Girls just want to have fun… and facts
Women can reach a level of instant communication in line at Safeway or crossing the street at Union Square.
All it takes is one sentence, 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 could be as deep as a thimble: “Who does your hair?” “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 Santana Row.
We ask questions and we ask directions. (Karyn K, 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 GPS or MapQuest, She simply paid the driver – no fuss, no muss.
Our motto is, “When in doubt, ask questions.” This is part of female DNA.
While volunteering at the San Francisco Film Festival, I had a coffee break with another woman, GiGi. (Note: a lot of women volunteer at film festivals.) In no time, we discovered we had dated the same Lothario.
Months earlier, we had both been on Match.com. She started to warn me about Philip the millionaire chef. I told her I, too, had dated The Chef. Then he announced he was off to Kenya for safari and would be back in three months. Never heard from him again. No loss, no magic.
Months later, The Chef called her and told her he was going helicopter skiing in Gstadd and she never heard from him again. Bored, she Googled the guy. She discovered the flamboyant San Francisco native, a true character, left not -a-trace-despite elaborate stories about his famous family. Nothing could be found. The Chef disappeared until he didn’t and he was back on Match.com
GiGi of unlimited funds and insatiable curiosity hired a private detective-only to learn the Chef was a Tenderloin Tenant, not a Nob Hill resident and more of a transient than a chef extraordinaire. He was a weaver of a web of lies.
I had moved on and was in a delightful romance with a dancer-English lit major-writer, who earned his keep ghostwriting biographies for jilted politician’s wives. He was making a killing.
Now you know: beware The Chef
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