My friend Carole and I go to brunch at a classy, rich golf resort down the mountain.
We sit on the up scale patio next to the golf course. There’s a vast green view filled with grass, oak trees, designer clouds in the sky and old men trying to put balls into little holes.
The table beside us has grandparents and four tiny children. The kids keep shrieking and knocking on the back of my chair and sometimes they step on my toes as they race around the tables. One little girl says to me, “Why do you have gray hair?”
“It’s platinum,” I say. “I have it because I’m lucky.”
Carole and I are pretty much OK with the childish revelry because we have grandkids and we know how they are.
However….Carole has been single for centuries and so have I. We think it would be fun to talk to a nice, eligible man once in awhile.
I had suggested we go where all the men go on a Sunday morning; to a fancy restaurant on an expensive golf course.
That idea isn’t working out too well. Especially since I have a stomach ache and can’t eat very much.
Carole and I are disappointed today but we have been for years. We often go to luxury places and the men we have managed to meet have been disappointments. Like, they wear little tassels on their shoes and don’t exhibit any animal magnetism. Or, they are looking at these same places for rich women to take care of them, or to take advantage of women in some other ways.
A week or so later I stop at my brother Jim’s new place. He has moved his mobile kitchen, The 3rd St Grill, next to an old country convenience store right up the street from me.
In the course of an hour, as I sit outside at a tiny table, I chat up a young guy who works at some kind of school. Next, I meet a younger fellow from New Zealand who is working construction at the castle down the road.
Men come and go. They drive their vehicles into the lot, hop out and either comes to Jim’s window and order or go inside the deli.
The patrons are a mix of fellows who work in the vineyards, construction workers, a male tenant who’s living in what used to be my mom’s house, a man training a guide dog, guys in shorts, men in jeans, lots of guys coming and going, lots of muscles and tanned skin. This is a paradise I realize, for a woman looking for a healthy, hunky working man!
What are women thinking? Where are the women? They’re not here. Hardly a woman shows up at this place. Instead, I imagine they’re all going to expensive breakfasts on the golf course, to nice wine bars, musicals or art shows and wondering where the rich or classy, intelligent men are.
Now, ladies listen to me. I know where all the regular men are, the nice guys. They’re not at the wine bar, Starbucks, the movies, the mall or pretty eateries….They’re at the old market up the road from me, buying beer and hamburgers and maybe some tums. And, I suspect that at least some of these men are single and lonely and are wondering where you are.
One of my sisters married a Working Man. We call him the Gold Plated Plummer.
When I complained years ago that all the men I was meeting had Penis Troubles, my sister was shocked. She said, “Look for a working man. They don’t have those issues.”
“Really?” I said.
“Really,”she said. “I know a lot of women who are married to working men and they say their men stay strong and handsome and healthy for a really long time. I don’t hear any complaints.”
It’s something to think about.
OK ladies, give it some thought, then come and visit me, we’ll all have lunch at Jim’s place.
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