Dont Mince Words

Not a dick pic!

Nothing makes me feel more alive than visiting New York. It also gives me an excuse to wear all my black t-shirts.

After I arrived in Penn Station, I helped five people with directions. I told the last person I had not lived there since 2003. “Wow, you just really look like you know what you are doing…like you live here.” That’s probably the best compliment you can give someone who has moved away and misses elements of New York.

I was above ground less than 30 minutes, walking down 14th Street, when a guy six feet away from me says, “Wow, you are a MILF. I need to get to know you.” While I am no mother, I will happily own the F part of that acronym. We exchanged numbers, I suggested getting a drink, and he said he’d text me (like a good Millennial would).

This small act by a horny Brazilian boy reminded me what I miss most about New York – real men. Men who do not hide behind screens but actually nut up and talk. It’s refreshing. I can’t tell you the number of times I’ve heard similar stories from girlfriends who visit New York. Invisible in one place – noticed in another.

I didn’t expect boy to text me, but he did the next day. We didn’t connect for that drink and he said he was “sorry” that I didn’t live there.

Several days later I was back in Richmond trying to enjoy my first Tinder date. It was over when he whipped out his phone to show me photos all his grandchildren. I’ve reconciled where I live. I haven’t quite accepted the dating pool I have to work with.

You know what the start to a perfect day is?  Freshly ground coffee? Bacon frying? A blow job? Today, for me, it was a perfectly coiled crap in the toilet. You know, one of those “no way!!!!” works of art that you really feel will never be duplicated. Don’t worry, I didn’t take a picture. I did say “alright” loud enough that Dixie came running. We then took a three-mile walk and I finished my taxes. A shit is all it took to make me happy today.

The MaxiPad

I sold my first house, the sweat-equity 1908 money pit, in 1998. Since that time, I’ve lived in four states and had 12 different addresses. I consolidated my stuff down to the bare necessities and when I got laid off the last time, I sold everything and UPSed 18 boxes to Virginia. I’ve been in my “retirement” house for three months now and I’m so thankful I’m not a hoarder. I’m building a home without the nicked and scuffed leftovers of prior lives.

One thing has changed since my last home purchase – the internet and ecommerce. Home delivery and Amazon have made the need for a boyfriend or husband to hump something into my car obsolete. I see the UPS guy more often than all my old boyfriends combined. The other night, he was removing a package from my front porch when I opened the door.

“I’m so used to coming to your house, I forgot other people on your block might order things too,” he said laughing. Several nights later he was back delivering my fall California wine club package. I tipped him $20 and thanked him for helping me move in.

About 90 percent of my home is furnished now. It’s nice to be able to buy things that fit the space instead of making old things try to work. As I write this, two white guys are on a 40-foot ladder painting my balcony. That’s another thing that has changed.  If it requires a tool or prop I don’t have, I hire a man. That’s what they are good for. The time I save can be spent drinking beer while sitting on my new sofa online shopping.