Meet Me Half-Way

One gal lives in Hidden Hills. The other gal lives in Sherman Oaks. "Let's meet half-way," says the shorter gal. "Tarzana," says the other gal, taller and ever-so-lithe. She names the place, a swanky golf club. "Great," says the shorter gal, as though familiar with the location. But deep down in the shorter gal's preoccupied keppy, she's thinking of another swanky club she went to one time back in the '90s. So, despite the address and a quick look at a map, too quick for it to make much of an impression, the shorter gal, a bit old school, unforgivably ignoring all the fancy smart phone app options, changes out of her schlep-wear into something more presentable, and heads off for her destination, going too far, turning around, finding the street and then driving right past the swanky club without as much as a glimpse. Now she's driving up some random street into the hills of Tarzana, convinced she's supposed to be going to the other swanky golf club, even though she's not.

Soon the shorter gal is lost and pulls over and starts with the satellite map app to get her out of this troubling situation. Finally, she must concede how eff'd up and directionless she is. "I'm a Westsider!" she yells. "I was never meant to live in the Valley." No one answers. So she calls the taller friend, so lithe-like, so calming. "Are you using Waze?" "No." "You're not using Waze?" "No." "Where are you?" "Lost in the hills." "Turn around and go down the street." "I'm doing that." "Okay, where are you?" "I'm going north." "North?" "Toward Ventura." "I don't know from North or South." "Hang on, I think I see the street I was supposed to be on. I'm turning right." "Look for the crane." "The what?" "The green crane in front." "Okay." "You know, the construction crane." "Oh... yay, there it is." "Now turn in the parking lot." "I'm turning." "Do you see me waving?" "No." "Keeping driving." "I see you now. Hi." "Hi." Thanks for meeting me half-way." "I tried to pick the easiest location."