I Still Have It. . . I Just Can't Remember Where I Put It (5 page)

I had the most boring office job in the world. I used to clean the windows on the envelopes.

And the Gift Basket Goes To…

“
A
GIFT BASKET WILL BE ARRIVING AT YOUR HOME
in approximately half an hour,” the voice on the other end of the phone stated. “Will someone be there to accept it?”

I looked over at my hungry husband, who was ready to overpay for food at our local restaurant just to be fed.

“Can you leave it at the front door?”

“No, there must be someone there to accept it.”

“OK, we’ll wait.”

When I got off the phone, my husband asked, “Wait for what? I’m hungry.”

“We have to wait for the Oscar gift basket.”

“I’m waiting for a gift basket? I’m waiting for old apples in a straw box to be delivered to my door? I don’t think so.”

“It’s only five o’clock. The restaurant doesn’t even open until five-thirty. It’ll be here in less than half an hour. Sit down and have a cracker.”

Thirty minutes in, just when Martin was about to tie me up and throw me into the car, the doorbell rang.

“Oscar gift basket.”

I buzzed it in. I was not ready for what arrived.

It was 2001, and it was the first time I had been asked to write jokes for the Oscars. The whole experience was already overwhelming. I was in a room with Steve Martin and three other writers and we were fashioning Steve’s monologue bit by bit. I had never written jokes for anyone but me, so the experience was more than a little daunting, but not nearly as daunting as the large, dead body covered in a horse blanket being wheeled into our foyer.

“What
is
this?” I screeched.

“It’s the Oscar gift basket. It’s worth thousands of dollars and weighs sixty pounds,” the deliveryman explained, hinting for a tip.

I gave him twenty dollars. He seemed a little too happy and left. But what did I care? I had the Oscar gift basket.

Suddenly Martin wasn’t so hungry. We removed the horse blanket and stared at what lay beneath.

“I’ll get the scissors,” he said.

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

R
EADING 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

I
T SEEMS THAT WITH EVERY PASSING YEAR PEOPLE’S
dress habits become more and more 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.