My Personality in Six TV Commercials

  

 

There’s a terrific book of essays by Kathleen Norris and Gareth Higgins. It’s called A Whole Life in Twelve Movies, and a small group of my friends has gathered regularly after watching each suggested film, to discuss the relevance of said film to the stages of our lives. For example, the first movie/essay combo was 2001: A Space Odyssey, and the life stage was “waiting to be born”. Other chosen flicks include The Fisher King (the breaking and remaking of self), Malcolm X, (vocation) and Babette’s Feast. (generosity). Our sharing has been deep and meaningful, and it’s been a great experience.

 

Which means, of course, I am compelled to write a parody of it. I’m calling mine:

 

MY PERSONALITY IN SIX TV COMMERCIALS 

A listing of ads that speak to me (and about me)…

 

Here goes!

 

#1 I HAVE A SHORT ATTENTION SPAN

SKITTLES

Any of the brief, weird “taste the rainbow” ads, especially the one where the guy is milking a giraffe and Skittles pour out. Keeps me focused for the entire 20 seconds.

 

#2 I’M VERY TALKATIVE

HUMIRA ARTHRITIS MEDICATION

The rat-a-tat voiceover of doom at the end:

“HumirahasbeenknowntocauseinfectionsandcancersincludinglymphomakidneyliverthyroidandeyelashcancerdonottakeHumiraifyouhavetestedpositiveforTBscurvyorhaveapositiveattitudeaskyourdoctorifhumiraisrightforyoubutevenifhesaysyesitcankillyousothisisyourwarning.” 

 

I’m not THAT bad. Am I?

 

#3 I’M RATHER BOSSY

PALMOLIVE DISH LIQUID

The oldie featuring overbearing manicurist Madge, who insists on soaking her customers’ fingers in Palmolive Liquid “because it softens hands while you do dishes.” Her patrons probably haven’t washed a dish in their lives, but they are too terrified of Madge to request actual hand lotion instead. I can be quite Madge-like at times (ask my fam).

 

#4 I’M FUNNY-ISH 

It is generally accepted that I do have a sense of humor of some sort. I find the emu and the talking lizard in insurance ads unbearable. If you think those are a riot, we may not see eye to comic eye. Instead, I really enjoy the snarky PROGRESSIVE (also insurance, hmmm?) commercials where the guy is teaching people not to be like their parents. If you also like those, you’ll probably find me funny-ish.

 

 

#5 I’M SMART-ISH

 

My intelligence level is a matter of opinion. My fourth grade teacher Sister Mary Brendan told me I was too smart for my own good. That said, I identify with the classic Partnership for a Drug-Free America’s THIS IS YOUR BRAIN ON DRUGS ad, which I credit for both my terror of losing what brain cells I still do possess, and my lingering fear of fried eggs.

 #6 I’M AFFECTIONATE

I will never hold a candle to my warm and fuzzy mom Joanie, but I do sprinkle my convos with plenty of “honeys” and “sweeties,” and if you are in arm’s reach of me you WILL be hugged. Guaranteed.I had to choose between commercials for Huggies diapers and Hershey Hugs chocolates. Unsurprisingly, HERSHEY HUGS won (though Huggies is another fine product, one I purchased quite often for the diaper needs of my five babies).

 

There you have it! 

 

How about you? What songs/plays/books/etc. would sum YOU up?

All Checked Out

Party in a jug!

I am really embarrassed to admit something, so I will do what I always do when this happens. I will admit it to a couple hundred friends, and even perfect strangers, who read my blog and newsletter. The idea is to confess my shame in public--the way medieval penitents wore hairshirts out in the streets—and then, hopefully, never make that particular mistake again.  

So here goes.

 

I’m a little late scheduling my colonoscopy. Like 15+ years late. Oh, I got the first one right on time. All I recall was what most people recall—the disgusting prep. Then I was knocked out cold. I do remember the doctor saying after I came to, "Everything looks fine now, but make sure you keep up with your regular testing schedule.” I immediately defined “regular testing schedule" as “15+ years from now,” and then went on with my unexamined colon, and life.

 

But wait! it gets worse. I have had less than half of the mammograms you are supposed to undergo. I neglected my teeth for years (NOT 15+ years! That would be ridiculous!), and then had to have a tooth extracted. The anesthesia didn’t really take, so I basically reenacted the dental torture scene with Dustin Hoffman and Laurence Olivier in Marathon Man. Never again! I swore.  And I haven’t—even though I have another tooth that is cracked and probably should also be excised from my mouth at some distant point in the future. Regular blood work? Gynecologist visits? Dermatologist to look at some suspicious spots on my legs? Oh, please!

