Dumping My Purse: NCL

Today Bob brought in the mail and threw what looked to be a "thank-you" card sized envelope on my desk. The return address was vaguely familiar and I tried to remember what I had done recently that would prompt someone to thank me.

Frankly, nothing.

So I opened it and I saw the familiar gold embossed logo for NCL - not the cruise line but the organization otherwise known as National Charity League. Having spent 7 years actively involved with this organization with my other daughters, I knew immediately what this was. It read:

Dear Valri:

National Charity League takes great pleasure in welcoming your daughter, Grace Carolyn as a Legacy Provisional Ticktocker of ...et cetera, et cetera, et cetera.

Oh boy! My three year break between daughters has come to an end.

There is great work done in this organization and I have spent many, many hours volunteering for worthy philanthropies that depend on organizations such as the NCL to keep them going. For seven continuous years, my daughters and I have helped in homework clubs for "at risk" kids, taken elderly, wheelchair bound ladies on strolls through gardens and read to them, done mailings for the Wellness Community, worked fundraisers for the ALS Foundation, staffed parties for under-privileged children, volunteered at libraries, and many, many more activities that were definitely worth our time. But we also attended meetings, and luncheons, and teas and balls. And we have learned all the etiquette that accompanies those activities.

As an adult, I didn't mind any (well most) of the things that were required of me during my years as a "Patroness". My daughters? Not so much. As with most organizations that require meetings and time and dress code, during their years in high school it could be like pulling teeth to get them through it. But a commitment is a commitment - even if it is made very young. So after a great deal of explaining what to expect for the next six years - Grace, has decided that she wants to join and so, I am in. Again. Until 2017. I'll be 60. Shoot me now.

I had an awkward start with NCL. Looking at the note that came in the mail today, I was taken back to 2000 when my friend Candace (of the famously amazing dinner parties) asked me if I would be interested in joining. She was a member of NCL and thought I would really like it. I remember telling her that I had never heard of NCL - what was it? Candace explained to me that it was a mother-daughter philanthropy/social organization that would allow my daughters and me to work together, volunteering for community service needs in the area. She explained that there were meetings to attend and projects to take on and minimum hour requirements, but that it also looked good on a college resume. And that's what got me. Fantasizing about an unrealistic future has always been a favorite pastime of mine, and I looked at my then 10 and 9 year old daughters and imagined them gaining entrance to USC, UCLA, Stamford - all on the basis of their work in NCL. I was in. Candace sponsored me and I received the first of many, many formal invitations - this first one: an invitation to membership.

It was invited to attend a "coffee" at the home of so and so at such and such where I would be introduced to the current board and learn more about the organization and its requirements so that I could make an informed decision about joining. "Uh, okay. What's to decide? Its like Girl Scouts." But I figured I better show up since it was the first meeting and all. I remember it was raining that night. Grace was only two and I had come home from work and thrown on a beat up old pair of light weight pants and a stretched out cable-knit sweater and I got about the business of feeding the baby and picking up around the house when I remembered - the meeting! Candace was supposed to attend this meeting with me but she was out of town so I would have to go it alone. I was already running late. But here was my thinking: "Okay, I don't have time to change. I'm just going to run in and sign whatever papers there are, have a cup of coffee and scoot." I imagined this as nothing more than a "mom's meeting", a formality. I fully expected that all the new members would be similarly running in between their chores at home, and we would sit around someone's kitchen table, filling out papers and sipping coffee from mismatched mugs. Maybe there would be some Oreo cookies on a plate. So I threw on a pair of sandals (remember, its raining outside), grabbed a broken umbrella, my purse - along with my old pants and worn out sweater - got into the car, and followed directions to the house where the meeting was held.

As I pulled into the neighborhood I could see that I wasn't in Kansas anymore. Big, grand homes that were spectacularly landscaped and lit surrounded me as I turned the streets to find the address.

Okay, the first missed clue was that the home was in North Ranch. But I had never been to North Ranch. This was "Country Club" living. I didn't know anyone who lived there. Had I, I would have called the hostess with a fake cough and begged off. I pulled up to this mansion of a home - the massive windows lit with the glow of warm lighting inside. I saw other women pulling up. And they were NOT dressed like me. I sat in the car for a moment, realizing that I was WAY out of my league here. SO the question was: do I go to the door and see if a house falls on me or do I just keep driving?

This was clearly not "like the Girl Scouts". I could do the Girl Scouts. But then I thought to myself: "Well I'll see how they react to me. If they tell me that the "help entrance" is around the back then I will just leave and that will be the end of that. But if they let me in, we'll see how it goes." So I walked through puddles in my sandals across the street to the front door. My old pants had rain spots on them and my old cable sweater had a baby food stain on the cuff that I noticed only at that moment. I couldn't properly close the broken umbrella. I took a deep breath and rang the bell. I stood rigid as I waited to be greeted with a raised eyebrow and maybe even a snarled lip. Certainly an icy "hello" with an extremely limp hand extended. A gorgeous and impeccably dressed woman opened the door to me. Upon seeing the mess that I was that evening, she did not gasp. She did not wince. She did not bat an eye. She smiled and said hello and took my ragged old umbrella and coat, welcomed me in and introduced me to the hostesses - who reacted to me similarly. Let me try to give you some perspective: I was the mason jar of "moonshine" in a sea of perfectly chilled Dom Perignon. The house was unimaginably beautiful. I felt I had stepped into the pages of Architectural Digest. There were floral arrangements everywhere, silver coffee service was on the long well polished dining room table with fine bone china and tray after tray of the most delectable assortment of cookies, cakes, and chocolate covered strawberries. I had never seen such an extravagant layout. With me as the sole exception, everyone was dressed in lovely tailored suits and pearls, expensive bags and they all appeared as though they looked like this all the time. They seemed to know or at least have met each other before. I knew no one. As in No. One. There were about 50 women in all- very "top drawer" - and me, looking for all the world like "Ma Kettle" at Buckingham Palace. But everyone was nice. To me. And I was impressed. Of course they had to have been dying inside at the sight of me but they were too well mannered to ever have let on. And I was eternally grateful for that. I found a small chair in the far back corner of the room and planted myself there for the meeting. As kind as everyone had been, I wouldn't have minded if California had produced one of its big earthquakes and the ceiling had fallen down on me. But once it was over, I grabbed my things, shook people's hands, apologized for my disheveled appearance (blaming a crazy day and the baby), and ran through the rain to my car. I guess I had passed. But they passed an unscheduled test as well. I cluelessly showed up as my very best worst. And they didn't flinch. Clearly, these broads were cool.