Why Can't I Skip the Next Fifty Years and Just Live Like A Golden Girl Now?

To be clear,  I love my job.  I do important work for an organization where people are truly committed to making this city a better place.  I work reasonable hours for good pay and my boss is one of the smartest, kindest, and most appreciative people I have met in close to a decade in New York City. With that behind us,  wouldn't it be really great if we could just skip the next fifty years of working, raising ungrateful children, struggling to keep our marriages alive and instead just move in with our best friends like the Golden Girls? We could make sex jokes and go on dates with old men who own boats and never have pregnancy scares (but the occasional STD scare, as Rose learned in one memorable 'sode).

Living the dream.

I did some scary math today.  Retirement ages are creeping up and if our generation is lucky, we will retire by 73 or something like that. I am going to be ungenerous to myself since I'm bad about adding to my 401K and assume I can do so at 77, 50 years from now.  There are 260 weekdays per year and about 10 federal holidays.  250 days x 50 years is 12,500 more days of work.  If you are as lucky as I am to work only an eight hour day, those 12,500 days x 8hours is ONE MILLION more hours of work in your life.  Are you really ready for that? My answer is, "Holy shit, no no no no no no!" And don't even pretend that vacation days mean anything anymore. The smartphone has sealed our fates in that department.

Golden Girls don't work! They play! Bingo and other card games! I could learn em all!

Is this really what you want to do for a (literally) a million more hours?

And then there is finding a suitable partner.  It's a terrible, exhausting pain, amirite? Dating involves pretending not to be batshit for MONTHS at a time and SHOWERING, sometimes twice a day.  Who has the energy?

Moving in with my best friend and gabbing while one of us makes a casserole instead of blowing my hair dry every evening and then spending hours pretending not to be crippled by neuroses and self-esteem issues for at least five dates sounds like just like a dream!   I'll even learn to make casserole!  Dating would be a sometimes-and-just-for-fun activity (unless you're Blanche, and I'm not much of a Blanche) not the exhausting and defeating affair it is for the modern gal in New York.

Worst fears.

Then there are children.  Some people are afraid or put off by screaming babies and whiny toddlers.  My aversion to children is much more to do with them becoming hopelessly sullen and less-cool-than-they-think teenagers. Hand me a screaming baby any day.  But a kid that thinks it's rock n roll cause it can name a Joy Division song, COUNT ME OUT. Avril Lavigne circa 2002 being the ultimate nightmare.  Those gloves! That smirk! I simply won't be able to handle it.

In Golden Girl life, your children are long-gone or they are awesome grown-ups like Dorothy who look out for your health and wear fabulous brooches.  Give me that grown-ass Dorothy as a daughter any day.  The ungrateful other ones can just keep the Hell out of Florida or have an uncomfortable (but single-episode) visit from time to time.

We already take bus vacations.

My friend Meghan and I have decided to not participate in the next fifty years and simply move in together as old ladies. We're not sure how we'll pull it off yet but your input is most welcome if you decide to join us!   I consider myself a Sophia personally.  Unsure who Meghan wants to be, but we have two spots open.  I have some great curtains picked out.

Take us out, Andrew Gold.


Ways My Mom is Cooler Than Me: Elvis Chat Edition

This is the story of the time my mom could have totally married Elvis Presley and BLEW IT. Come, let's take a journey. My mother Gail grew up in a small town in Arkansas just west of Memphis, TN in the 1960s.  My mom, her sister, and their good friend were total babes in that way that so many Southern teens from the 60s were so naturally, they thought they had a decent chance of banging Elvis based on proximity to his home and his penchant for underaged tang. So their friend Frances was the babeliest babe of them all and had the tits (I refuse to use balls as an indicator of courage) to approach the security guard at Graceland and ask for the phone number to the house.  I've never seen a picture of Frances but I imagine her kinda like this:


So duh, she got the digits.

As the three gathered around what I always imagine was a comically large puke green rotary phone (60s, Arkansas, ya know) and dialed, Frances suddenly lost her tits and handed the phone to my then twelve year old mom.  A sultry, unmistakeable voice answered.



My mother attempted to hang up but the older girls pulled the phone away.   She timidly introduced herself as Debbie (She started going by her middle name of Gail later in life so as not to be confused with that bitch that shills cupcakes in the bonnet).  My mother describes the rest of the conversation in less detail but from what I've gathered, it went something like this.

"Hi Debbie. How did you get this number?"

"I...don't know."

"How old are you, Debbie?"

"Almost 13."


"That's a great age, Debbie." ( Okay, he didn't say that, but you know, he was a perv so he probably thought it)


"So how did you get this number, Debbie?"

"I can't tell you."

"Well if you tell me who gave you this number, I can give you tickets to a screening at the Orpheum."

Apparently, Elvis used to rent out the Orpheum Theater for private screenings with all his BFFs.  An inner circle that my mom could  have TOTALLY been a part of if she had just gotten it together on this call.

"Oh, I...I really can't."


"Okay, Debbie, well you have a good night."



So look, I realize that he was probably trying to figure out who gave out his number so he could fire the guy that gave it out willy nilly like that.  But...BUT just maybe he really wanted to invite my mom and her friends to a screening at the Orpheum and then totally bone and/or marry them! I would gladly sacrifice ever having come into existence if my mom had had the chance to be Mrs. Elvis Presley, cause she's a great lady and deserves.... the lifetime of self-doubt and relentless feelings of regret and shame that Priscilla Presley got from being married to that egomaniacal, mommy-issue ridden man...wait, nevermind. But it could have been different for her!

Ugh, the closest I've ever been to my celebrity musician crush was when I met Billy Corgan in a time when he was way past his prime, performing solo at one of the jankiest venues in San Diego.  He was his usual cranky ass self, signed a poster and wouldn't flash even a little bit of his snaggle tooth for our pictures.  Moms, they have all the luck.