 

I've been feeling that “radical self-care” is a form of egomania. Why should I fuss and fret over myself? Isn’t that rather conceited of me? Why am I so darned important? I’d much rather badger Steve to have his cataracts removed, or advise a church friend to seek medical help when their flu keeps hanging on. “Take care of yourselves!” I tell them, rather sternly. “I want to hear you’ve made that appointment!”  And, bless them, they usually do as I say (not as I do).

 

But age 70 is looming on my horizon, and it’s finally occurring to me that I can probably lengthen my remaining lifespan with more regular tune ups. So I’ve decided to get it all done this year--much like pulling into the Gulf station and telling your mechanic, “Oh, go ahead and replace the tires, fix the oil leak, change the spark plugs and put on new brakes--I’m here getting a tank of gas anyway!”

 

Say, that gives me a genius idea! A chain of medical quick marts called “Insta-Med!” You enter the bay. A skilled physician hoists you up and gets to work on you from head to toe. In less than an hour, you’re back on the road, with an inspection sticker, good as new!

 

So, why don’t one of YOU run with this concept?  I promise I’ll swing on by for body work! 

 

Every 15+ years or so. Definitely. 

Probably.

photo by Engin Akyurt on Unsplash

Cancelling My Plans

Yay?

 “Snow Day!!” I recall my reaction to those words back in my childhood. As I heard the school closing number of my district come up on the radio (remember those?), I’d rejoice. A day to loll about in jammies, drinking hot cocoa! To cavort in the brisk, snow-blanketed outdoors, sledding and skating and building many a jolly snowperson! Curl up with a good book! Bake cookies! Oh, mine were grand plans!

 

But that excitement rapidly devolved into crashing boredom. Too cold to go outside, for cavorting or any other purposes, no cocoa and no cookie fixings in the pantry. By 1 PM, as I sat tuned to “As The World Turns” while idly scanning yet another tabloid tale about Liz Taylor’s wedding #12, I was yearning for the lively school days of diagramming sentences and winning spelling bees. Even being picked last for kickball was suddenly appealing. 

 

I grew into a conflicted adult, who delighted in a full calendar of coming events, but delighted even more when she could cross those events off that calendar, unattended. That downtown concert I’d so eagerly anticipated? Traffic! Parking issues! Crowded venue! Sitting next to a cougher! BEING that cougher! So stressful, and such a huge relief when the featured artist had to cancel! Oh, joy—now I could sit around all evening doing…absolutely nothing. Yawn. Wish I was at a concert or something!

 

At work, I envied stay at home moms no end—until I spent any time as one. Answering to a boss? Or catering to Boss Baby? Much as I loved my kiddos (and, often, my job) it was a rare day when I could honestly say that I didn’t wish I was elsewhere. 

 

And now I have at last reached the advanced age where I have automatic permission to flake out on plans. Disco dancing (is that still a thing?) is a giant NO for me, ditto anything involving physical activity of any kind, including stairs. I used to tsk-tsk to see Steve’s mom dozing off in her recliner; these days, I long to be a recliner-bound snoozer myself. And I could get away with it now, because at age 69, I believe I’ve earned the right to be completely idle. When I hear of senior cruises and lecture series and Zumba classes, I think: “You busy busy old people are spoiling retirement for the rest of us! Slow down, for Heaven’s sake, and take a nap!”

 

But then I get my wish, and, as my family bustles off and I am left alone in the peace and quiet, all I want is to run after their car and beg to go along. 

 

There must be a way to live serenely in the present moment, content with whatever is on my docket. I think about this during my daily meditation time, when I’m supposed to not be thinking at all, I think.  

 

Meanwhile, on this January snow day, the grass is still greener. 

 

Or whiter, as the case may be.

I gotta get out of here!

Fear of Falling

Sister Mo and me--safe in our playpen!

My youngest grandson, Dimitri, is 16 months old. His daily routine involves climbing anything and everything, and falling down at least as often as he succeeds. I realize baby tumbles are most often not as serious as they look (witness Mitri bouncing happily back up within nanoseconds of a flop). But it’s still pretty impressive, that physical agility and resilience.  

I don’t remember being 16 months old myself, of course. But I do clearly recall every significant fall of my youth--down Grandma Berrigan’s basement stairs, out of the apple tree in our Ardsley, NY backyard, getting knocked down by New Jersey shore ocean waves multiple times. In 9^th grade, trying to walk downhill to high school one morning and hitting a patch of black ice—painful wipeout leading to a chiropractor. 

