Today I Am a Ma'am: and Other Musings On Life, Beauty, and Growing Older by Catherine Whitney, Valerie Harper Page B
Authors: Catherine Whitney, Valerie Harper
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life and death. What a wonderful freedom there is as we grow older.
I’m here to tell you that now it’s my turn—or I should say, our turn. Women live with a giant boulder hanging over our heads called fat, or old, or ugly. We’re always staring up at it, worrying that it’s going to come crashing down to crush us. Enough already.
CHAPTER 2
DE’MEAN STREETS
Just Chicks
To be a woman of any age in America today is to take a walk down de’mean streets. We’ve come a long way, baby—but why are you still calling us baby?
• Why are blondes dumb and ditzy?
• What is the male equivalent of bimbo?
There are countless ways women are discounted. It matters what you call something.
I think I understand why women loved Rhoda so much. It was because she refused to be demeaned. She wasn’t the typical American sweetheart—not the soft, compliant, blue-eyed blonde. Rhoda wasn’t a prom queen. She was a real woman. She cracked jokes to cover her fears and insecurities. She worried about her weight. She was just like you and me. She walked de’mean streets with a swagger.
Even so, when I look back thirty years, I find myself somewhat amazed by the self-deprecating tone that was part of Rhoda’s signature. There’s an underlying mix of guilt and inadequacy that belies Rhoda’s power.
For me, the great fun of playing Rhoda was her mixture of insecurity and great bravado. Remember the lines she spoke at the beginning of each episode?
My name is Rhoda Morgenstern .
I was born in the Bronx, New York, in December 1941 .
I’ve always felt responsible for World War II .
The first thing I remember liking that liked me back was food .
I had a bad puberty; it lasted seventeen years .
I’m a high school graduate. I went to art school. My entrance exam was on a book of matches .
I decided to move out of the house when I was twenty-four. My mother still refers to this as the time I ran away from home .
Eventually I ran to Minneapolis, where it’s cold and I figured I’d keep better .
Now I’m back in Manhattan. New York — this is your last chance!
The writers consistently wrote Rhoda and the other characters as hilarious but authentic human beings. Viewers identified with them. As my dear pal Nicole once observed, “Mary is who you want to be. Rhoda is who you probably are. And Phyllis is who you’re afraid you’ll become.”
Smoke and Mirrors
I have never met a woman, no matter how beautiful or self-confident, who could face a mirror without cringing. Especially when that mirror wages a sneak attack. You’re running to catch a bus and catch a side view of your sagging jawline in a store window. Or you’re all dressed up for a party and your friendly bathroom mirror is telling you that you look fabulous. Then, in the course of the evening, you enter a restaurant ladies’ room with lights so bright you think you’re in a police lineup, and you can see every flaw and bulge.
Reality check. When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Sometimes I think that women’s mirrors have been fitted with those special fun house warp features. Or maybe it’s all mirrors. My friend Sue, a real liver of life and a recent enrollee in tap classes, describes standing within a group of dance students and catching a glimpse of a sadly sagging pair of knees in the mirror. “God, whose knees are those?” she thought with pity. Her eyes slid up the body until she was staring into her own face. “Oh, no!” she yelled, horrified, stopping the class in its tracks.
A perfectly attractive woman can stand in front of a mirror and see the Pillsbury Doughgirl.
The Friendly Skies
Recently, a male acquaintance who travels a lot for business was complaining about what he perceived to be the deterioration of the flight attendant—or, as he said, the “stewardess.” He reminisced longingly about the good old days when flying the friendly skies
I’m here to tell you that now it’s my turn—or I should say, our turn. Women live with a giant boulder hanging over our heads called fat, or old, or ugly. We’re always staring up at it, worrying that it’s going to come crashing down to crush us. Enough already.
CHAPTER 2
DE’MEAN STREETS
Just Chicks
To be a woman of any age in America today is to take a walk down de’mean streets. We’ve come a long way, baby—but why are you still calling us baby?
• Why are blondes dumb and ditzy?
• What is the male equivalent of bimbo?
There are countless ways women are discounted. It matters what you call something.
I think I understand why women loved Rhoda so much. It was because she refused to be demeaned. She wasn’t the typical American sweetheart—not the soft, compliant, blue-eyed blonde. Rhoda wasn’t a prom queen. She was a real woman. She cracked jokes to cover her fears and insecurities. She worried about her weight. She was just like you and me. She walked de’mean streets with a swagger.
Even so, when I look back thirty years, I find myself somewhat amazed by the self-deprecating tone that was part of Rhoda’s signature. There’s an underlying mix of guilt and inadequacy that belies Rhoda’s power.
For me, the great fun of playing Rhoda was her mixture of insecurity and great bravado. Remember the lines she spoke at the beginning of each episode?
My name is Rhoda Morgenstern .
I was born in the Bronx, New York, in December 1941 .
I’ve always felt responsible for World War II .
The first thing I remember liking that liked me back was food .
I had a bad puberty; it lasted seventeen years .
I’m a high school graduate. I went to art school. My entrance exam was on a book of matches .
I decided to move out of the house when I was twenty-four. My mother still refers to this as the time I ran away from home .
Eventually I ran to Minneapolis, where it’s cold and I figured I’d keep better .
Now I’m back in Manhattan. New York — this is your last chance!
The writers consistently wrote Rhoda and the other characters as hilarious but authentic human beings. Viewers identified with them. As my dear pal Nicole once observed, “Mary is who you want to be. Rhoda is who you probably are. And Phyllis is who you’re afraid you’ll become.”
Smoke and Mirrors
I have never met a woman, no matter how beautiful or self-confident, who could face a mirror without cringing. Especially when that mirror wages a sneak attack. You’re running to catch a bus and catch a side view of your sagging jawline in a store window. Or you’re all dressed up for a party and your friendly bathroom mirror is telling you that you look fabulous. Then, in the course of the evening, you enter a restaurant ladies’ room with lights so bright you think you’re in a police lineup, and you can see every flaw and bulge.
Reality check. When you look in the mirror, what do you see? Sometimes I think that women’s mirrors have been fitted with those special fun house warp features. Or maybe it’s all mirrors. My friend Sue, a real liver of life and a recent enrollee in tap classes, describes standing within a group of dance students and catching a glimpse of a sadly sagging pair of knees in the mirror. “God, whose knees are those?” she thought with pity. Her eyes slid up the body until she was staring into her own face. “Oh, no!” she yelled, horrified, stopping the class in its tracks.
A perfectly attractive woman can stand in front of a mirror and see the Pillsbury Doughgirl.
The Friendly Skies
Recently, a male acquaintance who travels a lot for business was complaining about what he perceived to be the deterioration of the flight attendant—or, as he said, the “stewardess.” He reminisced longingly about the good old days when flying the friendly skies
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