J.K. Rowling, the Senior Ladies’ Lunch Club, and Me

by Judy Gruen

Like millions of other kids in the known universe, my daughter is a full-fledged Harry Pottermaniac. Still, I should have known better than to get her a biography about J.K. Rowling from the library, since she is eager – perhaps too eager – to share fantastic facts about the fantasy author’s rags-to-riches story.

“Did you know that J.K. Rowling had three books on the New York Times bestseller list at the same time?” my daughter asked as I sat paying bills. “Did you know that she’s sold more than a quarter of a BILLION books and that Harry Potter has been translated into 25 different languages? Hey, Mommy, have your books been translated into any other languages? Not even one?”

Don’t get me wrong: I greatly admire Rowling’s storytelling skill, but as a writer impossibly remote from her magical success, this much detail began to grate. I ducked away from my daughter and her all-Rowling, all-the-time lessons, and went to my desk to check my email. Happily, I discovered an invitation to speak to a women’s club. Aha! Apparently J.K. Rowling isn’t the only author in demand!

However, my enthusiasm for the gig waned when I learned that the average age of club members was around 80 years old. I have learned from sometimes painful experience that speaking to the aged is no walk on the shuffleboard court. First, the audience tends to nod off, even during your funniest riffs. (This probably doesn’t happen to Rowling, since her audience is mostly highly energized 10-year-olds.) Second, the elderly don’t laugh as vigorously as younger folks, perhaps for fear of coughing fits. This makes even the wittiest presentations appear less than successful. On the other hand, I didn’t want to be accused of being ageist. One day I hope to be old myself, and would be offended if younger speakers snubbed me as a less worthy audience.

With trepidation, I agreed to speak to the club. As I arrived, one woman was already leaving. What was wrong? I hoped that no arguments had broken out during the club meeting, which might sour the mood. Once inside, I was eager to begin, but several club members insisted that cake and coffee be served while I spoke. This was a bad development. Even Jerry Seinfeld might have a hard time competing with trays of double-fudge layer cake being passed under his audience’s noses. After wedging myself in the middle of the room between a walker and a wheelchair, I enthusiastically began my presentation, speaking loudly. I was winding up to my first punch line when there was an uproar.

“The deaf people are over here!” shouted a lady in pink at the far end of the room.

“Yeah! You need to stand over here!” agreed another octogenarian. “We can’t hear you!” I stopped just short of my punch line, kept smiling, and sidled over to the more intensely hearing-impaired corner of the room, where I tried not to lose my mojo. I resumed shouting.

“Medical researchers now predict that one day people will live to about 120,” I bellowed, “but they say we’ll probably need replacement parts. Can you imagine? We’ll all be shopping at places like ‘Bed, Breasts and Beyond’ and . . . “

“Tell me what your doctor said about your gallstones later, Betty!” I heard a woman insist. “The nice lady is trying to talk now!”

“Are you sure this is Sweet ‘N Low?” another blurted out as her coffee was served. Despite these and other interruptions, I continued gamely on. When I joked about a famous male cookbook author known as “The Naked Chef,” one club member took that as an invitation to interrupt to ask me about my sex life. I tell you, these gals were a tough crowd.

I was relieved to finally finish, ready to sign and sell my books. But instead, the club president insisted on reading several congratulatory proclamations to club members enjoying birthdays that month. Each proclamation was approximately the length of a Congressional tax bill. When the birthday salutations were complete, I was sure my turn had come. I held my special book-signing pen with anticipation.

“Let’s sing some songs, shall we?” the president said. It was more a command than a suggestion. My pen sat motionless.

The women launched into a medley of songs, mostly in Yiddish, about long lost love, the old country, and the Promised Land. It was hard to begrudge them their singing, but it became easier when one woman hefted herself up with difficulty and then belted out several favorite songs of her own -- in Hungarian. Another half-hour later, those who were ambulatory stood up and we all sang “God Bless America.”

Finally, I sold a few books and basked in the glory of a generous number of compliments from the women. It was more than I expected, since only half of them seemed to be paying attention. I thanked my hosts and dashed off, making it just in time to pick up my afternoon carpool. As was her custom, my daughter was exploding with new facts about the fabulous J.K. Rowling.

“Mommy, did you know that J.K. Rowling read to 16,000 people at the Toronto Skydome?”

“That’s nothing,” I replied hoarsely, since my voice was shot. “I just spoke to 40 elderly Jewish women who kept interrupting to sing songs in Yiddish and to talk about their gallstones. You tell me: which was the bigger challenge?”

Back at home, I decided to read through the biography myself, just to get through those nasty facts once and for all. Yes, Rowling may now be richer even than the Queen of England, a fact that is hard to even comprehend, but I was happy to read that she said, "I am an extraordinarily lucky person, doing what I love best in the world. The greatest reward is the enthusiasm of the readers."

I knew we had something in common.

Judy Gruen is the author of two award-winning humor books, including Till We Eat Again: Confessions of a Diet Dropout (Fine Communications), and more than 150 humor columns. Read more of her work on www.judygruen.com.

© 2005, Judy Gruen