Where There is Smoke ...

Where There is Smoke ...

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I have begged and pleaded. The building manager has spoken with them many times over the course of a year, but my neighbors are deaf to our entreaties. They continue to smoke inside and outside of their apartments. The fellow above me smokes in the bathroom and bedroom, which constantly floods my hallways and rooms with carcinogens. They smoke in the units below me and above me, beside me and across the way. When I took this apartment, it never occurred to me, nor was I warned that I would be living in such a toxic environment. There is one lady who lives downstairs and across from me, who brings her coffee cup and an ashtray and sits on the stairs directly under my bedroom, puffing every morning. I race to close the windows as my chest begins to ache and my throat constricts. I recently ran into her in the parking lot of Trader Joe’s and took a chance. “Hi. Can I talk to you for a minute? I just need to ask you something about—er— you and smoking? On the stairs?” “I am on the phone.” She snapped angrily. I had not noticed the tiny earbuds she was wearing. I waved an apology and headed to my car. “Hey, wait! I was on with a client, so thanks for that! Not cool.” “I am sorry.” “Well, what do you want?” She said, softening a tad. “I know you are trying to do the right thing. You are the only one who cares to at least go outside, and I appreciate that. It’s just that I am surrounded by smokers, inundated with it, and I have a terrible reaction to it. You are often smoking on the stairs right beneath my bedroom window and … “So that’s you? That’s you closing the windows? Slamming them? I hear someone doing that.” “Yes, I am sorry, but my chest burns; it’s still burning from your visit this morning, and I was wondering… Do you think I could give you my number so that when you are on your way to the stairwell you could shoot me a text? Then I could close up that side of the apartment. I am badly affected by it.” “No. I am not doing that. That feels weird.” “It would be such a big help … just so I can close the windows. I have to open them because the man upstairs smokes inside constantly and it is making me sick.” ‘That’s Nicky. He’s been there forever … not gonna change.” “If he could just step outside?” “Nah, he won’t. Used to be worse. They used to party until the wee hours. Crazy loud and all of them smoking and drinking. You’re lucky he’s older now.” “Well, it’s still pretty rough living underneath him. If I could just give you my number…” “Well, we should have each other’s number anyway. We ARE neighbors.” “Okay, great. Thank you.” Later that night I got a very, very long text from her. It was full of helpful ways that I could change my behavior, so that I might be better at accepting the deadly filthy habits of everyone around me. “Living here is a dance. You just have to think of it that way. What I think you need to do is have your windows sealed and then get some air purifiers. I have one in my place, and they are great.” She thoughtfully added several links to air purifiers that I could order from Amazon. She then sent photos of smoke-blowing machines that help chase foul air out of a building. There were several pictures of smoke removal devices to accompany that advice as well. Expensive gadgets those. The text went on and on, assuring me that it was my duty to purchase this equipment and get myself sealed up tight. She ended with: “Or maybe moving would be a good choice for you. For some people, that is ultimately the right solution. I just wanted to share some ideas that have helped me over the years in case any of them would make your situation a little more comfortable. Wishing you all the best …” This is why there are wars. I was so gob-smacked that I could not bring myself to write back. What to say? “Thank you so much for this truly stunning example of passive-aggression. You should be teaching this stuff. I mean, you are in a class of your own. I’ll write you a letter of recommendation! “ Or how about: “Why don’t you go %$ck yourself, you and Nicky the scumbag Sh%ithead upstairs! Eat %6ap you poisonous trash bag! Getting sick because you are thoughtless and Nicky the scumbag is a derelict is not a discomfort; it is &#$(ing life-threatening!” Instead, I just did not reply. I did not want to start a fight. Well, I do WANT to. I want to punch her and Nicky the scumbag right in the kiss-a-roo, but while I am not necessarily smart enough, I am definitely OLD enough to know better. The next day, I received another text, this one in ALL CAPS, demanding to know whether or not I had received her thoughtful message??!!!!! “Oh. Sorry. Yes. Thank you.” That was the best I could do. The whole situation is infuriating, and that gal is a piece of work. Honestly, it might be worth shelling out the twenty thousand or so dollars it will cost to relocate, so that I don’t have to come up with a civil response the next time I see her. I have, for the last thirty years or so, lived in houses. Stand-alone buildings. This whole apartment building thing is not familiar to me. I thought it would be best at my age to live somewhere that I wouldn’t have to worry about maintenance, so I am giving it a try. The place is run-down, but inside my unit there are huge rooms and a terrific kitchen, and it is not all bad; living here has its upsides. The building manager, a filmmaker from Eastern Europe, is a lovely man who does his job with a gentle heart. I like some of the folks that I see in the elevator or pass in the lobby. I enjoy being greeted by them. We pet each other’s dogs and say: “Take care!” “Have a great night!” or some such pleasantry. I have spent a huge portion of my life in hotel rooms, so I have learned to be flexible and can adapt to most any environment, but this one is fixin’ to kill me. Literally … and that burns me up. A LIFETIME OF EXPOSURE. When my Grandmother died of lung cancer at the age of seventy three, we all went right on smoking. It was a family practice. I was eleven when I took