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

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

Beth Broderick dives deeply into her personal experience to deliver a weekly essay full of wit, wisdom, and stories from the heart. bethbroderick.substack.com (https://bethbroderick.substack.com?utm_medium=podcast)

Publisher

Beth Broderick

Category

arts · society & culture

Language

en

Explicit

No

First episode

4 Jan 2024

Latest episode

13 Oct 2026

Latest episodes

74 episodes in the feed.

1. 

   13 Oct 2026

   Never on a Sunday

   Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Eight hours of work, eight hours of play, and eight hours of sleep. That is the ideal.” I looked at him in disbelief; surely, I had heard him wrong? “Who on earth can do that?” “Very few, of course. It is the ideal, but that is rarely achieved. There are meals to prepare and pajamas to put on, teeth to brush and stories to read, but that is a different kind of work, one that nurtures us, so we allow it into the play category.” My wonderful therapist Gary explained all of this to me one day as we were working through my continued, will-never-shake-it, will-take-it-to-my-grave struggle with standing down, with taking time off, with surrendering the must-do list. ‘Eight hours of play????!!!!!! What????!!!! I am supposed to be the crazy one!’ I thought but did not say. I was trying to learn how to be normal, or at least not odd as all get out. Today is Sunday. I am supposed to spend it puttering, maybe doing some leisurely shopping followed by a long nap. In a nod to Gary, the gym is forbidden on this day of “rest,” though a dip in the pool is allowed, as long as it is not a dip in the one at the gym. I am getting the hang of Sunday, at least a little bit, and this is progress for me. I used to be so caught up in the whirlwind of life that I frequently held my pee for hours because I did not want to take the time to locate a restroom. I have to force myself sometimes, but these days I pay better attention to my body, at least on that score. This morning started with a long, lovely walk to the famous Hollywood Farmers’ Market. It is sprawling, covering four city blocks with vendor stands that offer a stunning variety of fresh-grown crops and other handmade goods. Jars of jelly and honey and roasted nuts. There are specialty soaps and cheese stands, bakeries, butchers, and fresh-cooked tamales. It is second in size and scope only to the even more notorious one that takes place in Santa Monica on Wednesdays and Saturdays. I warned Fairness that we might not be allowed to enter; dogs are not allowed in the Beverly Hills version, one more strike against that neighborhood for me. It is beautiful, but a bit heartless and very attached to the status quo. “We might have to just walk by, buddy.” It was a beautiful morning, the “heat dome” over Los Angeles finally giving way to showers and the first mild chill of the season. I wanted to pick up some fresh dates and tomatoes for a few recipe ideas, and it would be nice to knock that out, but the walk would be a good one, with or without that opportunity. When we were one block away, I could see tails wagging beside strollers as dogs of all shapes and sizes joined their families for a Sunday shop. We were in luck; the Hollywood folks allow our canine companions to join in the fun. My dog saw this too and began to grin broadly, picking up the pace, his tail at attention. He LOVES to be included; it doesn’t really matter what activity; he just wants to be a part of whatever I am doing. We sauntered in, pleased with ourselves and this welcome development, and were stopped almost immediately by a mother and her ten-year-old daughter who asked if they could meet my big doggo. “Oh yes. He loves the ladies!” This statement was superfluous to the scene, as his head melted into their hands and his big body began to lean into Mom’s thigh. They oohed and aahed, and Fairness ate it up, beaming as they said, “Isn’t he handsome? Isn’t he just the sweetest?” I thanked them for their kindness, and we moved on into the main market. “Stay with me, okay? Stay close to me, Fair,” I advised. I only needed two items but, of course, was drawn in by the gorgeous fresh-picked lettuces and greener-than-green broccoli. I could not pass up some hella fresh