by Rita Rudner
Let me just state that when I agreed to write for the Oscars, I knew nothing about the basket. I was just honored to have been asked. I didn’t even inquire about the money (scale). I simply wanted the experience. Sometimes things actually surprise you in a good way.
Here is a partial list of what we received. It is a few years later, so I’m sure I’ll leave something out, but don’t worry. You’ll still be impressed.
1. A Christian Dior handbag. Brown and beautiful. I was very happy.
2. A digital camera. Small and silver. My husband was very happy.
3. A certificate for a two-day stay in a suite at the Ritz-Carlton of our choice. We were both very happy.
4. A certificate for a two-week safari in Africa. We were both a little afraid.
5. Crystal candlesticks.
6. A fantastic Fendi silver watch for a female.
7. A fantastic Fendi silver watch for a male.
8. Bottles of vodka, champagne, and cognac.
9. His-and-hers designer sunglasses. (I can’t remember the designer and we lost the glasses some time ago.)
10. A huge box of Godiva chocolates.
11. A fringed silk scarf.
12. A certificate for the use of the newest model of BMW for two weeks.
13. A certificate for a new bed that conforms to your body.
14. A bottle of Joy perfume.
15. Multiple bottles of glorious creams and lotions.
16. A $200 gift card for Lancôme makeup.
17. A $250 gift card for Banana Republic.
18. A $250 gift card for Old Navy.
19. A leather wallet.
20. A certificate for a new office chair.
21. United Airlines flight upgrades.
22. Magic pimple cream.
23. A certificate for a free shot of Botox.
24. A free facial and body massage at a glamorous spa.
25. A silver picture frame.
26. And finally, certificates for a teeth-whitening session and LASIK eye surgery.
Now, I’m sure I’m leaving things out, but I’m also sure you’re impressed. I certainly was. It was Christmas in October. The next year I was fortunate to be asked to write for the Oscars again. I was flattered, but before officially accepting I said, “Yes, on the condition I get the basket.”
* * *
My last credit card bill was so big, before I opened it I actually heard a drumroll.
* * *
And Up
READING A FASHION MAGAZINE THE OTHER DAY, I discovered an article entitled “How to Look Good in Your Twenties, Thirties, Forties, and up.”
It was bad enough that the fifties were not included as a decade, but the word up wasn’t even capitalized. It was as if the editors of the magazine felt it best not to draw attention to the fact that an “and up” person might read the magazine, in case it adversely affected their advertising revenue.
I am “and up.” So are many of my friends. One of them recounted to me a phone call she had gotten recently. It was an unsolicited telemarketing call, and because she was brought up to be a wee bit too polite, instead of slamming down the receiver she decided to answer the ensuing questions to the best of her ability.
The phone rings. My friend answers it.
My friend: Hello?
Unsolicited caller: Hello, could I take a few minutes of your time to answer some questions?
M.F.: Sure.
U.C.: Are you in the eighteen-to-twenty-nine age group?
M.F.: No.
U.C.: Are you in the twenty-nine-to-thirty-nine age group?
M.F.: No.
U.C.: Are you in the thirty-nine-to-forty-nine age group?
M.F.: No.
U.C.: (Hangs up.)
My friend never got the chance to find out which product was being researched because, being over fifty, she was deemed irrelevant. She began the conversation thinking she was doing the telemarketer a favor and ended up being insulted and having to resort to a midmorning gin and tonic.
The logic of ignoring baby boomers escapes me. We make up 27.5 percent of the population; our average annual household pretax income is $57,700, and collectively our annual spending power is $2.1 trillion a year. Why do they hate us?
The reasoning I’ve heard is that after age fifty, people’s brand loyalties are deemed to be set in cement. There is assumed to be nothing a commercial or print advertisement can entice us with that will make us open our wallets to a new product.
I’m sorry, but my experience says otherwise. More often than not, I am so dissatisfied with the current brand of whatever I am using that I can’t wait to be lied to and sold something promising to be better. My family has owned four different brands of computers and I can guarantee you that a fifth is in our future. I am also a bargain seeker. I love an open-box special or a rebate coupon that is so difficult to fill out that I give up halfway through and pretend it never existed. I also respond to pretty colors; package something in a bright pink box and chances are I’ll buy it. I’m not proud of these characteristics, but I’m being honest so as to make my point.
Now, I know there are a few twentysomethings out there who are billionaires. They invented a dot-com company and sold it before anyone realized it was nonsense. Or their parents toiled so hard they died at an early age and left behind a fortune for their offspring. Them apart, I remember how much money I had in my twenties: I could just about afford my rent and bus fare. Why are advertisers so keen to sell things to people who are barely keeping their gelled heads above water? The twentysomethings I know are still being at least partially supported by their fiftysomething parents.
I rarely see someone over thirty in a car commercial. Rationally, how is someone in the eighteen-to-twenty-nine age group going to be able to afford a new automobile? Where did they make $30,000? At the gym? Unless they’re selling drugs, chances are they’re going to have to smile prettily at Mommy and Daddy for financial aid. Wouldn’t advertisers be better served by car commercials aimed at the people who are actually going to fork over the money for the car?
