short, wildly inappropriate. I was also whip fast, could memorize five tables’ worth of orders without trying, and was a hard worker. Harv and Bear interceded on my behalf many times when the owners caught the drift of my shenanigans and were thinking maybe I was not right for their store. They also tried to rein me in, and though I was fired eventually for talking back to a customer (for which I was not sorry), they did help shape me into an adult-ish human.

Harvey was a lot of things. An actor (a good one), a restaurant guy, a doo-wop singer from the Bronx, and a veteran. He had served, had been a medic in Vietnam, and though it haunted him, he could not be persuaded to talk about it. I saw him in a play once where he took on the role of a medic in wartime, and it took my breath away. He gave a nuanced, lived-in, heartbreaking performance. He was a brave guy.

When I first knew him, he was a bon vivant, a man about town. He seemed to know everyone, and where the ladies were concerned, many of them intimately. He was also quite scrappy and resourceful, at one point living in a windowless room on 69th Street which boasted a shared toilet and shower down the hall. He called it his “artist’s garret” and found romance in the notion. Harv was a salesman and lured many a fine woman up to his lair. He was a dynamo; he could sell ice to Eskimos, as we said back then.

Harvey knew folks from every sphere of city life; could wrangle his way into any Broadway show or live concert. Half of the cabbies drove him for free. He knew how to live large on very little. We were all essentially broke, dreaming of a better life and scrounging our way around a city we loved but could not afford to live in. Looking back, I really do not know how I survived, even thrived with so little, but Harvey was a great spirit guide through those lean times.

Our paths would diverge. Harvey fell in love with a woman named Lorraine and built a beautiful family. He applied himself to the real estate trade and became a good provider and a great dad. It was his kids who gave him the moniker of “The DON.” He was gruff, but playful as the head of household in their “Kool-Aid” home. All of the neighbor kids knew and respected him. He loved his children, loved being a dad. It was hands down the favorite role he ever played; beating out any job he had ever had.

I gave up the acting life for several years and dedicated myself to founding and running MOMENTUM, one of the first programs for persons with AIDS in America. Some of my friends wanted nothing to do with me as a result. That was a period in our history as a nation when discrimination against gay folks was the norm. AIDS was a terrifying, deadly disease, which came with an average life expectancy rate of six months. People were afraid and folks were never at their best when they are scared.

It was a desperate time for those living with the disease. In the early 80’s we did not even have a name for the illness nor an understanding of its origins. “Gay Men’s Cancer” was the best description available, though it was never correct. AIDS was never just a “gay” disease. Those of us on the ground in the early days saw plenty of families coping with the illness. That continues to be true to this day, as there are still quite a number of new infections in the heterosexual population.

“The DON” and “The Bear” pulled strings all over town to help me get donations. Barry even came and cooked on-site at our weekly events. We provided a sit-down dinner and free grocery and clothing stores. The young men and women who came through our doors were trying to get by, having lost their jobs the minute they showed signs of the disease. They had no money, and many had no family support. They needed the basics like food and clothing, but they also desperately needed community, and in those early ugly days, we were the only place they could turn to.

I met two other lifelong friends at that time. Eric (yes, the same Eric who edits this column) and Larry were fellow volunteers and offered me support at every turn. I learned how to produce benefit concerts with them by my side and my old pals Harv and Barry were also there, helping to cadge champagne from Elaine of the famous Elaine’s, finding volunteers for every function, offering themselves in whatever capacity was needed. I continued to live on nothing, really, barely able to pay the rent. I ate canned goods from the same free grocery store as our clients and though I had financial woes, I somehow never thought twice about it. I just didn’t have time.

The day before my flight to New York to speak at Harvey’s memorial, I got a message from the airline (DELTA always, trust me on that) asking me to choose my entrée. As a Premium Select passenger, I would be privileged with meal service. After checking in the following day, which was a breeze, since I could afford the designation of CLEAR and have been approved for Global Entry, I headed for the DELTA lounge to grab a cup of tea and a few nibbles before heading to my flight.

BLESSED BEYOND MEASURE.

