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. It’s what we do.
Granted, 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 very personal information and we ask for help. (Sara D, 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 silly old GPS or MapQuest. She simply paid the cabbie – no fuss no muss. Done!
Our motto is, “When in doubt, ask questions.” It is part of the Female DNA.
Are We Dating the Same Man?
While volunteering at the San Francisco Film Festival, I had a coffee break with Janie. Five minutes into our break, we discovered we had dated the same Lothario. (Note to Men: dozens of single women volunteer at film festivals, Litquake, special events. We talk.)
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,” for two months before he announced to he was off to Kenya for safari and would be back in awhile. Never heard from him again. No loss, no magic.
After their first five dates, Chef called Janie 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 Francisco native, a true social butterfly, left not-a-trace- despite elaborate stories about his famous family. Not a clue could be found. She spent hours Googling, researching, 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
Janie, of too-much-time-on-her-hands, unlimited funds and insatiable curiosity, actually 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 Major, Plein Air Painter’ from Albany who earned his keep ghostwriting biographies for jilted politician’s wives. He was making a killing.
Janie felt it was her duty to warn other women about “Chef, the weaver of lies.” It’s what we do.