“You’ve had a baby. You’ve raised it to the best of your ability. You’ve paid for the finest education you could afford. Now you’ve let your baby loose in this crazy world where people drive like maniacs, and all you can do is hope for the best. You built the child, we built the car that will keep that child alive. The Toyota Bodyguard: the only car on the road that comes with a driver.” I’d buy one for my daughter now and she’s five.
As far as other products go, write “low fat” on it and I’ll try it. Make it smell like daisies in a field and I’m there…even though I have no idea what daisies in a field smell like. The only products that are being directly marketed to my age group and above are prescription medications. If I had osteoporosis or had to go to the bathroom forty times a day, I’d feel included. The problem is I don’t have either of these ailments just yet, although I am thinking of signing up for the medications so they’ll keep the advertisements on the air. It’s the only time I see an actress over fifty on television.
Contrary to Madison Avenue’s beliefs, I feel that in our fifties we are more likely to try new things and have more money to try them. We’re living longer, and not only that, we’re keeping our teeth. As Glenn Close said in whatever that movie was called (OK, I’ll admit my memory isn’t what it used to be), “I will not be ignored.”
And just so you know how prevalent the baby boomers remain, while you were reading this article, three more people turned fifty. Their husbands and wives and friends threw them big birthday parties and bought them lots of expensive presents. Take that, you telemarketers.
* * *
I can never ask for money back after I’ve loaned it to a friend and they forget to return it. The most I can do, when I’m over their house, is break something of that approximate value.
* * *
Casualties
IT SEEMS THAT WITH EVERY PASSING YEAR PEOPLE’S dress habits become more and mor
e casual. The “I’m on my way to the gym” look has gradually taken over the world. I think sneakers have to accept some of the blame. The casual look definitely began with feet. Once you have casual feet, why not continue up? I will go out on a limb here and say that 99 percent of the people who wear jogging suits have never jogged and will never do so. I know; I’m one of them.
My husband and I were dropping my daughter off at school the other morning. “Why do all the mothers look like they’re in the Olympics?” Martin asked.
“Sweatpants are not only for people who sweat,” I replied. “They’re also for people who have to get their child to school so early that they can’t work a button or a zipper. And there’s a plus: if they ever get the urge to do any exercise, they’re ready.”
Mothers getting their children to school on time are not the only clothing offenders. I was flying cross-country a few weeks ago and a man walked onto the plane wearing something he must have purchased from a shop called Hawaiian Nightmare. There should be a law limiting how many colors are permitted to appear on one shirt, and this man should have been arrested. His look was completed with baggy shorts, a backward baseball cap, and flip-flops. I’m not saying it’s wrong to be comfortable on a long trip, but a plane is not a beach. I felt like adding sand to the floor so he could build a castle. The man’s hair appeared to have been cut by a weed whacker, and his two-day stubble contained bits of food. I wouldn’t have minded so much if he hadn’t been the pilot.
Ok, I’m kidding, but it was the attire of the man sitting next to me and it was a good joke.
As with anything, moderation is the key. My in-laws are on the opposite side of the clothing coin. When traveling on a twelve-hour flight from England to Las Vegas, my father-in-law dons a suit and tie and my mother-in-law will not enter an airport unless she’s wearing high heels, stockings, and a girdle. Oh yes, and a dress. I don’t want to get her arrested. Wait, maybe I do. Anyway, when we greet them in Las Vegas, due to lack of circulation they are usually a light shade of blue.
The embellished jean was “jeanius.” I don’t know who thought of adding sequins and rhinestones to farm attire, but it works for me. It says, Yes, I’m casual, but I’m also dressed up and ready to party. I’ll pay six times more for a pair of jeans that sport Swarovski crystals than I will for a pair that has pockets. I don’t know who this guy Swarovski is, but he’s everywhere. He’s on my handbags, in my hair, and around my neck. The two men I now spend the most time with are my husband and Swarovski.
Now, as I’ve told you, I love jeans, but the low, tight jean is a fashion that only 2 percent of the women in America can wear attractively. Unfortunately, it is being worn by at least 62 percent. I can’t help thinking that if these women can afford the latest fashion statement, they can also afford a mirror. My husband and I were walking along the street the other day and passed an ample woman wearing tight, low-cut jeans and a short knit cropped top. Her middle bulged generously. My husband looked at her and uttered, “That reminds me…I have to check my tires.”
My daughter wears a school uniform. Yes, the children look a little Stepfordy, but they do look neat. I think clothing can influence behavior. My daughter is definitely more polite when she has her blouse tucked in.
The clothing of young boys mystifies me. I’m told the baggy look originated because it made it easy to conceal weapons and the look just caught on with the male population. At this point not only could they conceal weapons, they could conceal washing machines. They’re not even pants anymore; they’re socks with a belt. And all these kids are on cell phones. What are they saying? “Hey, dude, how many times did you trip over your pants today?”
If the world continues this clothing downslide, people will soon be getting married in pajamas. We’ve gone from wearing suits of armor to wearing tablecloths. Comfort is important, but aesthetics count too. If not, let’s all cut holes in sheets and stick our heads through them. (However, let’s first make sure they’re colored or patterned so nobody thinks we’re bigots.)
