BREAKING NEWS

On a day the Dow Jones surged 2.20% and Nasdaq gained 3.00%, I received a CNN Breaking News Alert:

Actress Katie Holmes has filed for divorce from Tom Cruise, his attorney says.

Other news this day included articles dissecting the Supreme Court decision on the Affordable Care Act, the death toll of civilians in Syria, a bailout of European banks and Roger Federer’s stunning victory in the third round of Wimbledon (two sets down, he pulled through in a fifth set trouncing of Benneteau).

And yet, divorce is considered the Breaking News story.

The other day, the L.A. Times had a scathing article on the new HBO series “The Newsroom.” The show didn’t fare much better in some other reviews. It got me thinking: Is it possible the media doesn’t like a show about the media that points out the problems with the media? This show should be required viewing for journalists.

So with a Breaking News Alert from CNN (the most trusted name in news?) about a private matter between two people I don’t care about, the question is: Do news organizations lead the way to the dumbing down of America or are they just giving the people what they want?

BETWEEN US

“Whatever you decide is fine with your mother and I.”

I heard this line in a movie and my head exploded, my blood pressure rose and I screamed, “I’m mad as hell and I’m not going to take it anymore!” As if I could really do anything about it.

While I am hardly William Safire, the basics of English grammar are ingrained in me. The movie line, written by one of my favorite writers, is, in plain English, wrong. The correct line should be, “Whatever you decide is fine with your mother and ME.”

Before you say it might have been appropriate to the character, I will point out that I’ve heard this mistake by this writer in his many other award-winning works and his smartest characters often use this special brand of cringe-inducing language. I love this writer. He is my literary hero. But each time I hear one of his characters go down this path, he dips in my esteem. I must admit when he makes the mistake, it hurts more but I have heard this same blatant misuse of “me” and “I” all over the airwaves, films and… wait for it… even in print.

Is it possible I’m the one who gets it wrong? Did I miss the latest edition of Strunk & White? Who changed the rules on me?

I hear “Between you and I” all the time. It’s like nails on a blackboard to me. “Between you and ME,” folks. Why is that so hard? When my close friends blunder this, I call them on it. The saddest thing is they fight me. For some inexplicable reason, they think “between you and I” is always correct, that it’s more proper, more refined. They are wrong, so very wrong.

We learned this simple rule in grade school. Always name the other person first. That one is obvious. But here’s a simple technique you can use to figure out if you should use “I” or “me.” If you don’t include the other person, which would you use? You wouldn’t say, “Whatever you decide is fine with I.” Oh, please, tell me you wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t say, “Me and Susie went to lunch.” That is wrong on so many levels. I've even heard this in executive boardrooms. Ugh. 

Why are well-educated, successful, creative adults making these blunders? I’m not the grammar police but there are grammatical rules in play here. If you don’t believe me, Google it. 

You know the adage to think before you speak. Good advice. And when you write, you have no excuse. Now I’m asking you to think twice, think hard and think grammar. Think about you. Think about me. Think about you and me.

GIVE ME A BREAK

As they say, no good deed goes unpunished. I am living proof.

My good deed? I gave to charity. A lot! Big mistake.

Most people wouldn’t see it as a mistake but rather a good thing. It is. Until it comes back to bite you on the posterior.

I now get five letters a day from causes I never heard of asking for money.  They enclose engraved stationary, greeting cards, cash (yes, they send ME money) and other "gifts" to entice me to give. How many too thin potholders, skimpy blankets and tiny reusable shopping bags does a person need? Not to mention the personalized address labels. That seems to be a favorite. I now have enough to last me until 2080. Does that mean I can never move? 

These enclosures used to make me feel guilty. Guilty enough to give, and give and give. Now, all I want to give is a few choice words that would have made George Carlin blush.

Where the heck are they getting the money for these mass mailings anyway? Why aren’t they using the money I’ve already sent to fulfill the promises of care for the afflicted and research for the cure instead of hounding me incessantly for more? They’re only going to use my money to send me more junk. If I want tiny engraved pencils, I’ll go buy them. 

And please don’t get me started on those annoying in-the-middle-of-dinner phone calls that bypass my “Do Not Call” injunction. They used to be polite exchanges between a solicitor and citizen. Now they’re shakedowns. For example, “Hello, Miss #@_*%$#!” or some other mispronounced version of my name. The mispronunciation is a clear indicator this is not a call from anyone who knows me but rather from someone who wants my money. Most of the time they work around my troublesome last name and call me by my first name.  Don’t get me started on how irksome that habit is.

Their spiel usually starts with some sort of praise like, “You have been such a generous supporter of (insert name of charity) in the past. Can we count on you for a hundred dollars at this time?” First, I gasp  at the audacity of the amount they expect me to give since these calls come on a weekly basis. Then I realize I have never donated to any such charity. I try politeness at first, saying something like, “I’m sorry. I just don’t have the resources to donate to every charity that asks,” and prepare to hang up. That’s never good enough for them. They come back with, “Perhaps you can give us fifty dollars.” Still calm, I say, “No, I can’t.”  Then the hondling begins. They keep reducing the price and my refusals keep getting firmer until I’m compelled to slam the phone down on them.