herbs, which will be great in a salad for tonight’s family dinner (which I am cooking). I tasted a new grape variety and was knocked out by its crisp texture and sweet zing. They went into the carry bag as well, which threatened to be a bit of a burden on the long walk home, but I paid it no mind. Yes, to those and to gorgeous yellow peppers and fresh late-season corn. I stuffed a few things into the dog-walking bag to balance the weight and gave in to the urge to buy two bunches of fresh dahlias for the dining table. I juggled and jangled a bit on the way back, stopping a few times to switch the bags, so that one shoulder did not bear the entire burden. It was a wildly satisfying adventure. A perfect Sunday activity, and one that is also on the “approved” list of activities that could be categorized as “play.” I also consider cooking to be on that list; it is work, of course, but a “cooking day” is a luxury, one I crave but rarely have time to indulge in. My friend Jeffrey and I both speak of such a day with reverence and a kind of besotted devotion. To wake and put up that first pie crust, then sip coffee studying a new recipe. Heaven. This is not true for everyone or even most folks, but for me a cooking day is a mitzvah, a blessing. Writing this column is not, of course, a leisure activity. I am technically NOT supposed to be doing it, but there are projects that feel dear to me which beg to be fit in between paying gigs and the hoops that must be jumped through to try to land them. This is one of them, and if that means giving the old work/play balance rules a bit of a bend, then so be it. There are no Sundays in show biz, Doctor Gary. That whole no-gym thing is the best I can do. ALL IN A DAYS WORK. There are no Sundays for those of us who make a living in the arts. When you are shooting a movie, your day off may very well be a Monday or slow Tuesday, and as filming goes on and the schedule gives way to the inevitable chaos, that precious time off could be any darned day. Sundays are not given special treatment. If you are doing a professional theater gig, they are the most arduous. Sunday features two shows in one day at the end of a long eight-show week. Sundays are why the house is required to provide an “Equity cot” so that performers can sprawl out between shows and rest their weary, aching bodies. Sundays are a tough taskmaster in the live arts. The industry begrudgingly honors a few holidays, but we often eke those out, working up to the last minute, then taking meetings and taping auditions while juggling the shopping, cooking, and party-attending commitments of home life. Of course this is true of many professions. The sports world is all about weekends. This begins as early as middle school, carries on through high school and college, and those lucky enough to go pro or semi-pro are called upon to serve up their time and talent, brains and brawn on a big old Sunday platter. This all while we eat chips and dip out of helmet-shaped bowls and barbecue out of makeshift car trunk picnics. The food world is another weekend profession. Chefs and wait staff and front-of-house personnel all ply their trade as we crowd into their booths and fill up their bar stools for a taste of leisure. The list goes on and on: firemen, hospital workers, police, dog walkers, physical trainers, and dentists who are covering the emergency hotline. A tooth does not politely wait until Monday to crack, nor does it hold off on that abscess because it’s Saturday. So, I spent the late morning reworking a screenplay, and I have spent these afternoon hours writing to you about why, technically, I should not be doing so. Might not have been leisure, but the pleasure was all mine. Well, I hope not ALL mine. I have to run, though. I’m making curried tomato lentil soup and arugula/pear salad with cranberries and walnut dressing for the sisters tonight. Talk about folks who do not ever, really, have a “weekend.” Parents of young children might be the best example. They are working every minute that the little devils are awake and resting with one eye open when they finally go to sleep. I could write about that for hours, but not today, not now, because I have the urge to pee and I promised Gary that I would honor that. How’s that for progress? 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)

