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.

It takes years and years to master the art of trusting your instincts. You don’t take candy from strangers and you certainly don’t take drinks from guys that look like they can get bulk discounts on GHB.

On Friday, I had a job interview that was scarier than a white windowless van with no license plates. I had heard tales. I’d read the GlassDoor reviews. But I needed a reason to get out of my yoga pants and put mascara on.

When I walked into the lobby, I immediately had AIG survivor flashbacks without the Wall Street tinge. Leather sofa and chairs with brass rivots and buttons. Traditional Queen Anne tables. I could smell the middle-aged white guys. They were here.

After I checked in, I sat in the old leather to discover the only reading material in this oh-so-corporate lobby was Jesus lit. There were no trade publications, Wall Street Journal, local newspapers, or even a People freaking magazine. The Jesus lit was on the coffee table, fanned out. It was on the side tables. It was on every horizontal surface I could see. This was the June issue with daily lessons “to help you connect with God every day.”

I don’t have any issue with faith-based organizations or corporations that choose God as one of their core values. Own it like Chick fil-A and Hobby Lobby and let the consumer decide. While I am a lapsed Lutheran, I’ve been a big city girl for too long and crave diversity in the workplace.

My interview hadn’t started and I already had “material” with more on the way. I asked my would-be boss, who has been there 17 years, a standard marketing question.

“I know your competition varies from region-to-region but what would you say is your unique selling proposition in this crowded marketplace?”

Without hesitating, she answered “We are the largest, private, family-owned XX in the nation.”

That’s no reason to believe or buy for the marketing bible told me so.

Rather than take a Silkwood shower after my 2.5 hour experience, I took communion in the form of moonshine. It seemed like the proper thing to do. Then I called friends and asked “have you ever….”  I received a chorus of OMGs and NEVER with a resounding “you can’t work there.”

When you trust your instincts, it’s easy to walk away.

When the Tinder app launched, I was living in Santa Barbara where the dating population was either college-age or retirement age. I didn’t see the point. Imagine my surprise when a girlfriend visiting from Florida admitted she met her long-term boyfriend there.

“You have to get on it,” she said.

I still subscribe to the belief that dating is hard all over. I don’t care if you are in Los Angeles, Kansas City, or Richmond. You hit a certain age and, statistically speaking, there’s not a lot of good stuff out there. But whatever, I signed up for Tinder as another social experiment.

During the last two weeks, I’ve been matched with 11 guys within an 18-mile radius and five contacted me.

• 3 started a conversation, I responded and haven’t heard from them since
• 1 was moving to Richmond soon
• 1 asked if I was naked

So much for a killer app. The experience is the same as if it were 1996 and I was in an AOL chat room. You have to weed out the boring to find the interesting people.

I’m still waiting.