up the habit. All four kids started young, and Mom was our accomplice, our partner in crime. I tried to quit at least a dozen times in the ensuing decades, but did not manage to do so successfully until I was nearly fifty, almost twenty years ago. I empathize with people who are chained to the habit. For childhood smokers, it is especially difficult to give it up. Anyone could surmise that my sister Kim was putting her health at great risk. She smoked more than two packs a day and compounded that with copious amounts of marijuana. She smoked joints, bongs, and spliffs, and spent hours sitting under a tree in her backyard dedicated to the practice. She was at an acupuncture appointment, hoping for relief from the tremendous back pain she was suffering, when her body began to shut down. She spent two days in the ICU, where medical professionals tried in vain to solve first one, then another mystery as her body was ravaged by crisis after crisis. They could not save her. Tests later revealed that she had stage 5 lung cancer. There was nothing anyone could have done. Mom made it to eighty-three, but she struggled mightily with COPD and slow-growing throat cancer. She would switch back and forth between regulars and menthols, because the latter cooled the severe burning sensation that often took hold. We wore gas masks when we cleaned out her small apartment, and I tried to get her outdoors whenever possible, but there was no avoiding exposure to the plumes that constantly encircled her. When my sister called me to tell me that Mom forgot to smoke for an entire day, we knew it was the end. I changed my flight and got to LA the next morning, begging her from the gate at the airport and then the taxi on the ground to wait for me. I did not want my sister to handle her departure without me by her side. Mom waited; she was nothing if not strong-willed, and I was grateful. She died in my arms just forty minutes after I arrived. Three months later, my flesh was covered in raw rashes, and blisters were all over my hands and feet. My joints were so inflamed that it was excruciating to walk; I could barely turn a doorknob. My GP had no idea what was happening but sent me to a dermatologist who immediately referred me to a rheumatologist. Psoriatic Arthritis. It is genetic and a nasty disease but treatable with prohibitively expensive medications, so—treatable if you can afford insurance that will cover those. Many cannot. I am truly lucky that I can take them and that the illness did not manifest before the advent of today’s pharmaceutical solutions; I would be in a wheelchair by now. When I asked the doctor what triggered it—what caused the mutation to awaken and attack me—he said the two most common factors are stress and repeated exposure to smoke. “She got ya in the end, didn’t she?” my friend Gail said when we spoke of it later. My Mother both loved and hated me, because I was the one who stood up to her, called her out on her sometimes abhorrent behavior. As a child, her excessively violent blows routinely fell on me, but I never backed down. There were younger children to protect. Oh yes, she did. She managed to go out swinging and lighting one cigarette off of the other, leaving me forever wounded in body and mind. She got me good. So, I am putting up a fight in my building because no one should have to live in a polluted environment. Walking through the hall on the way to the kitchen for morning coffee, my chest burns as I pass through the smelly remains of Nicky the scumbag’s smoking hot extravaganza in the rooms above. He is up all night puffing away, and it travels through the vents in the bathroom. I will fight and hopefully make this apartment safer for the next tenant, because I will also leave. I’ll pay the money and endure the disruption, because my well-being depends upon it. I have to protect myself, something I have only late in life learned to do. It was a hard lesson. My brother, sister, and I have all broken free of the addiction that helped to numb the pain and quiet our jangled nerves. I have worked hard to make it out of the smoldering hell of my childhood. I have a great life, one I treasure, one I built against significant odds. I am not about to let a bunch of thoughtless, nicotine-riddled so-called “neighbors” set my health on fire. No, I am not. 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 [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

A Little More Time

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I made time, which is not easy, as my not-so-subtle workaholic tendencies always put up quite the argument. Yes, I should have stayed home and worked on the many projects that are crying out for my attention. Yes, there are lists of things that need to be done. Print Bob’s script. Pose with Ivy Cove bag. Letter to building management to report neighbor for smoking in the bathroom. Book flight. Pick up SSD 1 TB for the ballet company, whatever the hell that is. All on the to-do, on the should-be-done. I wished I had just a little more time that day, but it would all have to wait. I wanted to see my family, so I took a French bath, gave the pits and bits a quick once-over, and headed out the door. I love to frequent a weird old Italian market in the Valley called The Monte Carlo. This is the first odd thing about it, because Monte Carlo, the place, is located on the French Riviera and is not in any way, shape, or form Italian, but that’s the name of the joint, and we all just go with it. As you enter, there is a quaint little dining area to the left. The locals pour in after soccer games and graduations, or just because, to dine on fresh pizza and pasta. They line up to order and are given a number, then everyone crowds into the booths with a soda and tells stories while they wait for their food. It’s a fun ritual to observe, and the mostly male staff is non-plussed when a child knocks a whole pie to the ground or elbows her Shirley Temple sideways, flooding the table. The items are replaced at no cost, and the young tears of frustration are quickly dried. A great