My life is different now. I am writing at a desk in my friend Judy’s apartment in Manhattan near the legendary Lincoln Center. There is a doorman, something I could never even dreamed of having when I lived here. There is also a gym and a swimming pool located near the lobby. My experience of New York City these days is quite comfortable compared to my early years. There is a marked contrast in how the place feels to me. I can afford a taxi now, though I still use transit whenever possible. My younger self walked, because half of the time I could not afford train or bus fare.

I remember looking into the windows of the wealthy apartments near my scrappy, crappy one, taking in the chandelier elegance of them with awe and a touch of envy. I never reached the heights of success that a person needs to live here these days. To be wealthy enough in New York City is to be very wealthy indeed. I will never be that. I am grateful to be comfortable, for now, at least. Nothing is guaranteed in this life of ours, and as the markets roil under America’s newly elected regime, many of us are all too aware that our meager fortunes could fall.

I am blessed to have the love and support of great friends and family, and that is a true comfort as we face an uncertain future. I can also look to the past, to the steadfast Harvey who, as time went by, never missed a column, never failed to watch my shows, always, always had my back. A tough guy, he was “The DON” on the outside, but he was ever generous and gentle to those he loved, and I am humbled and grateful to have been among them. We saw a lot of life together, and he taught me that there are many ways to count a person successful, and almost none of them have to do with money. That never equaled value to Harv. “The DON” knew his worth and helped to convince me of mine. He was something. Truly.

Goodnight, dear pal, and thank you.

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

Some time ago, I just had to admit it: I need help. I have always been headstrong, determined to handle everything on my own. This has often sent me careening down the highway to the hell of burnout. I would collapse for a day or two and then dive right back in at warp speed. I take on a lot. I have a wide variety of creative interests, as well as a keen drive to contribute to the common good. This is part pathology, of course. My mother liked to say of someone who merited her ire, “You are wasting precious oxygen that a worthwhile person could be breathing.”

It seems that I have spent a lifetime trying to earn my oxygen.

I am also, in truth, a bit of a workaholic, but that is in my nature. I love making stuff and making stuff happen. My housekeeper and friend of twenty-plus years, Gloria, used to say to me:

“Oh, Mrs. Beth, you is like that bunny de la television! Somebody put a key in you back!”

I had a therapist back then named Gary, who was a truly big influence on my life. He used to try to get me to understand that a balanced life would include eight hours of work, eight hours of nourishing activities, hygiene, and play, and eight hours of rest. This was in an era of my life when I would hold my pee for hours to avoid having to take time out to go to the restroom, especially if it meant pulling over and getting out of the car. If I managed one hour of play, that was a high achievement.

In those days, I was busy working on a series and writing on my off-days, and throwing big parties and fundraisers for politicians and causes that I believed in, and cooking for folks. Always cooking for folks.

These days, I have taken on a modeling career that I rather enjoy, in addition to the regular rigors of writing and acting (though the acting part is strangely moribund of late). I am the Chairman of the Board of a new ballet company and still involved in some political activity. I continue to be dedicated to the folks at the Good Shepherd Home and try to show up whenever I am asked by other organizations to give my time or talent. I am still cooking for folks, a form of “making stuff” that is just built into my brain and body now. I can count on one hand the times I “order in” in a given year. I tried to force myself to do take-out during the pandemic to help out the local restaurants, but I could not do it. I ended up buying groceries from as many of them as I could, but I still cooked. Oh, and I am helping to produce two projects with my dear friend and colleague Ant.

Like I said, I take on a lot. Lately, this has had the effect of being both exhilarating and a tad worrisome. I wondered as I turned sixty-five years old if I would start to live life differently. Would I want to slow down and shift my priorities? Apparently not. My response to that significant marker of age has been to load myself into a cannon and shoot myself into an orbit of constant activity. A touch of mania, perhaps? I’ll grant you I may be a little loony, but it’s how I am rolling, for now at least, while I still have wheels.

But Gary, I do get eight hours of sleep every night, so there’s that, and I always stop to pee now—well, more often, at least.

… MAKES THE DREAM WORK.