2. 

   25 Sept 2026

   Good for you!

   Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “Do you eat a lot of spinach and other leafy greens?” “Yes. I love spinach, chard, and collards. No kale, though. Kale bites the big weenie. Nasty stuff.” My doctor, Mary, nodded her head in acknowledgment. “Any food that you have to massage for twenty minutes just to be able to chew it is off my list,” I went on. “A pal of mine recently ordered a kale Caesar salad and persuaded me to taste it—dreadful! And it threatened to cut the inside of my mouth. That thing tried to kill us both.” The doctor smiled; she is accustomed to hearing my opinions on a variety of topics. Her annual check-ups are long affairs, and I am a talker. She spends a great deal of time with each patient, making sure she is up to speed on their overall physical and mental health. She pointed to the screen where the sonogram of one of my kidneys could be seen. “Do you see those little squiggles?” she asked, pointing to a blurry black-and-white image. “Um, yeah,” I said, because I thought I did. I wasn’t 100% sure, but I wondered where she was going with this and wanted to get on with it. “They are little crystals which form in the kidneys, and when there are too many, they can form kidney stones, which are known to be terribly painful. We’ve all heard about some relative who had to pass a stone and what a nightmare it was.” Not really, but the woman is a genius, so I took her word for it. “And that’s, er, um, those squiggles are from spinach?” “Well, that is one culprit. Also nuts, especially almonds, and things like black tea. Do you drink a lot of tea?” I have gone off it, but I drank buckets of the stuff for the past few years. That started when I hired a pet psychic so that I could communicate with my dog, Roxy Votes, who had passed away, leaving me gutted. She was as close a companion as a canine can be. She knew what I was going to do before I did, and well before I did it. She was kind, smart, loving, and compassionate. I adored her. She was 16 years old, quite long-lived for a dog of her size, a 70-pound Shepherd/lab mix. We had a vet appointment coming up because Roxy V had been choking occasionally and would sometimes upchuck after eating. She was slowing down, but we were getting along fine otherwise, until the fateful day. The psychic was very tuned in. “She was not at home when the illness struck. Was she at daycare?” “She was with her pet-sitter who often took her back to her place after walks. That’s when it started, because when the gal dropped her off, she had taken a turn and was obviously struggling.” How could the psychic have known that? The interview went on, and I bought in fully, because the lady somehow knew stuff like that, and also, I needed to talk to my dog, and in the session, I felt like she was with me again. Near the end of the half-hour, the psychic asked me a personal question. “How have you been feeling? Roxy says you have been having a stomachache? Some kind of tummy trouble?” “Well, yes. I’ve been to see the doctor about it. We’re not sure what’s causing the pain.” “Roxy says it’s the coffee that’s hurting you. She says to stop drinking coffee.” And so, I did. She was a very observant dog, and, dead or not, if she thought I should stop drinking coffee, then by God I would stop. I switched to tea and drank buckets of it, over ice because my dentist told me to use a straw to protect my aged and weakening enamel. I added copious amounts of nut milk to it in order to avoid dairy, because that’s just something a lot of people started doing in the 90’s and 2000s, and I have kept it up. THE RULES KEEP CHANGING. I think it all began with diet books like “Fit For Life,” which held dairy products responsible for a host of ailments that can plague the human body. That one was about the science of food combining, about what to eat and when to eat it, in order to maximize one’s metabolic rate. There was also a theory in show biz that consuming dairy products caused a layer of fat to form over a person’s muscles. This was at a time when thin and sculpted was an absolute must in the “attractiveness” game. Shows like “Friends” had actresses competing to be the thinnest and most defined. I, too, employed the “skinny” card with great devotion, but boy, oh boy, what I wouldn’t give now for a little of that skin fat to plump up my getting-a-tad-crinkly arms. (Yes, I bought the Crepe Erase crap those actresses were hawking on social media. No, it did not work, and also, it smells icky.) I have no idea if eating dairy actually causes any of those issues, but I bought into it. Remember that we are dealing with a person who gave up coffee because her deceased dog told her to. Though I would have denied it just yesterday, it has become painfully obvious, while writing this, that I am a buyer-inner. At first, I embraced soy milk and soy-related products as a substitute. I found it rich and delicious, and it was very healthy for us until we found out that it might not be, and it was decided that excess soy could contribute to estrogen-related health issues like breast cancer. So, in the name of caution, I switched to almond, which is tasty, creamy, and low-calorie, until it was frowned upon because almonds require an insane amount of water to cultivate, and we are in a constant state of drought. So, then I switched to a mixture of macadamia, cashew, and almond milk because big yum and so, so good for me… right? Maybe not. The list of things that can cause those crystal-ly bits is long and features almost all of my very favorite go-to foods. Things like lemon zest, which I cook with often, and apple peel, which is supposed to contain the healthiest elements of the fruit. The leafy greens that we have been constantly instructed to consume and the nut-derived milks and cheeses we thought were so much healthier are all in the making-squiggly-lines-on-your-kidney-pictures business. It’s impossible to keep track of the things that are good for you but also are not. A glass of wine is either great for your heart or killing you softly. The jury is out. Coffee was once considered a toxin, but it’s back in favor and a supposed contributor to longevity. The decaf that folks were told to turn to for safety is said to be hard to process and therefore is now a no-no. Eggs were great for you, then out to get you, then great for you again. A large number of Millennials believe that eggs bother their digestion and have given them up, much like we eschewed dairy in my day. I am NOT surrendering my damned leafy greens. I love them, and that’s that. I admit to buying some half-and-half (lactose-free, of course) for my low-acid coffee (old habits die hard), because those heretofore suspect beverages have been given the green light, for now at least. I will do my best to avoid developing those uncle-bedeviling, painful-to-pass stones in my otherwise good-looking kidneys. It makes a certain kind of sense that all of the things that are good for us are also bad. Our very existence is a crap-shoot, our health a guessing game, and that is in some ways the fun part. There will always be more questions than answers, and I, for one, can live with that … until I die. 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)

3. 