scene, but not what I am there for. I head to the right and take a number. There is always a wait, but the ancient, hair-net-clad gentlemen behind the counter move with surprising speed. I will peruse the gluten-free section while awaiting my turn or cadge a bottle of imported balsamic glaze to drizzle over their house-made burrata. There is a whole case of gelato made right there, and another filled with pastries, cookies, and cannoli. The aisles boast some very good affordable imported wines as well as dried pastas, herbs, and oils. The deli counter is bursting with options. There are gallons of fresh marinara and meat sauce, cases of cheese and imported meats. Homemade sausage and neatly grated mozzarella, all sold in amounts large or small. Huge lettuces and other fresh veggies line the simple wooden bench in front. A visit there is, for me, the adult version of being a kid in a candy store. They even have eggplant prepped and fried to a golden crisp, ready to be molded into a parmigiana. Heaven. Once home, I set out all of the ingredients that I will bag up and take over, making sure to put the new stuffed toy I picked up for the nephew at Disneyland where it would be remembered. It is a lovely snow leopard, a little bigger than the other stuffies I have given him. It gratified me to hear recently that he often cradles the Winnie the Pooh doll I picked months ago. I am told that he offers it cookies and treats too. The alphabet puzzle I gave him last week was a dud. He liked dragging the box around by its corded handle, but opening it and playing with it? Nope. No chance. Big yawn. He ran around the house with a broom and a dog brush instead and shot the occasional basket with his blue ball. My sister Laura and I had a good time putting it together, but the most we could get him to do was put a few pieces back in the container afterward. It’s hit and miss with kids and gifts, but always fun to try. My sisters and I have a ritual. At least one night a week, we take turns choosing a meal to share and providing the ingredients to compose it. I suggested that I pick up the fantastic rustic bread and the above-mentioned burrata along with fixings for a spaghetti dinner. The girls had peaches in the fridge from their bi-weekly farm delivery, and I had some small Persian cucumbers and sweet ripe tomatoes on hand. A perfect early summer menu emerged. Fresh peach/tomato salad with cucumbers, mint, and burrata topped with a light homemade balsamic dressing, followed by simple red-sauce pasta with fresh sausage (regular and vegan) on the side and meatballs for the lad. He is eighteen months old and a whirling dervish. His moms are madly in love with him but admit that his energy level is at times so over-the-top that they have to rotate taking breaks in order to maintain their sanity. I love being able to go over and make a meal for them, so that they can relax for a few minutes. He was sleeping when I arrived. I smiled to see his Winnie tucked under one pale, chubby arm. The girls sat at the counter, and we all shared a glass of wine as I puttered around the kitchen. I have cooked so often there that I know the ins and outs of their well-stocked galley, but I still struggle with the “child locks” on the cupboards and stovetop. I can futz with those magnet thingies for what seems like an eternity, but I only occasionally manage to get things open. Sarah is the handy one in the family and is regularly required to intervene. We set the table outside and set up FaceTime so we could keep an eye on the baby as we ate. Dinner was delicious, the salad bursting with sweetness, crunch, and tang, the pasta simple and satisfying, and that damned bread! I am not supposed to eat it; the gluten activates my psoriatic arthritis, but it is so delicious that I had to have one piece and then just a little bit more. Sarah explained to me what an SSD with 1TB is and where to find one. The girls went over the new words that Kalen is finally using. He is physically very adept, learns how to use tools and toys quickly, has terrific balance and perfect aim, but until recently he was not that interested in talking. He is coming on strong now. “Mama,” Kitty,” Cheese,” and Doggie” are frequent utterances. I have tried to teach him to call me BB, but he is so far indifferent to that proposal. He can use sign language too. He’s got “good job, “all done,” and “more” down pat. He woke up groggy and a bit cranky at first but soon stood on his ladder/stool at the kitchen counter and shoved fistfuls of spaghetti into his mouth. I rinsed off the dishes, and we took turns refilling his plate when he pointed to the pasta and tapped his fingertips together for “more”. Then we were off to the races, singing and dancing and careening around the living room. I can keep up with him but admit to being a tad winded from the jig-like dance interludes. I told him about his present as I took it slowly out of the plastic Disney bag. The snow leopard was a big hit. He hugged it tight and took it everywhere, intermittently placing it on the coffee table so he could offer it some water from an empty cup. ONE MORE WAVE. There is never enough time to spend with my nieces and nephews and the new batch of grands. Some are blood, and some are not, but all are family. Lauren and 2-year-old Luna are in Colorado, where she and her husband have built a good life. Jenica is close by with Andrew and Lily; her brother Adam has settled with Zoe and Hannah in Kansas. I don’t see any of them often enough. Neither Conor nor his brother, Journey, has tied the knot yet, but I am betting that one will be heading down the aisle soon. Meghan does not seem the marrying kind but may surprise us. She has been a devoted aunt and caregiver to her best friend’s two girls and may end up finding her way to one or two of her own. Maya is still in college and way too smart to let anything interfere with getting a good education, but like her own multi-talented mom, I suspect she will find a way to do it all. The littles will grow and, like their parents before them, will begin to