There is one big change in how and on which endeavors I spend my time. Today I have help. Talented folks who can do some of the legwork, assist with aspects of the technology, and back me up on projects when I need it. There is the lovely Rebecca, who helps format this column and finds wonderful photos to accompany my words. She does a host of other things, too, and thank God. Tucker assists with audio recording and editing and has bailed me out in a myriad of ways. Most recently, Arkin has arrived on the scene, wildly over-qualified to help sort out the other manuscripts I am working on. My friend Eric edits this piece for free, and while I frequently exasperate him with poor grammar and typing skills, he shows up to the task time and time again. A special thank you to Mr. Eric.

It takes a village.

“You are wicked smart. You could learn to do that on your own,” a friend recently said to me.

Fair point. I suppose that I could. I could learn how to format and improve my keyboard prowess. I could record my own audio and figure out how to edit that. I could learn all the things that Rebecca knows about social media posts, Dropbox, etc., I could, in theory, become a whiz-bang Final Draft expert. I might find the wherewithal to do my own taxes, for that matter, but I cannot emphasize enough how much I would rather not.

I don’t wanna. It would take oodles of time and, let’s face it, I am running out of that. I am a good bit closer to the end of things than the beginning. I greatly enjoy writing this column and I am genuinely excited to hand it over to Rebecca to see what her creativity can add to the mix. Same with Tucker and his audio expertise. I am equally keen to work on the other projects that have made their way to my desk, and that is due in part because Arkin adds the finesse and exactitude that I am in short supply of.

This allows me to pursue the things I love and still be able to take my beloved hikes or make that meal for pals, maybe even read, or watch a program. If I am going to learn new things, I want it to be advanced Spanish and maybe beginning French. At some point, I want to take a deep dive into bird watching. I love birds. If I have a break in my schedule, I want to spend it seeing where the rare off-day takes me.

One thing for sure about getting old—and I am not there yet, not old old, but the specter looms on the horizon—we are all going to need help. Humans require assistance as they come into this world and a near equal amount as they exit. A lot of folks fight that; insist that things remain as they have always been. Time laughs at this. Time sighs and shakes its head and mutters “bless your heart” under its breath. Time doesn’t care that you want to be able to sit in the exact chair you have been in for years and watch the exact thing you have viewed from that perch while eating Skinny Pop. Time is gonna snatch away your eyesight, diminish your capacity to hear and dull your taste buds.

Time is gonna knock your feet out from under you at some point. If you are dead lucky, someone will be there to help you in and out of an adjustable bed, someone will be assisting you in the handicap-equipped shower. If you are hella blessed and have stashed away some serious cash, all of this may take place in your home. For most Americans this will all take place in a home, where they will be surrounded by other people in the same predicament. Some of those joints are better than others, but none are first-choice, best-case scenarios. It’s the way it is … it is the American way.

Whatever goes down in the final stretch as we head to a different plane of existence, we will need help on the way to our exit. My old pastor Monsignor Torgersen, the wildly charismatic head of Saint Monica’s Catholic Church, once told me of last rites and tending to the deathly ill:

“I can walk them right up to the door, but I cannot see them through it,” he said. “Once there, once the dying have reached the precipice, they are in the hands of God.”

I love being the age that I am, and so far, I have not slowed, nor do I show any signs of doing so in the near future. I love the challenge of staying fit enough to model, the newest of my career pursuits. It’s a new business and one that’s interesting. My model agents in Mexico City use an app called WhatsApp for absolutely every interaction. Contracts, videos, and photos are all maintained and distributed on the tiny telephone platform. This is apparently the preferred mode of communication in most countries these days. I am catching on, managing to use it fairly efficiently, and I have to say it’s workable enough. It does not allow for the luxury of extended communication that an email affords, and I miss that, but it gets the job done and I suppose, in this new era, that’s all that matters.

I love all of the creative endeavors that I am pursuing and the wildly talented folks that I get to collaborate with. I am blessed to have the health and the help to keep living my life on my own terms.