These people have forced me to take drastic measures. Now I refuse to answer any call from a number I don’t recognize. The downside of this method of containment is that I may miss a call from someone I might want to talk to.

Moreover, it’s getting to the point that I don’t want to give to any charity and that is not the way I was brought up, not the way I want to be. I come from a long line of givers. I believe in charity but I also believe that more guidelines and restrictions have to be established to keep those charities from abusing their privileges and donors. Of course, not all charities have been reduced to these heavy-handed methods of guilting gelt out of the generous. No matter how tough times are for me there will always be a few charities I still give to freely. They each mail me requests only a few times a year and never demand I give more. They send me thank you letters or newsletters on the progress they have made. They make me feel like I am doing something good for others and that’s what giving should be.

Plus, they know I don’t need another tote bag.

TIME WILL TELL

Here I am waiting…Again! I once tried to calculate how many hours I’ve spent waiting but my calculator doesn’t go that high.

Oh, the hours I have spent in the waiting rooms of doctors, lawyers and hairdressers. Do they think their time is more valuable than mine? I’m a professional, too. Perhaps I should bill them at my hourly rate.

I understand emergencies (I’ve been one) and a client who has more questions than anticipated (mea culpa) and a day blowing up because one salon client is late (never me). What I don’t understand is keeping people waiting as a way of life.

Some of the people I love most have a flexible relationship with the clock. I know this about them and have come up with many ways of coping. Some are obvious, some not. Don’t bother asking, I won’t give away my trade secrets here lest they read this and catch on.

Given the traffic conditions in Los Angeles, most everyone allows a ten-minute window of waiting. Somehow I manage to get wherever I need to go on time. And I’m time dyslexic! I can’t tell you if something happened a week ago or two months ago. I can quote conversations; I just have no concept of time. But I am punctual.

Last week I sat in a restaurant 12 miles from home. It was twenty minutes after the agreed upon time. The acquaintance I awaited picked the place, the time and, I believe, lives 5 minutes away. He requested the meeting because he needed a favor. Did he think this Fairy Godmother would be inclined to wave her magic wand and grant his wish after he’d been so cavalier with my time?

I expected him to stroll in with some tried and true excuse – a last minute phone call or L.A. traffic or the dog ate his date book. He used the “I lost track of time” excuse and gave me puppy dog eyes. What? Was he the dog that ate his date book?

If you can’t meet me on time at least come up with an entertaining story. My faves are: 1) I remembered I wasn’t wearing underwear and had to go home. 2) There was an accident on the way here and I had to stop to call 911 and a woman went into labor and I had to help and when I went back to my car it had been towed. 3) A naked guy popped out of the stairwell in the mall and I was so horrified I had find security and they made me fill out a report while the guy dressed and left. And the Grand Prize winner is: I couldn’t remember where I parked my car.

So here are some suggestions gleaned from years of experience (and mother’s etiquette lessons). If you have to be somewhere, don’t answer the phone on the way out. If you’re on the phone when it’s time to go, excuse yourself. Anybody worthy of your time will be considerate of mine. If you have to stop for an emergency, get stuck in traffic or misplace your car, call me, text me, email me. We have these wonderful new devices now. Unless, of course, you can’t find your cell phone. Then I don’t even want to know you.

You need to get somewhere at a certain time. So how hard is the math? Figure out how far you need to go and add extra time. Done! As for date books, most people use electronic devices now…with backups! Set your alarm for the time you need to hit the road. And if you are early (and haven’t lost your cell phone), there are some great apps you can use to pass the time.

So friends, please show up at the appointed hour. It’s so much easier than coming up with those same lame excuses, isn’t it? And please, professionals instruct your office to schedule your appointments more realistically.

OK, I’ve got to go now. Don’t want to keep my date waiting.

OY!

The Yiddish word, ”oy” may be uttered by young and old, Jew and non-Jew. According to Merriam Webster, it is an exclamation used to express exasperation or dismay. It can mean, “OMG, that was so hard,” or “This is so sad,” or “What the heck did I get myself into this time?”

You might say I am a woman of a certain age who has felt the sting of ageism in this youth oriented, looks obsessed culture.When one looks around at all the misguided souls who went under the knife to look younger and came out misshapen caricatures of their former selves or sees all the talent that’s left on the wayside in favor of younger, more attractive replacements (like our beloved Laker, Derek Fisher), it’s no wonder that so many of us go in search of that mythical fountain of youth.

For me Groupons and Amazon Local Deals have made the arduous trek toward eternal youth more affordable - but fraught with unforeseen dangers and major “oys.” My first foray into the wondrous world of discounted services was a ten-session membership at a local yoga school.

I thought yoga would be a nice, gentle way to start on the road to rejuvenation. After three sessions, I wound up with a torn rotator cuff and six months of physical therapy. While recovering from my injury, I fed my addiction to discounts with coupons for revitalizing facials, invigorating mani/pedis, and restorative massages. I left the skin spa with a red face and two scars that have not yet healed. At the nail salon, I wound up with a fungal infection. And the masseuse in training at the massage school? She pressed all the wrong pressure points. When I walked out, I had to rush to a licensed massage therapist   This “deal” wound up costing me $150 extra.