drift from me. The day always comes when a visit from their beloved aunt is no longer a special occasion. They will, in what will feel like no time at all, greet me with a quick smile and perfunctory hug and then go back to plans with their teen friends. It is a bittersweet moment, but an important development along the way. Their parent(s) and I will watch them bang out the front door with equal parts awe and terror, then we will collapse onto the sofa and remember when. I have often been asked why I did not want children. (Which, for the record, is rude, insensitive, and reeks of misogyny.) I did. There were years where I desperately wanted them, and I tried and tried and tried, but my body had other plans. I had had four surgeries to remove tumors before finally having the hysterectomy, which would give me back my health. I was just 40 years old. My second husband did not want kids, and by the time that marriage imploded, it might not have been, but it felt too late for me to adopt on my own. I have my sorrows, but I do not have any regrets. Unto each life … a little rain. By eight o’clock, little Kalen was growing weary, kept resting his head on his new buddy “Snowy,” and I had a long-Ish drive across town. The girls and I had packed me up with to-go containers from my last visit and a few grocery odds and ends that would likely go unused in their house “Hey, K, I have to go. BB needs to leave. I am going to go home now, okay?” It took him a minute to register this. He tootled around with Snowy and paid little attention until I picked up my bags and slung my purse over my shoulder, and then his eyes went wide. “It’s okay, buddy. I will wave to you in the window. Go there, and I will be able to see you, and we can wave. I’ll see you in the window!” His mom, Sarah, wrapped him up in her strong arms and headed toward the bay window that looks out upon their street. He looked at me with pleading eyes, his little hands clapping his fingertips together. “More, more, more!” “Aw, he’s signing ‘more’ for you. He wants more of you,” she said. I waved enthusiastically. “I have to go, honey. Meet me at the window.” His lip began to curl with disappointment, but his mom held him tight. “Aw. Sorry, baby; we will wave from the window, okay?” Outside, I rapped on the glass and made faces, waving bye-bye. Then I would leave and quickly jump back into the picture, getting weirder with each wave. He laughed and laughed, and I repeated the bit a few times, then made my way off the porch. There was still time for one more comedy moment, so I parted the bushes and appeared out of nowhere, mugging and goofy-eyed. I got a huge reaction and, as any good performer knows, that was my cue to disappear into the night. Always leave them laughing. Driving home, I smiled ruefully, remembering his little hands pleading with me to stay. I want just a little more, too, buddy. Just a little more of all of it … 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 [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Expect Delays

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Ladies and Gentlemen, this is your captain speaking.” It was twenty-five minutes into the flight from Miami to Newark, New Jersey, too late for the standard welcome speech that is often given from the cockpit. The one where he or she (but let’s face it, still mostly he) welcomes the passengers on board, introduces the names and home city of the flight attendants, and then gives a quick rundown of how the flight should go. “Looks like we are going to get to Philadelphia in about 4 hours and 26 minutes; wind speeds could get us there a little sooner. Weather should be pretty clear, maybe a few bumps about midway where we will have to ask you to stay seated with your seatbelt fastened. But we should have a mostly smooth ride. The weather in Philly is cloudy with a chance of rain, and it’s about 65 degrees on the ground there. Sit back, relax, and enjoy the flight.” You don’t have to tell me twice. I actually love flying. It is one of the only times that I EVER sit back and relax. I crack open a good book, indulge in the salty snacks provided, put my feet up as best I can, and allow myself to drift off into another world This announcement had a different tone. I sat up. “Looks like we are going to be making an emergency landing in West Palm Beach. There is an issue on board, and for everyone’s safety we need to get this aircraft on the ground. We are making our descent and should be there shortly. I will keep you posted. Please remain seated. Flight attendants, take your jump seats.” He sounded calm but concerned, and while I did not panic, I admit to having felt a flush of worry. Firstly, we were in a large-capacity plane with a full tank of fuel, which technically would make us too heavy to land. These weights are calculated very carefully according to flight duration and anticipated speed. I looked out the window next to my seat, searching for clues as to what was wrong. As we approached, a wide variety of emergency vehicles were assembling below. Two fire trucks and several smaller red ambulance-sized vans were standing by, with a few more on the way. ‘Uh boy,’ I thought. We landed without incident. There was no smoke or skidding, no listing to one side or the other. The tires did not give way under our girth as we rolled toward the great gaggle of first responders. who were racing toward us. Turned out that the oven in first class was acting up; the stewardess had smelled something burning. A fire on an airplane could spell disaster, so the captain had made the right call. It was very dramatic for a few minutes as the emergency crews assessed the damage and checked the plane for injuries caused by our abrupt, overweight return to terra-firma. The inspections were going to take a while, so we were allowed to deplane, but ordered to stay in the waiting area for updates about our flight. There were not enough seats there, so some folks were milling about while a large gathering stood shoulder to shoulder staring at the lone attendant manning the desk, trying to collectively will her to give us a hint about what lay in store. I headed to the bar. A glass of chardonnay was very much in order at that point. It was tiny and crowded, with the two barmen trying to serve drinks as well as pizza. I jostled into position and waited patiently. The gentleman next to me ordered a beer to go, and a bell rang. Perfect. I could enjoy a glass of wine while following the erroneous order to stay in the crowded boarding area. As I made my way back with my to-go glass, I passed two young gay men who were obviously returning from vacation. They were dressed in beach-y outfits, sandals, and straw hats, but their body language was tense. One of them seemed more than a little anxious. I held up my glass and pointed in the direction of the bar. “They sell it to go here.” They looked at each other and then back to me with wide eyes that said, ‘Oh, thank Gawd!’ There is not much to be said for Florida in my book, but take-out cocktails at the airport are definitely in the plus column. One of the men hightailed it to the bar, and I settled down on the carpet near the window and took out my phone. “Expect major delay,” I texted the friends waiting for me in New Jersey. “Emergency landing. Everything is okay, but this could take a minute.” “Dinner reservations for 8. Your favorite Italian. Think you’ll make it?” “Fingers crossed.” I looked up, and the two men I had spoken to earlier smiled conspiratorially and toasted me with a couple of beers in plastic cups. I tipped my less-than-stellar glass of vino toward them with a big grin. When life gives you lemons … I have been traveling for years and have had some pretty major disruptions and delays. Detroit and Chicago in the winter are always dicey. I have spent many a night at the Hampton Inn near the infamous Michigan city. Ditto the O’Hare Hilton, where you can find good beds and a decent burger. Atlanta and other Southern cities are tricky in the summer, when tropical storms can gather speed and knock your plans right out of the sky. Coping with these problems is part of the deal we must make to avail ourselves of the engineering feat, the--to me, at least--mind-blowing miracle of air travel. When I fly, I always wear three layers of sunscreen. One clear and two tinted, which, I have convinced myself, provides more protection. This is because Martha Stewart says that if we are seated by the window, we should always keep it shut tight. The UV rays above 10,000 feet are incredibly strong and can damage our skin. I always fly in the window seat, and I keep it open for much of the ride. There is no way I am going to miss the sight of the Pacific Ocean as we glide over it, arcing toward the heavens. I am not about to skip seeing a deep blue river snaking through rust colored canyons, or the majestic emerald, sage, and piney hues of our national forests. I delight in staring at the clouds below, always filled with wonder at the fact that we can soar above the weather they contain. The Miami flight took hours to resume, but we made it to Newark in one piece. The First Class passengers had to endure cold snack boxes instead of a proper warm meal, but they did not grumble. At that point, everyone just wanted to get where they were going. I should have landed at 1 pm, but it was after 7 before I had luggage in hand and headed toward the ride-share waiting area. I texted my friends once again. “Made it.” “Huzzah! Why don’t you meet us at the restaurant? It’s halfway between us.” “Brilliant. Will do.” BETTER LATE THAN NEVER. When I arrived at Nettie’s House of Spaghetti, Russell was waiting outside to transfer my luggage to his car. The boys had a good bottle of white already on the table, and I settled into the cozy booth, grateful to be in their company. We ordered what these days is too much food, as we are all older and our appetites have diminished. The broccoli rabe dish is a favorite. It is cooked down and ever so lightly creamed, then molded and delivered in a soufflé-shaped mound. Over the next few days, I used the leftovers in omelets and incorporated them into sauces for pasta. Andrew had to go back into the city, so Russel and I hiked and ran errands and toured about. He drove me past the large former military barracks, now under construction, which will one day be an outpost of Netflix studios. New Jersey has been making a BIG play for production and is poised to become the Hollywood of the East. We visited a fantastic Italian market and walked on the beach at the end of every day. It was a wonderful visit made possible by the privilege of hurtling through the air in a giant vessel. Thursday, I flew into Chicago to see pals the night before going into rehearsals for a live Sabrina the Teenage Witch reunion show. Fierce storms had all of the area airports closed down, and we circled and circled and circled so we could burn enough fuel to land in Indianapolis and wait out the raging winds. Now we needed to re-fuel in order to leave, and there was a long line of vehicles ahead of us, so we sat for hours on the tarmac waiting our turn to gas up. It was tedious, but we eventually took off, made it to our original destination, and landed without further incident. Later that night, rogue tornadoes raged through Indiana, leaving chaos and destruction in their wake. Whew. Those travel Gods can be tricksters, and it’s no fun being waylaid, but I was grateful to have dodged that bullet. A lot of folks complain about air travel these days. I have friends who will not do it unless absolutely necessary. It is expensive to be sure, and arrival times can be disrupted by several factors, some of which are dubious. The planes are getting larger; the new ones so gigantic that it would seem impossible to keep them aloft, but gravity is no match for today’s technological advances. The space allotted each passenger is smaller and more cramped than ever, the snacks are puny, and the add-on charges for luggage and seat assignment are unfair. The mergers in that industry have made for less competition, and there is little incentive to cater to the customer. All of this is true, but I am undaunted and always ready to go when the spirit of adventure calls. I have learned to expect delays and endure complications with equanimity. Flying, to my mind, is still a gift, one that I am ever grateful for. Many of my friends live on the other side of this great continent, and yet I can leave my place after breakfast and be there in time for dinner. Ain’t that something? Ain’t that just the best damned thing? On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