   9 Sept 2026

   Hooray for Hollywood

   Wit and Wisdom by Beth Broderick “You ladies would not cotton to it. There are wonderful things to see and do, but you have to put up with no small amount of congestion, some very unkempt areas, and a whole passel of Hollywood characters.” My gal pals are all kinds of intrepid, and they are serious warriors for good. They sit on boards for concerned scientists and job training foundations for at-risk youth. They raise money for the environment and for any and every candidate for office who promises to protect it. They fund wildlife defense here and abroad. They protect the lions and lobby for the right to a first-rate education for all. They fight for women’s rights and advocate for the LGBTQ community. They are brave and brilliant, but they are not likely to enjoy my treks through Hollywood’s more sordid environs. Cookie, Nancy, and Sara give until it hurts and then give some more; they are the stuff of legend, but my ladies don’t do doo-doo, and one has to step around quite a bit of it on my side of town. Fairness and I have made a few discoveries since moving back to Hollywood proper. It is an area that is at once steeped in history and in a constant state of transition. This part of town is known for the bustle, hustle, and noise of Hollywood Boulevard and the great gaggle of tourists who find their way to it, thrilling to the sight of a star carved with the name of their favorite celebrity. Pictures are taken, souvenirs purchased, and tours arranged with breathless excitement. A picture in front of the Hollywood sign, which to Angeleno’s is nothing more than a big word on a smallish hill, is a rite of passage. They will block traffic, run out in front of moving vehicles, walk for miles in inadequate footwear, just for the chance to capture themselves in the foreground. A lot of folks are annoyed by their antics, but I am touched by their dogged insistence on the joy of it all. Bless. There is a lot of blather in the blogosphere about how unbearable life is in Hollywood. A recent round of internet gossip insisted that the venerable Hollywood institution “Musso & Frank’s” had been driven out of business by the homeless crisis and the attendant “crime” that accompanies it. “Such a shame about that place. It’s just terrible that they’ve got to close,” my friend Dean said in reference to the wonderful old-school restaurant. “It’s not closing,” I said. “It takes weeks to get a reservation at Musso’s. They are more popular than ever.” “Are you sure? It’s all over the internet that they are shutting down.” “I was just there a month or two ago.” It was packed to the rafters with people waiting patiently for a chance to savor their famous sand dabs and decadent Lyonnaise potatoes. My friends all had one of their bracing martinis. The crisp and elegant drink is served straight up with a small shaker of refill nestled into a bowl of ice; the place is still old-school California dining at its best. “It is not closed; not even close to closing.” Dean was scrolling in search of verification. “Oh, you’re right. The owners say that’s just a rumor; that business has never been better. Huh. Wonder who started that whole thing? What was that about?” I shrugged. “Haters are gonna hate.” Dean is an adventurer; he will go to great lengths to pursue an experience. He loves theater and concerts, art exhibits, gorgeous gardens, and, of course, great dining. He is not put off by difficult parking or hella traffic or stepping over a few folks who have chosen a strange place to catch a few zzzz’s. He is not judgmental about such things, so that rumor had to be pretty convincing to fool him. The misinformation is coming at us so fast and furiously these days that it is hard to know what is true. I think it prudent to regard most of it with a healthy dose of skepticism. THE OTHER SIDE OF TINSELTOWN. The neighborhood extends well beyond those few storied blocks. Heading west on Franklin, the traffic slows and the scenery charms. There are large estates tucked up into the hills and ivy-covered walls obscuring the view of well-preserved garden apartments, where vacancy is a rarity. Of course, I have driven down that street for forty years, but I never really saw it until now. Walking through it is the only way to really know what a city is made of. I cannot believe that it took me this long to finally tour the grounds of the old “Wattles Mansion and Gardens.” The estate is now owned by the city, which maintains the grounds and offers the buildings up for filming or weddings or whatever event one might wish to use them for. The locals all meet there in the late afternoons to let their dogs play and loll about in the cool grass. Fairness and I avoid the crowd and wander toward the back, hoping for a quick game of catch. Most days we succeed in finding a few moments of play before the light begins to fade and it is time to head for home. As one heads south on Curson, you can peek in at the Wattles community garden that occupies two city blocks. Folks can rent a plot there for a small fee and grow their own vegetables or plant cutting gardens. Avocados abound, along with all manner of crops and flower beds. Bags of soil and sets of tools line the perimeter of each space, and a few folks have