I was raised by a single mom. I know, that’s not unusual today, but back in the day, in a Catholic neighborhood where no one got divorced, my situation was not a typical one. My mom worked nights teaching art and ceramics, and when she was done we’d often watch television together. All through high school and college we’d tune in Johnny Carson every night and watch till the show ended at one in the morning.
As the years went by we had our favorite shows. We never missed an episode of Dallas, and even after I moved away for a job we’d still talk every weekend about the escapades of the Ewings. Mom even named her cat J.R.
My mother was also a little different in her taste in movies. Not remotely a Hallmark Channel kind of mom, she liked action films. Anything with Clint Eastwood or Bruce Willis. The last time I took her to a theater it was to see Die Hard 4. (We got a few looks that day, my wife and I escorting a woman with a walker and a hearing aid to see a movie where everything blows up and everyone gets shot.) And of course, she loved movies about the mob, her favorites being The Godfather and Goodfellas. Profanity in films didn’t bother her, since it wasn’t half as bad as what you heard in our old neighborhood.
Anyway, we eventually moved Mom from Connecticut to live with us. She loved the weather, the low cost of living, no traffic, the Southern accents. (My mom’s voice sounded like Mrs. Costanza on Seinfeld, so she kinda stuck out here.) At this point, she was in her eighties, and watching TV with her got a little uncomfortable at times.
Because those commercials started running.
I don’t even remember what we were watching, but the first commercial for erectile dysfunction filled the screen.
Mom’s eyes got wide. My jaw dropped.
They’re talking about this on TV? Seriously? While I’m watching with my mother?
I felt the color drain from my face, as I searched for a way out of this situation as the announcer discussed this … problem. If there had been a shovel nearby I probably would have started digging through the living room floor. Then it hit me.
Change the subject! Now!
“Ma, heard from cousin Jack lately?”
She turned slightly toward me but kept one eye on the TV. “Yeah, he’s still in Texas.”
I continued the conversation, determined to keep it going until the commercial from hell ended. Why I didn’t think to hit the mute button is beyond me, because the announcer then made it worse.
"For a situation lasting more than four hours, seek immediate medical attention.”
This brought the discussion of cousin Jack to a screeching halt. Mom looked back at the TV. The thing about four hours left me speechless. Meanwhile the idea of a man with this … side effect … created the mental image of a guy running into a hospital wearing a bathrobe and the paramedics dunking him in a bathtub full of ice water.
The commercial mercifully ended and neither of us said anything about it.
This seemed to open the floodgates of commercials regarding this issue, so I came prepared with subject changes whenever I watched TV with Mom. The second I saw the commercial begin with the husband and wife in separate bathtubs I knew what was coming and immediately asked my mother a question to get her mind off the television.
I wondered what Mom thought about all this stuff that in the past never would have been discussed outside of a doctor’s office. Then one day I got my answer when she was in her eighties.
“I watched a good movie last night on cable,” she said.
“What was that?”
“Brokeback Mountain.”
I stopped dead in my tracks. “You watched Brokeback Mountain?”
“Yeah. It was a good story.”
I then realized that Mom took everything in stride when it came to what was on television. I should have realized that a woman who owned the Die Hard DVD collection wasn’t bothered by anything. Yippie-ki-yay.
Of course, now commercials have left nothing to the imagination regarding men’s issues, having moved on from the four-hour problem to a situation using an analogy with flying bent carrots and guys pondering other crooked vegetables. Somewhere some advertising guy decided to use deformed produce to describe men with a bedroom issue. This one doesn’t even need narration because the look the wife gives the husband says it all.
“Honey, I love you but you need to see a doctor about the bent carrot thing.”
We have now reached the point of Too Much Information on steroids. I can only imagine what my late mom would think of this commercial. I cringe at the thought of taking her grocery shopping and wheeling her through the produce section.
So guys, if you have a traditional Hallmark Channel mom who thinks private stuff should remain private, be prepared when watching television with her.
And for snacks, ditch the veggie plate.
Randy Tatano lives in Brewton and is the author of more than 20 novels, writing political thrillers under the pen name Nick Harlow, and romantic comedies as Nic Tatano. He spent 30 years working in television news as a local affiliate reporter and network field producer. The views and opinions expressed here are those of the author and do not necessarily reflect the policy or position of 1819 News. To comment, please send an email with your name and contact information to Commentary@1819News.com.