I am not digging in and going full Luddite, but I don’t want to spend my waning years forcing myself to catch up to speed in a world that will inevitably grow beyond me, will surely leave me behind. Learning all of the new technologies does not interest me terribly much. I am an old-school gal. I am not gonna Chat-GPT my way through an essay anytime soon. I appreciate the wonder of it all, but no—I am happy to leave that to the young burgeoning experts. It’s their world now.

On we go …

P.S. If I tell you that I have done my own taxes, please call an ambulance, for I will, one hundred percent, have gone completely off my head.

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

…there, I said it.

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 have a lot of lists. Long lists and short ones, memos and notes. They are on my phone, on rolls of paper in my kitchen, sticky-noted to my laptop, and pasted on the walls. These lists are meant to keep me on track, keep the larder stocked and the business of life flowing. The problem is not that there are no lists. I’ve got them up the wazoo. The problem is that I do not look at them, or if I do, I quickly forget their content and go on about my day accomplishing none of the items their presence demands.

Hence, I have failed to make a reservation to take a “Mature Driver’s Course,” the completion of which would significantly lower my car insurance. I really should take the class; that’s why it has been on the docket for months now. Months.

There is also a need for change of address on my renter’s insurance, for example. Should have been done in January. Still not done. The roster of things that I really ought do is ever-growing and any day now, the items on it will surely be attended to.

Any day now.

“Oh my God!” I wrote to my accountant, Jerry. “I totally forgot to drop off my W-2’s and 1099’s and other tax info! I am so sorry. There were notes everywhere reminding me to do it and I just screwed the pooch. I do not know where my mind is; it went missing some time ago. I am so sorry!”

I sent that note on April 17th. The subject line read. “Oops! Shoot! Dang it!”

“It’s okay. I have already filed your extension,” he assured me. “And you have until October for the state because of the fires. Don’t break anything getting here, but as soon as you can get the paperwork to me, I can figure out what lies ahead.”

Whew. Thank GAWD for Jerry. He is an absolute gem. The fact that I got bailed out on that one does not excuse my lack of basic planning. I mean, what the heck??? Taxes are important—well, most things on the list are, or at the very least, are prudent and worth doing.

I promised Jerry that I would drop by the following day. In order to assure my follow-through with this, I stuck notes all over my home that just said, simply, “TAXES.” That worked. I couldn’t open the fridge or a cupboard or sit at my desk or open the front door without seeing that simple sign. The next day, I went to the very formidable offices of Platinum Financial Management, where Jerry has worked for decades, and we sat and chatted and caught up. Both of us were lamenting the steep-cliff drop-off of work in the industry we have loved and spent 40 years in. There was also talk of our families and the general state of things in our lives. It was good to see him, and I am grateful for the rescue.

I am a very busy person, of course, but I have ALWAYS been a very busy person. It is only now, in my dotage, that I have become a keeper of copious lists. Lists that never seem to get checked off. If I have not seen or talked to you in a while, it is likely that your name is written down somewhere. If I don’t write it down, even the keenest desire to see a friend or loved one can get buried in the haze of activity that clouds my aging brain.

I am sure that there are clinical reasons for this, and equally sure that I do not give a fig what they are. I mean, this is how my life rolls now. I figure I will manage to get most of the stuff I have slated “to do” handled at some point. It also seems like if enough time has passed and an item is still on the list, well, then it’s perhaps not that essential, and I can just waltz on by it on my way to lunch with someone I love or a stroll in my beloved park. Okay—let’s face it—a HIKE in the park. I’ll leave the strolling to y’all.

Mike A. staged a lay-down flat-out on the living-room floor after the final hike of his visit, and I snapped a picture. This was after a three-day stay filled with many glorious treks into the hills. I sent it to Russell, who felt the same way after a week with me and my obsession with fresh air and exercise. This was his reply:

“You are a mean b***h. Leave us alone.”

Poor darlings! The two of them have been traveling down the road of life with me for 50 and 35 years, respectively. They are in it for the long haul, and while they may occasionally protest, they will keep logging the miles. We all know that it’s good for all of us. Our minds might be a tad fuzzy, but our bodies still work like gangbusters. A bit of grace there.

