Dont Mince Words

I’m an optimist, right? I have to be given I’ve been internet dating for 20 years. But if something is too good to be true, it probably is. Right?

Ralph was a good match according to OKCupid. And he was my type of guy – cut to the chase and don’t waste time. We exchanged a few messages, talked on the phone, and three days later we had a date. A good date. It had been a long time since I’ve met for a drink and four hours later I actually wanted to still talk to someone.

During the next few weeks, I learned more about Ralph. He was 44 and didn’t want kids so he had a vasectomy. Never married. He went to one of those private west end schools and grew up on an estate on the river. He was attentive and communicative and eager to book dates. My girlfriends were cautiously optimistic for me. “The mask will come off. There has to be something wrong with him,” I explained.

You learn a lot about a man by the company he keeps and by the way he lives. I jumped at the opportunity to come over to Ralph’s house for dinner. When I drove up , I hummed the theme from Dallas as I passed the front gate houses then rounded the corner to see Southfork. It was a large house, but not what you’d expect a single guy to choose to live in, monied or not.

When I went in, I was shuffled to the sun room where his friend was. Ralph went back to the kitchen to finish the food. I surveyed the scene and in seconds figured out I was in the House of Mom. Gardening books. Bird feeders. Stacks of catalogs. Stamps. Envelopes. The other shoe had dropped.

I learned he lived in the basement; his best friend was in the chef quarters. His mom is a smart woman. If I were in my 70s, I’d love to have two men around to help me. But not my son. The boy needs to go learn to fly on his own. Be his own man.

I gave Ralph the soft let down by phone and casually mentioned living with his mother was going to hurt his long term relationship prospects.  “I know,” he mumbled.

This is funny because my OKCupid profile has a line that states, “You should contact me if you are an emotionally evolved male who doesn’t live with his mother.” I added this when I lived in Los Angeles. The recession forced a lot of people to move home. Ralph didn’t get to the bottom of my profile. He’s also dyslexic.

I love trends, especially when they save me time and money. Since granny gray is in, it was time to have a chat with my hairdresser.

I’ve been coloring my hair since I was a teenager. My first gray hair appeared before I was packed for college. I’ve been some shade of red ever since. At this point in my life, I have to color my roots every 17 days in order to maintain the color. Two boxes twice a month. Red doesn’t cling to gray long.

My hairdresser understood my desire to go natural but wouldn’t double process my hair into a gray shade so my naturals could flow in. Too damaging. So now I’m a transitional blonde as my roots come in. And it’s weird. I feel like some of my personality washed away with the red.

I’m waiting on the “more fun” part of being a blonde. Right now I’ve got “more time.”

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.