Radio and television mirror (July-Dec 1951)

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Arrid's antiseptic action kills odor on contact — prevents formation of odor up to 48 hours and keeps you "shower-bath" fresh. And it's safe for skin — safe for fabrics. So, don't be half-safe. Don't risk your happiness with half-safe deodorants. Be Arrvi-safe! Use Arrid to be sure. Arrid with Creamogen will not dry out, and it's so pleasant and easy to apply. Get Arrid today. "They're All Darlings" {Continued from page 33) that I got my biggest surprise of the show because of Margaret. Right after we finished that program, someone rushed up and told me, "The President wants you on the telephone." I thought he meant the president of NBC, so I said, "Tell him to call me. tomorrow." "No, no — you can't tell the President that," said the messenger. "He's calling from Washington!" I still couldn't believe it was President Truman, so I dragged Margaret with me to the phone to make sure it wasn't a gag. But it was actually her father, and he told me, "Thank you for being so sweet to my baby." Which hadn't been any kind of a problem, as I told him. (Since then, I've had the sweetest letter from Margaret, written on her own note-paper initialed "M.M.T.," and thanking me herself. I wired back that I was jealous of all the praise she'd got — I'd like Tallu to get some of those bouquets!) I'm always being asked how I like being on radio every week, after years in the theater. Well, I can't tell you how often I thank God that I'm no longer stuck with those eight performances a week. Now I work two days a week — rehearsing all day. I have to get up at the crack of dawn to be at NBC's Center Theater at ten a. m., but I always dress comfortably for rehearsing: in slacks, flat shoes, and no makeup. At four o'clock Sunday afternoons we get a forty-five minutes break so we can dress for the show two hours later — we have a studio audience of 3,000 people watching us. In those forty-five minutes I dash home to my hotel, take a hot shower, change into those damned high heels and a dress, and put on semi-stage makeup. And get back to the theater. I've never been late to a performance in my life . . . even though, one week. I forgot to put on my shower cap before I got into the shower — and had to go on with my hair soaking wet! Last summer, when my wonderful William Morris agents called me to do this show, I never knew how it would completely upset my life. (My agents are like family doctors or lawyers, instead of leeches and flesh-peddlers like the others; I hope this stays in print.) One upset: I never normally go outside my home for any reason at all. Stores send me dresses they think I'd like to buy, and I try them on at home. I have my hair done at home. But when I got ready to do The Big Show, I went to the shops to see what clothes they had. I bought two lovely evening gowns at Hattie Carnegie's— decided not to be so dressy after the first two shows, though, so now I wear one of the six cocktail dresses I also bought. Soon I'm going to wear my slacks on the show .... why not? Offstage, I've always slopped around in slacks, raincoat, no hat and dark glasses. I'm settled in the Hotel Elysee in New York where I've stayed, off and on, since 1931. I love this hotel because the staff are all saints, and besides they let me have my dogs with me . . . and I wouldn't think of living without my little parakeet Gaylord. I have a special little traveling cage for him, with a leather zippered case to cover it in all kinds of weather. But Gaylord's only one of my menagerie at my country house in Bedford Village. I always have about seven dogs there, as well as my mynah bird. And this summer I'm getting a baby seal for my swimming pool — poolbroken, of course, ahead of time. When I'm there I get up around two p.m. I spend the rest of the day listening to ball games, playing bridge or ping pong. Here in New York, though, I spend my days sleeping and reading — I've read four murder mysteries in the past two days — and smoking, talking on the phone, and taking baths. I take baths for hours. And I'm in bed a lot let me die in bed; never let it be said that I was so gallant as to die on stage, although I've played with pneumonia, beri-beri and anything else you can think of — also watch my favorite TV show: Kukla, Fran and Ollie. Now let me confound an idea I'm sure all those millions of radio listeners have formed about me. Because our show is based on fierce insults, instead of sugary compliments, everyone is always kidding about my age — and I'm positive all those listeners think I'm a hundred years old and weigh five hundred pounds. The truth is I'm fortyseven, and I weigh 118 pounds. Of course, I've spent my whole life either stuffing or starving. Summers, up in my country place, I've always stuffed steadily — until a month before I was due to start in a play; then I starved to get in shape, I started dieting six weeks before The Big Show opened . . . My diet? Well, I drink water and lemon in the morning, give up salt entirely (because it's the most fattening thing you can eat — it stores up water in your body or something), and live on tired old lamb chops and spinach. No sugar. And no drinking. The pounds just fall off — and so do my friends; I haven't a friend left three days after I start a diet. Let me say here that I think i adio is wonderful, after years of being a legitimate actress (I always blush when I say that word "legitimate," what that word means I've never known) — and that I think half the success of The Big Show is due to that angel producerdirector Dee Engelbach. He organizes everything, and quietly manages us all. And the rest of our success is due to our bandleader Meredith Willson. These two — and the wonderful comedy writers— work all week long — the rest of us just slave over the weekend. One thing more: I want all of you to rush right out and buy a phonograph record I've made. With Joe Bushkin's orchestra, I've sung two' songs on a Columbia record: "You Go to My Head," and "I'll Be Seeing You." I'm amazed to hear people say the record : puts everyone in the mood for love. Go buy it and see! Now for a final explanation of the way I call people "darling" — everyone is always asking me about it. It's mainly because I can't remember anyone's name. I pronounce it "dahling," with no R, because I'm Southern and Southerners can't pronounce R's. If "dahling" really is sweeping the country, I'm not surprised. After all, when I was sixteen (way back before the blizzard of 1888) I started another expression: "too, too divine." Now that's quite all. Goodbye, darlings.