Gangbusters may, in my case, be a wee bit of overstatement. I have been in the midst of a prolonged allergy attack. I wake up sneezing, nose running a hundred miles per hour. That last bit annoys me. My Dad had a runny nose every day of his life. We swear we will not grow up to be like our parents, and yet here I am. I’ve got Dad’s fountain of a schnoz and Mom’s testy attitude toward her fellow drivers. I refrain from yelling, though I would dearly love to at the L.A. driver who is often a callous and careless sort. I have to placate myself by holding up the middle finger below dashboard level. So we differ there. Mom would have stuck hers out the window and hurled epithets to boot. I take comfort in that. My temper is as hair-trigger, but the way I express it is at least a tad more restrained.

STICKY NOTES, SNIFFLY NOSE.

As for Dad’s runny nose, I try to tame it with a tab of Children’s Zyrtec every morning. The adult version is too strong for me, makes me wiggly, and worsens my already severely challenged ability to concentrate on the task at hand. The tricky part of this equation is that, due to stupid dang Psoriatic Arthritis, my hands barely work in the morning. I cannot open the pod with the pill inside. I have a pair of scissors which dwell permanently next to the chair I use to help get dressed in the morning. They are in a jar with the allergy medicine, which also holds special thick healing Band-Aids for my feet, the outer casing of which I cannot for the life of me open without a tool to cut into them. If it’s not one thing…it’s another.

You have to love getting older. It is annoying as hell, but also pretty hilarious. Another friend came early to work in my office before dinner with a group of pals. He was on the road and on a deadline for work.

“What is your Wi-Fi?” he asked.

I had to think about it. Then remembered the name.

“Look for roxeymotel6.”

“Ah, okay. Password?”

‘Dang it,’ I thought. I know this one!

“Happyhootowl345?” I exclaimed hopefully.

He tried it. No go.

“I am probably typing it in wrong,” He said charitably.

The thing is written on the back of the router. Yes I am still using the password that it came with. I have big plans to change it to something of my own choosing. That is written down on a list somewhere.

I had to get down on hands and knees and twist my body around, tipping my head just so to get close enough to see it. Then I had to whip out the giant magnifying glass thingy that I keep on my desk, because even with a strong—as in Mr. Magoo—strong prescription, I still cannot see well enough to read the tiny type or, for that matter, at least half of the stuff that I really must read. Which is why it is written on another list somewhere that I need to make an appointment for an eye exam.

“Here it is. Got it. Happyhootowl354!!!”

“Bingo!” he cried.

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

“You’re doing that? You’re up in the hills alone like that? On steep ridges?” my sister-in-law Sarah asked with a look of concern.

When she put it that way, I had to admit it sounded a tad off the beam. I had been explaining that I feel more confident hiking in the hills and on the ridges alone with my dog Fairness, because my pal Dean gave me a cane with a stun feature on it that can ward off an attack from human or animal, should need be. It can also stabilize me on steep paths and prevent me from going ass over teacup down the slope to my doom.

One particular ridge, which is a route to the caves where my neighbors and I often meet with our dogs, is very frequently populated by several coyotes. I love coyotes and I am never afraid of one or two, but when there are several, I get a bit tense. It’s also steep with a sheer drop-off, so one has to place one’s feet just so. The cane gives me confidence in the precarious situations that, to my sister’s point, might be best avoided in the first place. Hmmmm. Got me thinking.

My friend Russell recently visited for a week. He brought his dog Ted, and I was excited to show them both my morning routine of hiking in the hills of Griffith Park. They were willing, if not exactly eager, to head out first thing in the morning on those expeditions. Ted was especially unenthused, but they joined me and Fairness—good sports both of them. The mornings were chilly and wet with dew and even a few bouts of rain, but we trekked on. Russ and I pointed out particularly gorgeous bits of architecture on the streets and vistas in the heights. There is a lot of beauty in these parts, a tonic for the soul. Ted is not a morning dog, but his resistance waned with the passing days, and he began to look forward to our five-mile heart-starter mornings.