The Great Erase

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick On Saturday, I was three pages into the new column for today when I somehow accidentally hit a series of keys that sent the material into the ether. Gone. Deleted. Never to be seen again. Gol dang it!!! This new keyboard bedevils me. The configuration has led to the constant insertion of the number three into one out of six words that I type. My fingers somehow graze it on their way to a t or e or d. That is super annoying, but not as annoying as erasing my whole article! I turned to Google and followed all of the different protocols intended to help me retrieve the lost material. Nope, there was apparently no coming back for the words I had painstakingly strung together with the intent of sharing them with you all. The thought of trying to recreate the piece made me want to lie down and bang my head, so I didn’t. I took a shower and went to the gym. I am aware that this is not the typical order of things. Still, I needed the shower to calm my frazzled nerves, and I needed the gym to make up for the sizable serving of lasagna I had had the day before, followed by Chocolate Peanut Butter ice cream. As I have said before, I am a one-flavor gal; love my vanilla chocolate chip, but that peanutty/chocolatey stuff is a comer. I am still thinking about it, and the fact that a shower of chopped salted Spanish nuts would put it right over the top. AY yum. The loss of the article started me thinking about erasure, about what is and isn’t here. My address book is huge. There are hundreds of entries, many of them outdated or incorrect, but I cannot bring myself to delete any of them. Several years ago, I was at the store having my data transferred from one phone to another. This was before we had the whiz-bangery of the “cloud,” back when we had to do things manually. “Ma’am, I’ve never seen this many contacts! This is going to take a while. Maybe you could go run some errands or grab a bite and come back.” In addition to the duplicates and no-longer-accurate information, I still have the numbers and addresses of people whom I have lost. Still have Gary, Stacey, John, Michael, and my sister Kim. Dad’s old cell number is saved, Mom’s too, and many, many others. Though some have been gone for years, I simply cannot hit delete on what is most certainly by now someone else’s number. To erase them feels too permanent. Should their memory begin to fade, there is the chance that I might scroll past their name and be filled with recollection. An author I worked with years ago passed away at a fairly young age; he was one of those people who died from complications of everything. He had a slew of life-threatening conditions and fought valiantly, but they eventually wore his body down. Once he accepted that he was going to die, he actually had a blast doing it. He got pals to build a wooden coffin that he designed to be fastened together only using horseshoes. He sent me pictures of it; he loved that thing. I think they also fashioned a mausoleum of sorts for his remains. After he passed, his widow kept his recorded voice on their answering machine. For years. At first, it was sweet and sort of nice to hear his voice again, but as time wore on, it became jarring and kind of weird. It is important to remember the dead but not cling too tightly to them. To go on living fully for ourselves, we have to let them go. I remember the popular soap operas in the 80’s and 90’s often had a storyline in which the leading man or woman had been injured in an accident and lost all memory of the life they had led before it. Their entire history had been erased. These folks usually had pretty checkered pasts, marked by adultery and theft and run-ins with the law. The other characters spent days and weeks and sometimes months trying desperately to remind these folks of their former lives. Those stories always got me thinking. If a person does not remember having committed a crime or done someone wrong, should they still be held accountable? If they are no longer that person, no longer living that life, then does that other person still exist? COME UNDER THE LENS. I did a photo shoot last week. The modeling agents wanted a “beauty shot,” which is a specific kind of photo. They need to be tightly framed, and the make-up should be either very subdued or wildly obvious. These pics are sent to cosmetic companies and advertisers who are looking for faces to represent their products. The agency sent me to Daryn, a young photographer who uses the technique that I was told we needed for success. “Okay, I have to admit that I’m a huge fan,” said Cynthia while she was setting up her kit to work on my makeup. “I grew up watching you. My sister is freaking out that I am here. We were both huge Sabrina people.” Cynthia is 39 years old, which places her squarely in the demographic of my fan base from Sabrina the Teenage Witch. She would have started watching it with her sister when she was around 9, an ideal age to start believing in magic and talking cats. “You’re an actress?” Daryn the photographer asked. Like a lot of people her age, Daryn has never seen my work; she has no idea what kind of career I have had. To her, I was just some old lady model that someone asked her to shoot. If new generations have no idea that I existed, then, did I? One hundred years from now, there is a good chance that nary a soul will know that I was here. It is a part of aging; the slow relegation of our beings to the background. We know this, but it is still weird, like asking a young person