 

As I aged, my athletic prowess never progressed much. For example, I didn’t learn to catch a thrown ball until I was in a play in my early 20s, and had to do it as part of the show. In the “staying upright” department, I didn’t fare much better. Exhibit A: my famous “Wizard of Oz” onstage incident when Dorothy (moi) fell on the Yellow Brick Road and broke her wrist. 

 

Expectant mothers in their last trimesters tend to have the grace of elephants (which is patently unfair to elephants). Our center of gravity has majorly shifted, and also we cannot see our feet. I took some slips over my five pregnancies, but was always careful to shield my child-filled tummy from contact with the floor. When I was expecting Julie (#5), I was cleaning the shower stall and lost my balance. Stomach safe, but tailbone cracked. 

 

All of which leads me to my current situation. I am 69 years old, and I have become TERRIFIED of falling. Back in the day, my mom fell and broke her hip—and died exactly one year later. Need I say more? Seriously, though, my phobia is really out of control. My hiking days (not that there were many of those) are definitely over. I take the stairs in the house as slowly and gingerly as a 100 year old. I envision my collection of bones as super-brittle, ready to shatter at the mere mention of slippage.  I live with six other family members, or I’d be on the phone today, purchasing a Life Alert device. Somehow my hubby, at 76, is still as spry as a mountain goat. 

 

What to do? Well, I stopped wearing high heels 15 years ago, so that’s a tiny help. Otherwise? I don’t yet use a walker, and installing one of those stairlift thingies may be a tad premature. Unfortunately, the way I solved my night-driving issues (I just stopped driving after dark entirely) is not practical in this instance. 

 

I guess I could decide that I’m better off never walking again, and conduct the remainder of my life from the safety of my comfy chair. But that’d be a bit ridiculous. 

 

Wouldn’t it be?

How Public Was My Domain!

the Boopster herself!

I can’t speak for my fellow scribes, but for me, the list of masterworks that have entered the public domain as of January 1^st is very exciting! For decades now, I’ve longed to publish spoofs of The Secret of the Old Clock (the first Nancy Drew mystery), the WWI classic All Quiet on the Western Front, and Leroy Anderson’s bouncy “Sleigh Ride." Now I can, and it’s all perfectly legal!! 

 

My only question is—do I tackle the gems separately, or together? One by one would make the most sense. So, of course, I vote for a mashup. What do you think of:

 

Our Town is (the dance, also the city) Charleston

 

Betty Boop stars in this touching drama of an unflappable young flapper and her love interest, struggling Hungarian composer Bela Bartok, dreaming of fame and fortune in a small New England town located in coastal South Carolina. Buster Keaton plays the Stage Manager.

 

No? 

 

Then how about:

 

I’m Just Wild about Winston (Subtitle: The Man Who Never Gave In. Never, Never Never)

 

Thrilling musical biopic about Churchill, directed by Frank Capra. Original score by Ira and George Gershwin includes such tuneful tunes as “Embraceable Statesman” and “I’ve Got a Crush on the British Empire.” Toe-tapping history at its finest.

 

Or maybe…

 

The Little Engine that Could Commit Murder in the Vicarage.

 

The unlikely creative pairing of Watty Piper and Agatha Christie have inspired me to come up with the best children’s book of the year. Tiny tots everywhere will delight as the scrappy little train repeats, over and over and over, “I think I can!” while plotting the demise of unpopular village magistrate Colonel Protheroe. Can the engine do it? You’ll learn the answer tonight at bedtime!

 

There are, to be sure, still lots of juicy works that aren’t yet fair game. “Achy Breaky Heart,” for example. From Justin to Kelly. The entire Colleen Hoover oeuvre. I’ll need to wait a spell to mock Ben Affleck’s “Gigli” and the earwormy song “Baby Shark” (but seriously, aren’t they both self-parodies anyway?)

 

However, I take solace from the fact that I can, with impunity, pilfer the entire canons of Shakespeare and Sophocles, movie classics such as The Saphead and Our Modern Maidens, and the 1929 song “Turn On the Heat," with my VERY favorite lyrics “If you are good/my little radiator/it’s understood/you’ll get a gumdrop later.” How clever!

 

While I chafe at the restrictions on using recent copyrighted works, I’m certainly glad they apply to my own writings. I’d be furious if, say, some lazy imitator played around with my wonderful op-ed for The Independent, “Kim Kardashian and Pete Davidson Are Over--Or Are They?” I mean, talk about evergreen stuff! 

 

Lately, some of my writer friends are discovering that their pieces are being used (without permission) to train A.I. I hurriedly Googled my own essays and guess what? NO one is using anything!!!! 

 

Hey! What’s the matter with MY work, Chat GPT? Not good enough to pirate?

 

I’m insulted.