Working it!

Then, of course, we hit the gym. I try to go five days a week minimum—a goal seldom achieved but always aimed for. Ted was grateful to be left out of that part. He and Fairness stayed home and rested up for their 5 PM night walk, a short but still challenging hike up to the horse ranch area in Beachwood Canyon.

“You are a maniac,” Russ said, pulling on his sneakers for one such evening stroll.

He was sore from all of the hiking and gym-attending and general go-go-go of being with me. His body hurt. Ironically, when we first met some 35 years ago, he was my physical trainer. I was the one who was sore. He is still a fit person, but as the owner of a wildly successful restaurant/nightclub, he now has a lifestyle that has taken on a more laid-back vibe. To put it more succinctly, he is making a great living in a way that does not involve being on the internet in a bikini at the age of 65.

Outtake from the crazy internet ad I did in a bikini which caused a bit of a stir. 65 and modeling swimwear. NO hash browns were harmed in the making of this photo.

“I wish you didn’t still have to work in front of cameras,” he said. “I wish you could just relax now.”

We were at breakfast. He ordered a scramble with hash brown potatoes and toast. I ordered sausage and eggs, no potatoes, no toast with sliced tomatoes. The morning meal of ancient swimwear models everywhere.

“A few more years. I have promised myself that when I am 68, I can have toast. Like whenever I want it, not just on holiday. Gluten-free, of course.” I smiled ruefully.

In addition to maintaining my appearance, I am working desperately to stave off the progressive degeneration of my joints due to Psoriatic Arthritis. The disease is a b***h. I box with her daily and mostly have her on the ropes, but she is persistent, biding her time. She knows she has the upper hand; knows I will one day need that cane for other reasons.

I went to Palm Springs last weekend on a mission to find some new pieces for my new apartment. I needed a grown-up-sized dining table and some patio furniture for my giant balcony. There are a few other random items on the wish list: light fixtures, gold mirrors of varying shapes and sizes for the hallway. And there is always the chance that some magical item is out there that will put the right finishing touch on one room or another. I was hoping to score, but the searching itself is a delightful activity. My pal Michael was willing to accompany me, and that would make the experience shine.

Score. I fell in love with this Danish Modern table and ladder back chairs. It was wobbly though so I was uncertain. I really wanted it and hated to leave it, so Michael suggested I ask them if they could repair it. They did and it's mine and ya now Char.

I have put off decorating due to… well … the turbulence of the times. My industry has flatlined, and the market fluctuations are putting the nation’s entire financial future in question, so I have been cautious about feathering my nest beyond the basics. Have been afraid to make any big outlays of cash in anticipation of “TrumpMageddon,” but now that it is here, now that there is a definite feeling of freefall in regards to the fate of the nation, I am just going to go ahead and give myself the gift of beautiful surroundings. I will at least have a lovely place to land at the end of each upsetting day.

I took Fairness down to Palm Springs with me. Turns out he is a good traveler—not terribly antsy in the car and very willing to adapt to new environments. I brought my computer and a script I am working on, but Mike and I just sort of drifted into vacation mode. Something neither of us is wont to do or is very good at, but we managed to put work aside. It was fun.

We set out for a gorgeous walk every morning, admiring the hills that surround the part of town where Mike lives. Just four or five miles. Nothing too strenuous. I was looking forward to pool time in the afternoons and then, of course, a lovely sunset walk to cap the day. Mike was game at first; he is an active guy and likes to move.

“Honey, I am sore. My body aches,” he said to me on the third day of our visit.

It began to dawn on me that perhaps I am pushing the envelope of exercise to a bit of an extreme. I am not really sure when my pace began to accelerate. At first, 10 thousand steps a day felt like a good number, but now I am not satisfied with less than twenty. I give myself a break regarding the gym some days. If there is a chance to see a good friend or complete a fun project or even just cook for my clan, I am likely to choose that option, but still, the drive is there.