I do feel better when I make even the slightest of efforts to spruce myself up. In fact, I’m going to go change. Today I’m not picking up my daughter from school wearing a jogging suit. I’m not wearing blue jeans with Swarovski crystals. No, I’m wearing a dress, high heels, makeup, earrings, and my good watch. Oh, whom am I kidding? I’m staying in my jogging suit. It’s more comfortable, and who knows, I might even get the urge to jog.
* * *
I used to be a vegetarian, but I quit because it has side effects. I found myself sitting in my living room, starting to lean toward the sunlight.
* * *
Christmas Rap
THERE IS A DOWNSIDE TO BEING HAPPILY MARRIED to the same man for eighteen years. Every year the holidays arrive and I have to find something to give my husband that he wants and that I haven’t already given him.
Annoyingly, there has never been anything Martin has given me that I haven’t absolutely loved. I feel one of my main attributes is my ability to enjoy gifts. Many women who have been married for over fifteen years adopt the “buy it yourself, wrap it yourself, open it Christmas morning, and pretend to be surprised” method of gift giving, but my husband happens to have great taste. I married a straight guy with a queer eye. Sweaters, blouses, dresses, jewelry—he has never gone wrong. Everything he chooses also fits me perfectly. Either he’s very smart or he has a girlfriend who is exactly my size.
One evening, attempting to walk off a particularly fattening Italian dinner, we strolled past an upmarket men’s store. Martin looked into the store window, then looked down at his jacket and said (and I quote), “I need a new leather jacket. Look at this.”
He pointed to the breast pocket, which was drooping, and then to the hip pocket, where the stitching had begun to fray.
“Someday I would love to own a really expensive black leather jacket.”
Now, everybody knows that if you say this to your wife at the end of November, then a black leather jacket will duly appear underneath your Christmas tree at the end of December. By the way, I’m Jewish, but I celebrate Christmas too and I’m going to do that until the Jewish people decide on a way to spell Chhhaanukkkaaah.
He continued.
“I need a new pair of black dress shoes too, and a new belt. This one is too big—I’m losing weight.”
“Hallelujah.”
“What did you say?” my husband asked.
I then realized I was so overcome with joy, I had said it out loud.
“Nothing, I was just clearing some phlegm. Hhhhaaalleah. There, that’s better.”
I had my three presents. No more combing the shopping malls and ending up with a talking meat thermometer and a toe massager. This would be the Christmas where the shopping would take me almost no time and the presents would become instant classics. I don’t have to tell you that when a woman buys clothes, they last a season; when a man buys clothes, they last a lifetime. My grandfather still wears his Cub Scout uniform.
I glowed with the confidence of a television presenter when I returned home from my shopping expedition the following week. The whole trip had taken exactly three hours and I was finished shopping for my husband. I was careful to revisit the men’s store we had passed on our calorie-burning stroll the week before. The jacket in the window that he had coveted happened to be his exact size. It was expensive, but what the hell? It would be worth it just to see the Yuletide joy on his face when he slipped his arms into the silk-lined sleeves. I also bought a black belt one size smaller than the one currently hanging in his closet and a pair of black dress shoes that were almost identical to the ones he had been wearing for the past fifteen years. How could I miss? I was so certain that I had hit a holiday home run, I didn’t even bother with the little gifts I usually pepper his Christmas mornings with to increase my odds of buying something he likes. No reindeer boxer shorts or Santa golf balls to wrap this year. This year I was only bringing out the big guns.
It was a particula
rly pleasant Christmas morning because our baby was a year and a half old. The Christmas before, being only six months old, she’d really only joined in when we rolled her around on the used wrapping paper, but this year she was big enough to destroy. We opened the baby’s presents first: a dollhouse, clothes, shoes, stuffed animals, and of course that musical toy that rolls around on the floor and not only drives you crazy but eventually can get you evicted. (Thanks, Auntie Joyce.)
Then it was my turn. I opened the small square box that had to be jewelry, and there they were: the pink sapphire earrings I had admired six months ago. He had done it again, but this time so had I.
I decided to start off with the belt. The wrapping was off, the box was opened, and the belt emerged like a newborn from the crinkly tissue paper. He held it up.
“I like it,” he said. “Let’s see if it fits.”
He wrapped it around his waist and began to tug.
“What size is this?” he asked.
“It’s one size smaller than the belt you told me was too big.”
He tugged some more.
“I’ll exchange it tomorrow,” I said.
“You can just return it. I like the one I have.”
The shoes were next.
“These are very nice, but they’re stiff. My old shoes have molded to my feet.”
“Put them with the belt.”
It was two strikes, and I was down to the final pitch.
“I know you’re going to love this,” I said hopefully.
He stared at the baby-soft leather jacket cradled in its paper nest. He lifted it out and slipped one arm into a sleeve and then the other. He zipped it up. The sleeves were too long, the jacket was too short, the circumference too tight. He looked like he’d stolen a jacket.
“I know this was very expensive and I appreciate the thought,” he said. “But what the hell were you thinking?”
