WHEN IN DOUBT, ACT LIKE MYRNA LOY
From Cynthia Heimel's But Enough About You

Just for a gag, take this quiz:

1. There you are, being pulled along the floor of an incredibly posh drinking establishment by a small, strongly effusive fox terrier.  The dozens of wrapped Christmas presents that were once in your arms are now scattered in every direction.  You finally come to rest, and happen to glance up.  Your husband, dressed impeccably and holding a martini, is looking down at you, astonished.  At this point, do you
 

  • A) Burst into tears and demand to be taken home?
  • B) Grasp your husband around his ankles, pleading forgiveness and promising never do do it again?
  • C) Simulate an epileptic fit?
  • D) Pick yourself up, brush yourself off, and say, "Oh, so it's you!  He's dragged me to every gin mill on the block."
  • One more, for luck:

    2. Your husband is about to go off an a dangerous adventure.  To make sure he doesn't leave you behind, you get into the taxi before him.  Your husband tells the cabbie to take you to Grant's Tomb and the taxi speeds away with only you inside.  When your husband inquires later how you liked Grant's Tomb, you say,
     

  • A) You are a filthy pig and I want a divorce immediately.
  • B) I'll never get over what you've done to me.
  • C) Please may I have a sedative?
  • D) It was lovely.  I'm having a copy made for you.

  •  

    If I know you, you smart cookie, you answered D to both the above questions.  As well you should.  It's exactly what Myrna Loy would have done.  Did.

    If you've ever seen The Thin Man, with Myrna Loy as Nora Charles, you recognize these scenes.  But there are more than simply great moments in cinematic history; they are behavioral lessons on which one can base one's life.  Forget est, forget years of grueling psychotherapy, forget taking off your clothes in the presence of other consenting adults and "sharing" your most excruciating childhood memories.

    I sure have.  Whenever I'm too crazy, too paranoiac, or too mentally feeble to deal with a situation, I pretend I'm Myrna Loy.  It works.

    Consider: the Myrna Loy who appeared as Nora in The Thin Man movies was a real pip.  She was beautiful, she was witty, she was self-possessed, she was adventuresome, she wore great hats.  (Note: If you're a man, it might be more profitable to pretend you're William Powell as Nicky, another perfect role model.)

    When Nora discovered that Nicky had had six martinis to her paltry one, she told the barman to "bring me five more martinis, Bill, line 'em up right here."  When Nicky took her to her first jazz club, she was bemused for a moment, but before he knew it she was saying to some creep, "Oh, get lost, you off-beat rinky-dink, you're nowhere!"  When Nicky happened to ask her is she possessed a nice evening gown, she didn't blink or twiddle her fingers or pick her nose but said straightaway, "Yes, I've got a lulu.  Why?"

    This is all good stuff.

    Movie stars have traditionally been used as role models; that's what they're there for.  But so many of us pick silly ones to ape.  Who can forget 1976, when every third woman in the world decided she was exactly like Diane Keaton in Annie Hall?  Everywhere one went that year, one ran into hordes of females in baggy trousers and their boyfriend's ties, stuttering and saying "la-di-dah, la-di-dah."  Most depressing.  And who will ever get over that ghastly moment in history when otherwise sensible women decided to act just like Liza Minelli in Cabaret and pained their fingernails green while discussing "divine decadence"?  Soon after, one could not leave one's home without colliding with hordes of women wearing artfully and expensively ripped sweatshirts and the sultry, vapid look of some person called, I believe, Jennifer Beales.

    Modern movie stars will get you nowhere, role model-wise.  I can't think of one who has wit, moral integrity, and terrific outfits.  One must stick with the old girls, who knew what was what.

    Instead of Myrna Loy, you may if you wish emulate Lauren Bacall in To Have and Have Not, the one where she asks, "You know how to whistle, don't you?"  Or Katharine Hepburn in The Philadelphia Story.  Or Bette Davis in All About Eve.

    But I personally stick with Myrna.  She's got the lightest touch.  Who else could play poker with the boys in the baggage car and never remove her hat?  Who else, when Nicky was ogling a stacked heiress, could say "The earrings are higher up" and leave it at that?

    I'm not kidding; I really do this.  Not, mind you, as a matter of course, since I often have a perfectly fine personality of my own, and one must, whenever possible, to one's own self be true.

    But there are times when I'm completely boggled---I know for a fact that the minute I open my mouth, I'm going to turn into my mother, my grandmother, or my Aunt Selma.  Which is unfortunate, since my family were all very big on a particularly noxious brand of sullen martyrdom.

    Witness last summer.  There I was, minding my own business, when the Kiwi suddenly turned horrible.  He became furiously impatient with me because I was afraid to climb a (small) mountain in the dark and left me alone on some wet rocks while he went exploring.  Even took my cigarette lighter.

    When the thoughtless cad reappeared, my first impulse was to sniffle a lot.  The first words that sprung to my mind were something like this:

    "After all I've done for you, look how you treat me! [Sob.]  You obviously don't care about me at all, on no you don't, I can tell.  [Stifled moans!]  Oh, how could you?  What have I done to deserve this?"

    Awful.  The worst thing about the what-have-I-done-to-deserve-this gag is that people will tell you.  Had I said something along the lines of the above, Mr. Adorable would have felt perfectly justified in starting a huge row in which he touched upon all my inadequacies, fears, and lousy nutritional habits.

    Luckily, some still voice of sanity cautioned me that this was the wrong tack, even thought it was the one I was brought up with.  And luckily, like a lightening bolt, Myrna Loy flashed through my sniveling brain.  What would Myrna do in such a situation?  Would one ever catch her being so wimpily wretched?

    I held my piece during the car ride home, letting Loyness filter through my being.  When we got inside the house, I calmly filled the kettle and put it on the stove.  Then I turned around.

    "Darling," I said, "you are an inconsiderate brat.  I absolutely refuse to be left alone and terrified on any more dark mountainsides.  Next time the climbing lust overtakes you, warn me first so that I can take in a nice, warm movie instead of sitting around like a fool on wet rocks, you abysmal warthog."

    "But, but---" he said.

    "Don't but me, you twit," I continued silkily.  "I simply won't have it, and that's that."

    All right, the words may have been a bit clumsy, since I had to write my own material on the spot.  But things never got ugly.  By morning he apologized prettily, I accepted prettily, and we were in perfect accord as I slipped into my sating dressing gown to go down to breakfast.

    Myrna would have been proud.

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