Russell told a friend that he thinks I never stop moving because I want to live a long life and am determined to be fit for it. When he repeated that theory to me, I shook my head. I have zero thoughts about my longevity. I have watched far too many friends ushered by fate to an early grave. There are not enough steps one can take to ward off our individual genetic destinies. Fate does not care a whit if you did your ab workout as prescribed by the Fitness Gods. Fate knows where you live and will decide how long you live there.

I think my obsession with moving comes from the fear that I will one day not have the ability to do so. Like many folks my age, I hobble my way into the day. I take my first steps in the morning with a body so stiff that I just sort of lurch from one painful foot to the other. I pay that no mind; just finish my tea and ablutions and then bandage both feet, shove them—wincing—into my clown-like orthopedic shoes, and go. And go and go and go and go.

NO PAIN, NO GAIN.

There is a price. I took a long walk before I headed to my desk to finish this writing. When I sit down after strenuous activity, it can be very hard to get up. I will have to push myself out of the chair by placing both hands on the desk and pulling myself toward it. An inconvenience to be sure, but not one that has any influence on my behavior. It’s just the deal now.

That’s a bit of an odd response, I suppose, but I have loved my fit life. I loved the way it felt to move through the world, when my toned muscles responded to the ground below with snap and vigor. I am determined to love moving my body through space for as long as possible, to see as many gorgeous views and hear as much birdsong as time will allow. I am okay with the disease card that I have drawn. We all draw one, and mine makes a kind of cosmic sense. After all, if nature did not take faculties away from us, we would never agree to leave this life, and she needs us to go, needs us to cede our floor time to the next generation. She’s figuring that crippling me ought to be fairly persuasive. Smart gal, that Mother Nature. Knows her audience.

When that time comes, when the cane is needed and the hands gnarl, I will cope with it as graciously as I can, but until then, I am stepping out. I am stepping on it.

On we go …

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Wit and Wisdom

by Beth Broderick

Luck.

“The definition of luck is when preparation meets opportunity.” My mother said this to us many times when we were growing up. It has a nice “pull yourself up by the bootstraps” Americana feel about it, a nod to the work ethic bestowed upon us by our Puritan ancestors.

That is not, however, the definition of luck. This is how it is described according to Webster’s, Oxford, and Cambridge dictionaries:

“To prosper or succeed, especially through chance or good fortune.”

“Success or failure apparently brought by chance rather than through one's own actions.”

“The phenomenon and belief that defines the experience of improbable events, especially improbably positive or negative ones.”

I have a good friend who, over the years, has consistently referred to the relative success of my acting career as being due to a string of good luck. Of course, my not terribly tender but still existent ego has always bristled at the suggestion. After all, I have clocked the hours, spent years building and earning a good reputation. I have been working steadily for nearly forty years, so maybe it’s not just “dumb luck.”

Nanny Nanny Nanny Goat!!

Or maybe it was. There is, after all, the accident of our origins. I am white and born in America, a country which has historically partial to white folks. I am tall with a pretty good set of genes, and I was drawn to and gifted at acting from early childhood. That seems pretty lucky on the face of things. I have mentioned the matter of luck quite frequently in these pages because I am often confounded by the concept.

Had I been born in a Third World nation—what our charming president often refers to as a “shithole country,”—my chances of applying myself to any craft would be slim to none. The meaning of luck would change drastically. I would be lucky to be alive, to find food for myself and my family. Lucky not to succumb to a disease that I was unlucky enough not to be vaccinated for. Of course, we are all lucky on that count, but opportunity is a gift not afforded to everyone. So maybe Mom was right about that part.

“Luck, let a gentleman see

How great a dame you can be

I know the way you’ve treated other guys you’ve been with

Luck be a lady with me.”

From “Luck Be a Lady”

I find myself singing this song under my breath from time to time. I have no idea how I learned it. I know it was a Sinatra song and a huge hit and that it originated in the Broadway musical Guys and Dolls in 1950. I find it interesting that luck was given a female characteristic back then. Women’s lives were pretty much determined by the men they were fated to be born to or to marry. While some fortunate women were able to earn salaries and thereby could ostensibly take care of themselves, they were prohibited from having bank accounts in their names. This made things a bit difficult.

