Golden Girls

I have been very busy at work this week....and the Nation has suffered. For the 3 or 4 of you who actually read this blog, my sincere and heartfelt apologies.

While we're talking about my work, let's talk about an aspect of my job that I have a love/hate relationship with: dealing with old women.

In an ideal world, all older women would be just like Sophia, Blanche, Rose and Dorothy. They would all live together in dusty pink and beige houses, making jokes about menopause, etc. - and they'd be generally happy about all of it. Full of life, full of fun. It should come as no surprise that not all old ladies operate in this manner in the real world.

As I've shared before, my role in fundraising is to solicit major gifts for the non-profit organization I represent. My dollar goal these days is generally between $10,000 and well above. When you get into this category of gifts, you begin to also deal with estate gifts - bequests in people's wills, etc. Enter now the old ladies.

The average woman in the United States outlives her husband by approximately 10 years. Walk into any retirement home and you will find a lot of women. And retirement homes are big business, and there are many different classes of retirement home. In my line of work I am occassionally asked to visit retirement homes - high end retirement homes full of very wealthy old ladies.

This week I was asked visit one of our city's most affluent retirement homes. The museum I work for has started a lecture series there in an effort to share the museum with its older patrons who are no longer as readily able to visit our campus. The whole thing is also a somewhat blatant plea for a mention in their will, to be honest.

The program was to feature a curator from our museum. He was told to present on whatever subject he desired - the only stipulation was that the presentation needed to be slides. The group preferred slide presentations because with the lights dimmed, it wouldn't be as obvious if some of them fell asleep. My job was to be there before the presentation for lunch with the resident who had coordinated the lecture series - Mary Jo.

Mary Jo called me on Monday, Tuesday and again on Wednesday morning to confirm that I would be to the home by 12:30 lunch. I confirmed all three times that yes, I would be there, and was looking forward to meeting her. Her response to this was, "Don't be late. I'll be starving at 12:30."

I arrived to the home at 12:15. As soon as the valet had taken my car (yes, this retirement home has a valet), a short woman with orange hair clad in a red suit with a gigantic silk white flower on her lapel swooped over and grabbed my hand. This was Mary Jo. "You're on time. That's good," was her greeting. As we walked in towards the dining room for lunch, I made small talk. Mary Jo was still holding my hand.

Me: " Well, this facility is really beautiful, Mary Jo. How long have you lived here?"
>> PAUSE <<
Mary Jo: "Have you seen that movie about Queen Elizabeth? The one with Cate Blanchett? I was just watching it in my apartment. It's wonderful."

To make an unbelievably long story short, lunch was not easy. Mary Jo had allotted 2 hours for she and I to eat. We started at 12:30, and the museum presentation was not to start until 2:30. And I can't even really tell you all of the topics that were covered in the conversation - there were just too many to recall. All I remember is that I said very little. Mary Jo talked about her three deceased ex-husbands, she talked about her gay son, she talked about the old woman across the dining room that she hated, she speculated about my age (she guessed 32; I am 29), pondered my single status and asked when I was going to get married. And as soon as I would finish eating whatever was on my plate, Mary Jo would snap her fingers and an attendant would bring something else for me- something else Mary Jo had chosen. Little of it was good. Chicken noodle soup, angel food cake with chocolate sauce, a Caesar salad with stale croutons, coffee, sweet iced tea, and a Sprite.

I can only hope that if I am lucky enough to live to 81, like Mary Jo, I will have a similar spunk. And maybe a little less to say.