CHASING MARY...and Dodging Deer

I’m convinced Mary Richards killed a deer. Or maybe a possum. Are possums indigenous to Minnesota? Deer are. Or were. I know this from the drive to Minneapolis. It’s like something changed right after crossing the border from North Dakota to Minnesota. Suddenly I was immersed in roadkill.

I do my best to avert my eyes. After four days on the road, too much imagery of animal carnage can paralyze me. It happened on a cross-Canada trip I took several years ago. It’s why I don’t drive between dusk and dawn. Too risky. A car’s headlights must be as blinding as stage lights to a creature accustomed to prowling in darkness. An animal doesn’t stand a chance when faced with a light source that’s traveling 75 miles an hour. Especially when that source is a semi.

But even Mary in her Mustang, driving a tad under the speed limit in broad daylight, would have posed great danger to deer. She was probably distracted after her breakup. Any delay in braking or swerving and a deer goes down. Even a swerve can prove fatal if animal and driver react in the same direction. So, yeah, I’d want to inspect Mary’s fender. No free pass for America’s sweetheart.

It’s true that I made it without downing a deer. Maybe Mary managed, too. Maybe all the wildlife kept her alert and distracted her from the schmuck who couldn’t commit. (To Mary Richards, for gosh sake!) Maybe she had a special connection with animals. It’s not a stretch to compare her with Snow White. Not a stretch for me anyway. So let’s cross our fingers and at least make believe no deer suffered despite all that roadside evidence to the contrary.

There was other inevitable carnage. My windshield revealed a relentless siege from the sky. The splatter marks showed that the air raids were foolhardy but there was no cease-fire. It took driving in Minnesota for me to realize my new car had never been stocked with windshield wiper fluid. (Or maybe I was pressing all the wrong buttons.) I had to squint through a drying Jackson Pollock canvas, exploding insects standing in for paint. My photos, trying to emulate Mary’s drive to Minneapolis, as seen in the familiar opening of each “Mary Tyler Moore Show” episode, have cloudy spots in the frame. Nothing wrong with my phone cam lens. Just a mix of bug splatter and bird poop. Maybe even bird splatter. There was one rather noisy splotch. Hummingbird? Sparrow? Perhaps a Minnesota mosquito.

I drove on, wracked with guilt. I tried to console myself. No deer suffered on my account. I feel good about that. Relieved, at least. But I arrived in Minneapolis a mass murderer.

Just like Mary Richards.

“MARY” MAKING ME MERRY



I don’t know if being an avid fan of “The Mary Tyler Moore Show” is a gay thing.  Based on the commercials during last night’s airing, I’d say it’s a geriatric thing.  Diabetes management.  AARP.  Incontinence.  I’ve always been mature for my age.

Gay or not, I’ve always had an inexplicable affinity for “MTM”.  I can watch old episodes and not laugh once, yet I still thoroughly enjoy the experience. 

“Mary Tyler Moore” was more than comedy.  The show consisted of lovably flawed characters whom Mary Richards had to awkwardly, endearingly finesse her way around:  buffoonish, egotistical Ted, tough guy/softie Lou, snarky Murray (kept in check by acerbic Sue Ann), batty, tender Georgette, hard-done-by Rhoda and grand dreamer Phyllis (with ever-sage daughter Bess).  The actors always brought their A-game, making each character seem entirely real.

While I’ve had many Rhoda moments (and perhaps even more Brenda connections from the “Rhoda” spinoff), I have identified most with Mary.  While the theme song—more on that in a minute—included the line “Love is all around”, it always felt that “Loopiness is all around” in Mary Richards’ fictional life and in my real life. 

Even at seven, I empathized with Mary over dating woes—sadly, never the right guy.  Sometimes the guy with newsman good looks is unattainable.

 I remember one episode in which Lou recalled Mary’s first entrance into the newsroom.  Apparently she said “Excuse me” to a desk she bumped into.  I’ve done that many a time.  (Garbage cans also receive my profuse apologies.  I run into them more than you can imagine.  Indeed, they are the source of the perpetual leg bruising.

Mary exuded 70s fashion, with long-legged pant suits flared at the bottom, curve-accentuating sweaters and colorful scarves.  Her hair was always thick, lustrous and flawless.  Despite mild indignities, she strutted with confidence.  I try, at least.

Perhaps nothing sticks with me more than the theme song, ending oh so cautiously in Season 1 with “You might just make it after all” and dreamily evolving to “You’re gonna make it after all.”  Yes, I should be so lucky.  When I am down, all it takes is a quick YouTube search of the tune to give me a needed pick me up.  In fact, when I moved from L.A. to Vancouver, a friend who knows me too well bought me a beret as a going away gift.  The instruction:  toss it high—like Mary—when you truly make it.

Eighteen years later, I still have the beret and I’m still waiting for my Mary moment.  I still believe it will come.