So, were they lucky because they could work or unlucky because they were denied financial services?

Feels like a trick question sometimes.

IN THE CARDS.

I played in a charity poker event recently. I was one of the “celebrities” that anchored the many Texas Hold’em games strewn around the room. The place was lively; the tables packed with eager participants. A dozen or so alternate players were waiting in the wings for one of us to go bust so that they could take their shot. I was at a table with mostly very amateur players, and I would count myself among them. I had not played in a very long time and was rusty on the rules, and wracking my brain for strategies long forgotten.

The dealer was very professional and kept us all on track. I had several good hands, but a few clunkers too. I folded when I should have bet and bet when I should have folded a few times, so there was plenty of “user error,” but I was doing well overall, and it was for a good cause. Fun.

The “blinds” kept being raised, which is poker’s way of determining the minimum bet. It was about two hours in when it began to cost $6,000 to see the cards that would be dealt in what is called the “flop.” Double dang. I bided my time. My fairly substantial winnings would head down the drain quickly with 6K as merely the opening bid. There was no limit on what folks could raise. Things could get really expensive, really fast.

By that time, a lot of people, including many of the alternate players, had gone bust, and the mood was still friendly but had a bit more edge as the more talented players were trying to secure a place at the final table.…the Holy Grail of competitive poker. I folded rotten hand after rotten hand—a 9 of clubs with a 4 of diamonds, and on and on. Non-starters all. Then I caught a break—Pocket Queens—a very good draw.

“I’m all in,” I said, pushing my chips forward onto the felted part of the table in front of me and trying to maintain a neutral expression. I was pretty sure I had that hand in the bag, and the stakes were high enough for me to rake in quite a bundle. The fellow to my left called me and showed his hand. Pocket Aces. Dang. I was out of the game. It’s not real money anyway--it was all for charity--but I still felt disappointed for a minute.

Was I lucky to have drawn the queens? Unlucky because my tablemate drew the aces?

Tough question in some ways, but then there is the whole “accident of our origins” thing, so I am going to go with lucky.

When I was sixteen, I moved to Pasadena to attend school at the American Academy of Dramatic Arts. I found a room in the home of an older woman, Mrs. Snyder, the mother of someone my mom had worked with. Lucky. Once I had my few possessions stored, I began in earnest to look for a job. I had to support myself during the year, and when you were under 18, it was very hard to find any decent-paying work.

So, I lied, of course.

One of the places that I applied was a coffee shop located on Colorado Blvd., which, at the time, was the great dividing line of the old city. Pasadena had a very racist bent back then: Blacks could live above Colorado Blvd., while whites stuck to below. This was fairly carefully observed. A few of my white classmates who had strayed into the black part of town were pulled over by police and warned that they did not belong there.

I lied on the application, fudging my birthdate and my work experience. I was in the waiting area with several other women who were also applying for the position, many of whom were people of color. All of us needed the work, and most of them were more qualified and more importantly of legal age, but I got hired. It was a grueling year—working long hours in the afternoons and evenings and attending class during the day—but I knew for sure that I was lucky.

There are those who would say it was a hardship to have to pay my own way, to have to work so, so hard to get where I wanted to go. It was hard, sometimes very hard, but I knew the day that I got that job, and have known every day since, that I was lucky to have the chance to find work that could sustain me while I pursued my dreams. Sure, there were lots of my peers who drew the Aces, who had parents who could foot the bill for their education, but I got the Queens, by God. I got to take my shot at succeeding in class, and I did not waste it.

Tens of thousands of Americans have lost their jobs in recent months. Whole swaths of California and North Carolina have burned, decimating homes and businesses. Then there are the park rangers and flight experts, and Social Security Counselors deemed to be a waste of funds by the Doge folks. However you feel about that, those people are hurting. In order to pull oneself up by one’s bootstraps one needs to have boots. In order to work hard one needs to be able to find work.

If luck is chance, if luck is just happenstance, then we can definitely report that a lot of us have been unlucky of late …

Stupid, damnable, dumb, bad luck!

Now more than ever, I say this with conviction:

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