about the Beatles and getting a blank stare in return. “You never heard of the Beatles?” we ask, our tone incredulous. They shrug. “No, sorry.” We erect monuments and pour material into archives; we paint on canvas and walls, with oil, chalk, and charcoal. We make pottery, fashion jewelry, write columns and books, make movies and television shows, and record songs. All of that contributes to our culture, our sense of who we are and where we came from. But there is no guarantee that new generations will know of it or us. One person’s antique treasure is another’s worn-out trash. One person’s delight in an “oldie but goodie” is another’s dreary eye-roll. Walking past the new young residents of my apartment building is a reminder that while I am not yet a ghost, I am fading from view. My voice may call out from behind a screen for a few more decades, growing fainter and fainter with the years, but it will, one day in the not-so-distant future, cease to be heard. One of the reasons that despots attack arts institutions and topple statues, censor libraries, burn museums, and ransack private homes is to erase the collective memory, so that they can institute a new culture that both fears and reveres their power. When their reign of terror inevitably comes to an end, remnants of the old culture reappear and insert themselves into the new. Our stories somehow live on, traded underground, whispered in the dark. They are always worth telling, and I believe that they continue to exist somewhere in the universe. They can never be totally degraded by the bludgeon of time; even if no longer told or read, they are still felt in the bones of those who follow us. “All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one as before will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee.” -William Cullen Bryant “Thanatopsis.” I am not sure if this is a better column than the one that got away, but I am grateful that you are here to read it, and that I am here to write it down. I have been deleting threes from this text for an hour, but my words persisted. I managed to avoid erasure this time, so for now at least, they have not been scrubbed from the record. On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]

Dream Life

Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick I can dream, can’t I? I live in a fantasy world for a not-insubstantial portion of every day. My mind fixates on an idea for a business, or a new place to live, or a complete change in course on my career path. I have done this all of my life. I can build an entirely new imaginary existence for myself in the time it takes to walk the dog (approximately 90 minutes). Say I go to visit a friend in Asbury Park. My mind begins to assess the situation. Could I live there? What would my life be like? Miami? Maybe. The art scene is vibrant, and the multicultural vibe is cool. What about Palm Springs? Mexico City? Detroit? The possibilities are endless. “I used to think there was time, you know? That I could go back to New York City and work on stage again, or head to my old stomping grounds in Venice Beach,” Dennis said as he stared at the giant oak in his Austin backyard. “Somehow, I ran out. I’m in my 70’s; there is no way I could do that now. The window is too small, and the change would be too drastic. This, right here, where I am, this is it. This is my life for as long as I’m on the planet. Weird. I had so many plans.” I know that my time, too, is short, and most, if not all, of my pipe dreams are just that. But I do love them so … An ad popped up in my Instagram feed the other day, which prompted my most recent foray into a “what if” scenario. It featured a video camera moving slowly and lovingly around a leafy locale in Topanga Canyon. A woman’s sultry voice accompanied the images: “This property, listed at 1.3 million, features three small homes on one big, beautiful lot, each with its own distinct personality.” (I don’t have 1.3 million lying around, but go with me here.) I was transfixed, studying each small home in the charming estate. Which would I live in? Could I Airbnb the other two? Maybe it would be better to have at least one full-time renter? That would be more reliable. I started the video over. I think I would choose the cabin-like structure referred to as “Angel’s Nest.” It has the largest kitchen. I would build a big fence around the perimeter, something that complements the natural setting, maybe wood or bamboo in a neutral shade of brown. Or, I could give it character and paint it green to match the foliage. That way, the dog could run and run and run. He is happy with our lives, but on the occasions that we visit pals with a yard, he is ecstatic to have the chance to roam freely. He could have the “zoomies” any time that he wanted. A yard. That would be sweet. It would be farther from my sisters and nephew, but closer to the beach. Friends could come and stay for extended periods of time in one of the other abodes, or maybe a few of us could retire there together? I would definitely put in a lap pool. Swimming is a required activity in all of my dream lives. “When I am 72, I can cut my hair and swim every day, dunking my head at will. It can turn green at that point or be a frizzed-up mess, and it won’t matter more than a poot in a windstorm.” I think this often; sometimes even say it out loud. This is one of my regular fantasies. I spend time in the water whenever I can, but I don’t dare put my dyed blonde hair in a swirl of chlorine. I dream of diving, of doing laps of butterfly or backstroke, but for now, I am only allowed to paddle about, careful to keep my head and shoulders above the undulating blue. So, in my new Topanga life, I would need a lap pool. I would miss the epic grocery shopping available to me here in Beachwood. I routinely toggle between six different grocery stores because they each have one item or another that I prefer over the competition. I wonder if there is a local paper? I could write articles in the town rag about life in Topanga. I bet there is a coalition to preserve some of the