set up tables and chairs for lunch breaks. I could stare into that place for hours and still not register all of the gorgeous detail of the endeavors at hand. Go across Hollywood Boulevard to the south, and you will find a charming historic district called “Sunset Square.” How had I not known of this before? It is a quiet, leafy oasis which boasts well-preserved Craftsman-style homes. There are tons of well-established trees, heavy with lemons, grapefruit, and oranges. I saw pears too, and figs and a host of apple varieties. As one continues east, you pass the Gardener Elementary School. Then the buildings get bigger and newer, and the landscape gives way to more corporate real estate interests. The entrance to the famed Runyon Canyon Park is due north, and the sidewalks are busy with hikers on their way to beat down the paths that run up and through it. The popularity of these hiking trails cannot be overstated. The place is consistently overrun with enthusiasts. I avoid it because there are far too many off-leash dogs running around in those hills, and I prefer to avoid the risks inherent in that, but never say never. Fairness and I are going to sign up for a training program that teaches proper socialization and a controlled response to whatever may arise in that situation. So maybe? Maybe. Just a few blocks to the east, and one is in the heart of the tourist mecca, where street vendors hawk everything from hot sausage with peppers to hats with “Hollywood” emblazoned on them and all manner of trinkets and keepsakes. Head north, and you will find beautiful old buildings like the Nirvana and the Villa Bonita, which is said to have housed Errol Flynn in his heyday. There are hidden gems like the Valentino building, which is full of fountains and historic apartments with exquisite architectural details. I lived there for a time and know it well. Due east, there are new high-rises, most of them mixed-use buildings with stores like Trader Joe’s and Bristol Farms on the ground floor, which cater to their residents. Keep going and head just a few blocks up to Whitley Heights, which is full of old estates bordered by the 101 freeway on one side and Franklin Avenue on the other. The flats below have wonderful old places to see like the Fontenoy, La Leyenda, and El Cabrillo. The latter boasts a plaque that states it was built by Cecil B. DeMille. One assumes these were erected to house the artists and artisans who contributed to the early days of cinema and got the ball rolling for the juggernaut of the entertainment industry, which brings hordes of visitors to the sites nearby. There are dodgy bits, of course, as I make my way through these streets. I have pepper spray at the ready and keep an eye out for trouble. Some folks are sleeping under makeshift tents, while others are dragging their belongings down the street. The lucky ones have carts, but many have everything they own stuffed into a black trash bag. There is the occasional screamer, coping with the effects of crystal meth or fentanyl. I recently saw a young man staring into the side-view mirror of a parked car and punching himself in the face. I felt sorry for him and wanted to intervene, to help somehow, but I know better. We crossed the street and left him to it. We passed by Miceli’s Italian Restaurant. My friends and I have had many a mediocre, but somehow still wonderful meal there. Someone is always at the piano, and the wait staff takes turns singing mostly old standard tunes. Lovely. The other day Michael and I looked for the site of the old Les Deux Cafe, where I spent many an evening. The one and only Michelle Lamy helped to plan my first wedding, and we held it there with 200 guests all dressed in white. The bridesmaids and groomsmen performed musical numbers during the ceremony, and we even talked the priest into playing the maracas. It was wild and woolly and great fun. Folks still talk about that wedding; it was memorable in a way that the marriage was not. Turns out we were too far north to find the building before the rain began to fall in earnest, so we gave up and headed for home. There are many more walks to be taken; I am sure to visit it soon. The apartment is still in disarray; many boxes remain unpacked as I try to figure out how to squeeze my too many things into a space with too little storage. Dardan, the wildly talented handyman who has helped me on several occasions, is due back from Europe next week, and we will set about building me into this place. I am okay with the chaos because I love this part, love creating a new environment. I find it helps to just sit with a room for a bit before deciding what to fill it with. Free-floating shelves or a cabinet? Table with a bench or chairs? Keep the simple shades or add window treatments? The walls will whisper the answers to me in due time. Like the streets all around me, they have stories to tell and history to share. How grand that I will occupy a small part of that someday. Hooray for Hollywood! 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)

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5.0 / 5

1 ratings

Podcast Authority Score: 40 / 100

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Engagement

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