For The First Time In History, It's Gonna Start Raining Men

There is an old saying about how things happen in threes.  With Wingman dying, my house flooding and losing my job-all in three months, you'd think that I would have been happy with just the 2012 version "Been There, Done That" tee shirt and given myself a pass.  But no, this year-with losing my job and putting the house on the market, I wanted another three-peat.

Because I was going to dump a man.


My quest involved replacing the idiot I inherited when my financial planner passed away suddenly.  The original guy saved me from having to live in a refrigerator box when Wingman died. On our quarterly sessions, he would not only bring up my garbage cans, bring me coffee, and bring the dog some treats, but yell at me, or at least lecture me about saving over spending.  The guy they assigned me wouldn't give advice without polling his office like on "Who Wants To Be A Millionaire?" "Yes Barbara. We feel you should do this. Final answer." He only ever wanted me to meet him in his office, and when he DID come over-ONCE-it was without coffee or dog biscuits.  On January 18th-exactly 2000 days after Wingman died and after not hearing from him for nine months, the dog and I decided he had to go. And I decided to go to a dinner.

To coin The Marine's phrase, I was looking for "A Few Good Men."  And I discovered the Mecca of handsome young men dressed in nice suits with rep ties. I found...financial planning seminars.

I had been getting invites in the mail for this type of dinner for years.  I use to laugh, thinking about the decade I spent at Wrinkle City hosting luncheons for seniors to entice them to move there. Since this wasn't my first rodeo, I picked the one with the nicest menu, knowing full well what to expect.

Boy, I was wrong.

It is what I envision speed dating in Hell is like.  There were about 30 old women (and a few old guys thrown in for good measure) in Chanel suits and Life Stride pumps vying for the attention of three very well-dressed young guys. The guys looked rapturously at them as they droned on about their late husbands, the (insert) doctor / lawyer / industrialist and how they had no idea where to put all their money.  The men listened intently to EVERY. BORING. WORD. THEY. SPOKE. I laughed at the five other women at my table, regular diners on the financial circuit who told me that they go to at least one luncheon or dinner like this a week.  After dinner, a senior planner gave a very boring Power Point lecture about estate planning in New Jersey before he sent the young men to pick up the referral cards like bridegrooms looking for envelopes. The old hag to my left grabbed one guy with her red talons to pick his brain, so I picked up my card and left.  It seemed to me that this company was looking for the oldest, wealthiest clients, and I know I didn't fit their bill.

Since the food was good and I had no job to go to, I did it again.  A luncheon with grilled salmon, and a smattering of conversation with a bored planner who seemed to know he wasn't getting any-money or otherwise. And again, at an Italian dinner night, where I actually used a Wrinkle City trick and snuck out via the ladies room. I even started recognizing some of the same old ladies at these events. As probably the youngest person in the room by a decade or two, I'm sure they recognized me as well.

One night, it happened-one of "those young guys" was my friend's son.  He stuck to me like glue-listening to EVERY. WORD. I. SPOKE.  Pretending that he was interested in my life, and making all the right gasps at the horrors I'd faced, while the ladies around me gasped in horror that I was monopolizing his time. And I gasped.  Was I becoming one of them?  A woman filling her free time with free dinners and lunches by encouraging young men with my investments? Isn't that what my sons were for???

Then he started calling. Asking for an appointment.  Sending cards.  He even unexpectedly dropped by, and if he had just brought up the empty garbage cans, I might have caved and given his inexperienced soul my portfolio.  But in the end, I went with a trusted friend's advisor, a big ol' guy with over 20 years of experience, who I've only seen wearing sweat pants on casual Fridays, who speaks in sentences I don't understand, and who yells at me, or at least lectures me about saving over spending.

Like Wingman with his tank tops and cargo shorts, he leaves a lot to be desired with his fashion sense. More importantly, like my former planner, I trust him implicitly. We're already discussing what to do when the house sells, and how to invest the profits for the future.

And that's alright in my book, because the invitations are starting to pour in for the 55 + communities who want me to visit. From North and South Carolina, Florida to Arizona, they're offering 3 day mini vacations, complete with dining, use of the amenities and tickets to concerts.

I just need some of my money for plane tickets.