historic buildings. (Does Topanga have historic buildings? Is it actually a town?) I could join the boosters, and we could have meetings at the local family-owned coffee shop, where, against all I know of myself and my propensity to cook at home, I will have become a regular. I have really enjoyed thinking about this newest possible new life. This mental exercise has got legs. I visited a friend up there once, but it was nighttime. I have made a note to take an afternoon to explore the area, because … Topanga Canyon, I mean, maybe? Why not? My friend Mellissa lives in a big, beautiful home where she is raising her three big, beautiful sons. She wants, one day, when everyone is grown and on their own, to get an apartment in Manhattan with a panoramic view of the city lights. She plans to take up smoking again and sit with a perfectly blended cocktail in her well-appointed living room and stare out at the wonder of the nation’s largest city. I, too, have a New York City life on the back burner at all times. I never tire of strolling purposefully down the streets and boulevards there. I would be a walker in a walking town. Heaven. There is no snow, sleet, or sweltering heat in the projection of how my life there would pan out, and I think it’s best to leave that fantasy intact, unless it threatens to become a reality. Then somebody who loves me needs to get the net. AISLES OF “IF”. About halfway up my street, there is a charming little mom-and-pop grocery store, next to the storied Beachwood Cafe. It is run by the son of the original proprietors and features a lot of essentials and last-minute finds. The shelves are sparsely filled, but they have everything from dog food to birthday candles, things one is grateful to find in a pinch. I stop in a few times a week during one of my walks. The employees all greet Fairness with a smile, and I love being able to dash in to pick up a pepper or a small bag of fresh herbs. They carry the only flavor of ice cream that I am helpless to resist Häagen-Dazs Vanilla Chocolate Chip, the devil in a carton. Some twenty years ago, the deli counter near the wine and spirits was well stocked and famous for its tuna salad, among other delights. Now it is barely functional. There are a few meats and cheeses available for slicing, and there are usually one or two “salads” on offer. One of potato or macaroni, and the other almost always is a turkey/cranberry concoction, which features too-big chunks of meat with dried cranberries and walnut halves. After every visit, I dream about taking over the deli counter and stocking it with delicious takeaway foods. I would have a tray of chicken paillard. There would be a lemon dressing and curls of Parmesan to add on at home. I would have things like pasta salad with pesto and three peas. Cold shrimp mixed with dill and mayo and topped with sliced nuts. There would be chewy, crackly almond cookies and butterscotch brownies. Rich coconut cake would be sold by the slice, and fluffy chocolate pots du crème available in compostable containers. I would sell out of everything by 5 P.M. and head home to take the dog for a long walk, then have a leisurely dinner at my favorite French bistro. A chef’s life. Of course, in the dream, my hands do not cramp and ache with crippling arthritis, my joints are flexible, and the physical demands of cooking for the multitudes are easily met. Some days, I am a resident in legendary Palm Springs and write a weekly column there called “This Old Life.” I get talked into running for city council and then mayor, because it is the one place where I would be considered young enough to do so. I start a program of expanded underground water storage and restore train service between the desert and Los Angeles. Everyone would compost, and traffic would cease to be an issue. We would start a collective that would gather all of the unwanted fruit that is tossed out every year and turn it into specialty marmalades. The proceeds would go toward job training, housing, and rehab for the homeless. I am a great mayor; they end up naming a street after me. There is one in San Francisco. I have always wanted to move there just to live on Broderick Street. In that scenario, I do not have to avoid gluten and am able to eat my weight in chewy, tangy sourdough bread. I go to the Wharf for fresh seafood three days a week and take the ferry over to Marin on Fridays to meet a friend for lunch. (I do not know a soul in Marin, but I am sure I could find a willing companion.) Sunday, I indulge in an Irish Coffee at BV’s and then stroll down to Golden Gate Park to watch the young families fly kites and play tag. I have a great life. I love my neighborhood and my proximity to the gorgeous Griffith Park. I am grateful for my long career and enjoy juggling the actor/writer/model life. It’s not as if I dream of other lives because I am unhappy in my present state; I just love imagining new ways of being in the world. What is it like to run a tasting room at a winery? Host a cooking show? Own a seaside gallery? I am still blessed with an abundance of energy and have a creative engine that is wont to crank into overdrive. I enjoy asking “what if” because the one thing that I am certain of is that, to age well, one has to be flexible and able to adapt to new circumstances. There may be little chance that I will enter into any of the worlds mentioned above, but I believe in keeping an open mind, because it feels important to remember that I am free to change, anytime for any reason. It’s the freedom that is at the heart of my imaginings. They say if you can dream it, you can do it, and, well–I probably won’t. But they also say … ”Never say never!” On we go … We extend our heartfelt gratitude to our valued subscribers whose support makes the publication of Wit and Wisdom possible. Thank you! This is a public episode. If you'd like to discuss this with other subscribers or get access to bonus episodes, visit bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe [https://bethbroderick.substack.com/subscribe?utm_medium=podcast&utm_campaign=CTA_2]