Invasion of the Bundt Cake Ladies

The ladies will be lining up at your door with Bundt cakes.

That’s what the “dorm director” said at one of the retirement homes I recently toured in South Florida with my dad.

She wasn’t exactly a dorm director. Her job was to convince my father and me why we should choose this particular community for him to live.

My 20-something son made the trip from New Jersey with me, and I couldn’t help but compare this round of visits to the ones we did for his college search.

Like deciding upon a college, picking a retirement community requires extensive research on location, amenities, cost, and reputation.

The questions were so similar: How big is the campus? How many residents? How is the food? Are the people friendly? Where are they from?

Both had great rec options. But while spontaneous hacky sack games probably wouldn’t be breaking out anytime soon in South Florida, none of the colleges we visited could boast of a retired poker dealer in residence who was patiently explaining the difference between a flush and a straight.

You could study U.S. history in both places. But while the college kids had to learn about Pearl Harbor from online text books, there were regular lectures from residents who lived through WWII.

In both cases we said it costs how much???

Pictures are pretty, but you can’t get the whole story. You need to visit to get a true feel for the environment. Did I detect the lingering aroma of spilled beer in the dorm common room? Would I smell something worse in the activity room of the retirement community?

Talking to current residents helps a lot.  That’s how we learned about “the Carols.”

As we sampled the food in the dining hall during our visit, one of the “Bundt cake ladies” approached the table. She meant business. She told us her name was Carol 4, having been recently promoted from Carol 5. At the moment, the Carol list went up to Carol 7. (I didn’t want to know what had happened to the last Carol 4.)

We found what I hope will be the perfect place for him.  Dad chose the Carol-laden community, and moved in yesterday.

Today, I asked him about the meals, who he sat with, how he slept. Reminded to remove his disgusting slippers before he went out in public. I’m excited and nervous for him—just like I was when I sent my kids off to school.

Last night, while scrolling through my Facebook feed, I saw the community had posted a photo of its new member welcome party from earlier in the day. 

Scratch the college campus comparison. Now, it’s akin to the summer camp photo search. My kids didn’t go to sleepaway camp, but I remember the tales of my friends who sent their kids away. They pored over the posted photos, trying to catch a glimpse of their kiddies. 

Communication with their campers was limited, so they searched the photos for hints as to how their kids were doing. Were they eating? Do they look happy? Are they socializing with others? Is that the back of their head?

Dad checked in late yesterday, so he didn’t attend the welcome party. My sisters and I zoomed in on the photos on our phones and offered our two cents as to which residents looked fun.

It’s been 24 hours, and nary a Carol has knocked on his door with a Bundt cake.

I’m hoping they are just bickering over which one gets to deliver it.