Since then I have tried to curb my obsession with cut-rate deals that promise youth and beauty, but when I recently saw the offer for a Pilates Class that was more than just Pilates, for an amazing low price, I couldn’t resist.

I got there early. I handed in my Groupon Voucher and filled out a standard form releasing them from any indemnity should I injure myself or die on the machines. I then made the mistake of looking at the machines. They weren’t the standard benign looking Pilates beds. These looked like ancient torture machines - black metal, extremely long structures with ominous-looking springs and pulleys much like The Rack. And, atop the machines and milling about were some of the most gorgeous, very young, buff women who looked as if they had been weightlifting at Gold’s Gym since birth. What had I gotten myself into?

The instructor set me up on the machine and every now and then corrected my form and removed springs as I struggled. But I was in trouble and I knew it. “Lift yourself on one arm, now move your right leg over your left hip. Push and push and move and move. And turn. Now do it on the other side,” yelled the drill sargeant, er, instructor. Commands came at me faster and faster. The exercises got harder and harder. And why were there so many mirrors?

Did I actually have to look at myself in these outlandish contortions? And see all those gorgeous Miss Americas going through the paces as if they were nursery school games? The mirror had become my enemy. All I could see was my sweaty face and loose flesh jiggling with each move. When had my once firm arms grown Bat Wings?

After fifty-five minutes of grueling exercise, thirty minutes of laughing at myself, and three glasses of water, I walked over to the instructor and admitted I had probably made a mistake to join these classes. She glared at me and said, “Sorry, no refunds.”

All in all, in search of the magical youth cure, I have spent well over $800 on these supposed deals, suffered injuries, infections and deflated self-esteem. I wonder if there is a twelve-step program that could help me. And, please, let me cure my addiction to Groupons and Amazon Local deals before I see an offer for discounted cosmetic surgery. “Oy.”

MA’AM ME, IF YOU DARE

I’ve been “Ma’am”-ed.  No need for flowers or emergency therapy. While many of you might disagree, this is a good thing. The scenario? I simply asked a waiter for a glass of water and he replied, “Yes, ma’am” like I was royalty. Let me tell you, the Queen wouldn’t have been addressed with a bigger smile or more warmth.

This got me thinking about the times I’ve been addressed as “Ma’am.” Bank Tellers,

handymen, sales people and civil servants have all called me “Ma’am.” All quite respectful.  On the other hand, medical staffs insist on calling me by name but since there’s a naked thing going on there, this is probably the appropriate choice.

The only place I’m not shown respect (not “Ma’am”-ed) is on TV. In fact, to them I don’t exist. I like TV. I watch TV – or used to. Now my DVR list is short and most of the shows are on premium cable where thoughtful, intelligent and daring work is still done.

The networks say they have to program to the 18-34 demo because that’s what the advertisers like. Really? If that’s true, why are there so many pharmaceutical, retirement fund and luxury car commercials? And in a time when this prized demo is moving back with their parents, is this a wise use of advertising dollars anyway? The reasoning (and I use the term loosely) is that younger people haven’t developed brand loyalty yet. Of course not! They’re scrounging off their parents or buying whatever is cheapest! Targeting this market is for naught.

Let me dispel the demo myth right now. I am always trying new products. My friends are always trying new products. We actually talk about new products. We like iPads, flat screen TVs and new shampoo. We’re the ones at the department store cosmetic counters plunking down a day’s pay on the latest magical elixir. We control the money and we’re not afraid to spend it!

If the 18-34 year olds are so important, why does the #1 network have a much older demo? No, please, somebody answer that. How many variations of crime scene investigations can a person watch? Nor am I interested in seeing yet another show about slackers living in apartments no twentysomething can afford, screwing up relationships and cracking wise with low-brow sexual innuendo. And, please, no more shows about single parents moving in with their parents.

Can’t you just hear the dialogue in the development meetings – “Bring me the next ‘Friends’ or ‘Everybody Loves Raymond’ or “NCIS’.” Those shows have been done and done well. Instead, network execs, practice saying this – “Bring me a new idea.”

I would even venture to guess why this is happening. The networks are still operating under the delusion that 18-34 year olds are watching TV and driving advertising dollars. So they want young people writing, producing and developing the shows. The problem with this is that these young people are not well versed in television history, literature or life. They have a very limited POV. The wit muscles are not yet developed. They look around their small universe and they just don’t get life’s joke.

So here are some solutions: 1) Hire people in the 40 and 50+ demo to conceive, write and produce.  2) Hire actors in the 40 and 50+ demo to star. 3) Be brave and admit to the world that you are developing shows that are funny, dramatic, will make us think and are aimed, please, at more mature viewers. 4) Stop treating people in this demo like we’re brain dead. We’re not and your low ratings prove that. Hire us! Market to us! And watch your profits rise!

Show us some respect.  I am asking, no begging, the people in charge of TV programming, hiring and producing – PLEASE ‘MA’AM’ ME!