Tag Archives: old broads

Old Broads – Part II – Signs that you skipped 60 and went straight to 80

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In reflecting on my 60th birthday coming up later this year, I realized that I might never experience 60, because in temperament, I’ve already hit  80. In other words, I am that Old Broad I referred to in my previous post.

The signs are all there:

I have zero tolerance for the general public:

Warning: If you sit near me in a theatre and choose to use a cell phone, whisper loudly to your companion, or even so much as crumble your jumbo bag of popcorn, I will shush you. That is, unless you are scary looking, in which case I will sigh indignantly and move to another row.

Warning: If you act in a manner unbefitting the job that you were hired to do, I won’t let you get away with it. There is a line at Costco that my daughter-in-law won’t use any longer because of that day the checker was giving the woman in front of me a bad time. When it was my turn, I handed the checker my card, and the conversation went something like this: Me: “Are we having a bad day?” Her: “No. Not at all.” Me: “Well, you sure aren’t acting like it!”

My husband won’t go into Apple stores with me any longer – there seems to be a pattern developing here – because of the time we went to one to replace the battery in my IPod. The twenty-something clerk who approached us as we crossed the hallowed entrance immediately set us straight, barely containing his incredulity at the idea of fixing something rather than replacing it with an overpriced something else. He informed me that they are not clerks; they are geniuses who work by appointment only. Silly me. I hadn’t heard that everyone with an IQ over 150 had moved to the mall. That was when I let him know that he was behaving like a condescending little twirp and that I didn’t appreciate it. He responded by hot-potato passing me to the old guy in the back – not a genius. I guess that he thought I wouldn’t attack my own kind.

Driving has become a matter of intensive advanced planning:

Routes are determined by avoidance of tricky merges, congested freeways and light rail crossings. Time of day is determined by availability of natural light.

My entertainment choices have narrowed considerably:

I watch golf on Sunday afternoons – not for the sport, because the British announcers put me to sleep faster than a dozen ambiens.

I watch old sitcoms on TV. Not because the new ones aren’t funny – I really couldn’t speak to that – but because of those hand-held cameras, which make me nauseated with motion sickness without leaving my own couch.

I avidly read the Weekend section of the newspaper, not for what to do, but for what parts of town to avoid. You never know when you might unwittingly happen upon a Rutabaga festival or a Battle of the Really Bad Bands. Again, the general public problem.

I tune in mostly to Sinatra radio, not because I have turned my back on the sixties, but because it takes me to a happy place where everyone could dance, smiled a lot and pretended to have a really good time, despite the fact that, as per usual, people were either pointing and/or shooting at each other all over the planet.

I listen to NPR – not for their politics, but because they use their inside voices.

I won’t even get into the memory issues except to say that they have evolved from being quirky to downright scary. Oh wait; there is one incident that I have to share… So, I was coming out of the local post office and a man held the door for me. Pulling his sunglasses off he said, “Do you remember me? It’s Dan.” (Name changed to protect the innocent.)

“Sure.” I lied, then asked him about his family; told him about mine, all the time smiling and frantically searching my brain for Dan, Dan, Dan? Who the hell are you? I knew that he had something to do with my husband, but it didn’t fit that it was business or his Rotary club. After I got back in my car, I remembered. Oh my God! I thumped my head against the steering wheel. Dan. He was in OUR WEDDING!

When we were having dinner that evening I told the story to my husband, rationalizing that we have been married for 36 years, or is it 37, 38? Anyway, it was a long time ago. His response: “But, don’t you remember; we had them here for dinner a few years ago?”

No. No, I don’t. And yes, yes, I’m 80.

Old Broads

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I picked up a call from my answering machine the other day that was an obvious misdial. The voice was cigarette-smoke rough with a hint of Jersey. The message went something like this:

“Susan. Susan. This is Blanche Molina, you know from across the street. Listen, hon, I’ve been going through some of Herb’s stuff, trying to get rid of things, and I found this, I don’t know whatcha’ call it, some kinda Masonic sash thing. I thought maybe since you’re so involved in everything around here, you might have an idea about what I should do with it. Call me, okay, hon.”

I live in a very small community, where when we misdial we often know the person on the other end, which somehow makes it even more embarrassing, but on the bright side can also be good for catching up with a neighbor you haven’t talked to in awhile. I thought I’d better call Blanche to set her straight lest she think that the Susan she was actually looking for was ignoring her call. That conversation went something like this:

“Hi Blanche. This is Susan Snyder.”

“Oh good, Susan. Listen, hon, I’ve been going through the closets, horrible job, and the thing I’m talking about is one of those sashes, you know, with the gold threads and all…”

When she finally took a breath, I said, “Blanche, I think you’ve got the wrong Susan. This is Susan Snyder. I don’t live on your street.”

“Wait, what? Just a minute, hon. This f*!#*ing television! Let me shut it off. Now where is that damn remote?”

Over the sound of shuffling and loud television voices, I thought, Oh, my goodness, Blanche is not your average LOL – little old lady – for all you texters who absconded with what once was a delightful acronym – she’s an old broad.

Old broad. I love the connotation of that – politically correct or not. It represents strong women who march through life like General Patton crossing the Rhine, the kind who may drive you nuts, but who you want on your side in a fight.

I don’t run into many old broads anymore, and that’s a shame. In fact, the world population of colorful characters seems to be in serious decline. Those manufactured for media-sake don’t count. I’m talking about real people, like those of my grandparent’s generation, with names like Shorty Briscoe, Ham, Fast Eddie, Weird Hazel, and the Telephone Girls. How could you be anything but entertained by stories about folks with monikers like that?

Man, I miss those stories.

But then, there is Blanche.

When she got back on the line, it was obvious that she had decided that one Susan was as good as another. She continued, a little out of breath: “You got any ideas about what I could do with the sash thing?”

“Well, I, um,” I answered. “I guess I could ask around.”

“Naw. Never mind.” Blanche abruptly declared me unsuitable for the task.

Too much hesitation in my voice, I guess.

“Now where is that f*!#*ing phone number of hers?” her voiced trailed off.