Women can reach a level of instant communication in line at Safeway or crossing the street at Union Square.
Needs no Introductions
For many women – all it takes is four little words, like “ I love your shoes.” These four little words from one woman to another can open a fleeting, 60-second, heart-to-heart conversation and then, bam! We’re on to the next totally, sincere, succinct conversation with another total stranger. Such is life.
Granted, our conversations can be as deep as “Who does your hair?” Or “Your purse is open.” Or we ask directions. As needed, all day long, we stop strangers for directions. On the Spanish Steps, across from St Peters, on Lombard Street or Rodeo Drive – we talk.
We ask questions, chat, exchange information and we ask directions. (Betty V, lost and driving a rental car in Washington DC, asked a taxi driver to lead her out of our nation’s capital. She didn’t want to waste time on using GPS or MapQuest. She simply paid the cabbie – no fuss no muss.
Most women will agree, our motto is, “When in doubt, ask questions.” It is merely is part of female DNA.
Dating the Same Man?
While volunteering at the San Francisco Film Festival, I had a coffee break with another woman, Sally. Five minutes into our meal, we discovered we had dated the same Lothario. (Note to men: dozens of single women volunteer at film festivals, Litquake, special events)
She said, she said
It turned out, last year we had both been on Match.com. She started to warn me about Philip-the-millionaire-chef. I told her I, too, had dated “Chef,” before he announced to he was off to Kenya for safari and would be back in thee months. Never heard from him again. No loss, no magic.
After their first three dates, Chef called to say he was going helicopter skiing in Gstadd and would be back in two months. She never heard from him again. Curious, she Googled the guy.
The truth will set you fretting
She discovered the flamboyant San Francesco native, a true character, left not -a-trace,despite elaborate stories about his famous family. Nothing could be found. Sally spent hours attempting to track down Chef – he had disappeared into the Ethernet.
The Chef disappeared until he didn’t and he was back on Match.com
Sally, of too-much-time-on-her-hands, unlimited funds and insatiable curiosity, hired a private detective to find “Chef.” She was stunned to learn “Chef “was a Tenderloin tenant, not a Nob Hill resident; more of a transient than a chef extraordinaire and he was a weaver of web lies.
I had moved on and was in a delightful romance with a ‘Tango Dancer, English Lit major, writer’ from Berkeley who earned his keep ghostwriting biographies for jilted politician’s wives. He was making a killing.
Sally felt it was her duty to warn other women about “Chef-the weaver of lies.” It’s what we do.
Women talk. And the world is a better place for it.