“Be ye not afraid!”

—Here she comes!
Another pretty jogger on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“Now do it! Strike up a conversation, even with a pretty girl. You’ve done it before!”
“I used to do that myself,” I said as she approached.
She stopped and pulled out her earplugs.
“Running?” she asked, as our eyes met and she smiled.
Yes, she attracted my attention, and I wasn’t being a creep about it. That made her happy.
We began talking, me thinking she might wanna continue running.
But no, she wanted to talk.
“I began running three years ago,” she said; “so my knees are still okay.”
I glanced at her pretty knees clothed in black running-tights.
“This one is fake,” I said, pointing to my left knee; replaced four or five years ago.
“At least here you’re on dirt,” I said. “Pavement is a killer!
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.” Enter Dale Carnegie, stage-right: “let ‘em talk” — and women seem to love talking.
And “be a good listener,” which apparently I am, since she’s liable to say something I wanna hear.
Another lady-friend tells me how men mostly wanna talk about themselves, taking over a conversation, and butting in.
We jabbered maybe five minutes, me thinking she’d wanna stop. But she didn’t!
Finally “I am so glad I said something!” I said to her.
“Striking up a conversation always works!”
“I’m glad ya did too,” she smiled. “You are perfect!”
“Four years ago I would have avoided you,” I thought to myself.
“‘No pretty lady will talk to you,’ but you are.”
“I run to the ballfields, then around the ballfields, then I run back,” she said.
We finally parted, her to the ballfields, and me to my turn-around.
But here she comes again, after I started back.
“There he is!” she shouted. I couldn’t help but notice it was her striking up our conversation instead of me.
After the childhood I had? A pretty girl wants to strike sparks — talk — with me?
“No pretty girl will try to strike up a conversation with you; you are despicable!”
“I am so glad I struck up a conversation with you!” I said as she jogged past.
“Me too!” she exclaimed.
“I hope we meet again sometime,” she said, as she jogged away smiling.
AMAZING!
I doubt she could replace my wife, but she did offset my childhood.

She was different

Probably in her 20s; the image that remained in my head until the very end. (Long-ago photo by BobbaLew.)

—“What about your wife?” friends ask.
Every time I mention how pleasant it is to strike sparks with pretty ladies, “what about your wife?”
“She was different,” I always say. “Raised by her mother to be a frump.”
And I think I did convince her she could be pretty. In her picture above, she’s pretty.
“You get rid of them batwings (glasses), and let your hair grow, and you’ll look a lot prettier.”
Her mother was aghast. My wife switched to contacts, and away from tightly-curled permanents.
Maybe not gorgeous, but no longer a frump.
Her prettiness faded with age, but the marbles remained = I could talk to her, and she understood everything I said almost immediately.
If she didn’t, she wanted me to explain, i.e. she didn’t push me off. I might say something that turned on a lightbulb in her head.
I think of two other girls similar to my wife; that is, they wanted to hear whatever I said.
Neither girl was as well-suited for me as the one I married.
My bereavement-counselor tells me I’m lucky to have found a wife who could accept someone as messed up as I was, and probably still am.
“Similar childhoods,” I always say. With her it was her mother, but with me it was both parents, although mainly my father.
“I don’t wanna look like my mother!” she’d wail as she got older.
“Ya haven’t growled at me yet,” I’d say. (When I first met her mother, she actually growled at me: “what in the world does she ever see in him?” Then “look what the cat dragged in!”)
I think all our parents were upset they couldn’t determine our marriage partners. My mother had the perfect wife picked out for me who I couldn’t stand, plus her mother had the perfect husband picked out who she also couldn’t stand.
That guy dated her once in college, and scared her to death demonstrating the 100-mph potential of his ’57 Chevy.
So why are all my recent encounters with pretty ladies so thrilling? We laugh, and smile at each other, and talk, talk, talk, and talk some more, and they light up the woods with their smile.
But I’ve yet to meet a pretty lady comparable to, or who could replace, my wife.
So I been thinkin’, despite being told at the Mighty Mezz that thinkin’ was dangerous. Recently a friend who was mad-as-Hell at me told me she was thinking, so I suggested we call the fire department.
Every one of those pretty ladies I struck sparks with counters my childhood.
“NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT/TALK TO/ASSOCIATE WITH OR HANG OUT WITH YOU!”
And Yrs Trly has gotten so he can charm a pretty lady into striking sparks. I used to be scared, but now I’m so used to doing it, and I’m having so much success, I probably do it more than I should.
Some of my best friends are female: we smile and talk and laugh, and thereby make each other feel good. Men are less likely; they’re always pullin’ that macho crap on ya.
These recent friendships with pretty ladies are extremely pleasant, but only because they’re countering my childhood.

• My beloved wife of 44&1/2 years died of cancer April 17th, 2012. I still miss her. BEST friend I ever had, and after my childhood I needed one. She actually liked me.
• The “Mighty Mezz” is the Canandaigua Daily-Messenger newspaper, from where I retired 15 years ago. BEST job I ever had. I was employed there almost 10 years — over 11 if you count my time as a post-stroke unpaid intern. (I had a heart-defect caused stroke October 26th, 1993, from which I recovered fairly well. That defect was repaired.)

Reason enough

—Last Wednesday, November 25th, the day before Thanksgiving, Yr Fthfl Srvnt restarted aquatic balance-training in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I haven’t done it since that YMCA closed due to COVID-19 perhaps eight months ago. That YMCA reopened in September I think, but using it seemed difficult.
I think the locker room was off-limits at first, and I needed that locker room.
Other things beside balance-training were occurring. I befriended three ladies I consider attractive. Doing so counters my torrid childhood: “No attractive lady will associate with you!”
First would be my aquacise-instructor, a tiny sprite with an engaging smile. We both were using the same dog-groomer who noticed my balance was faltering.
She thought she might be able to help me, so one-on-one at first. Then she suggested her balance-training class.
Then she wanted to meet my new dog, which to someone with the childhood I had was completely MIND-BLOWING.
A pretty lady wants to hang out with me? “No pretty lady will associate with you! You are DISGUSTING!”
Three times in quick succession; first time without her own dog.
Being as inexperienced with women as I was at that time, and probably still am, I thought she was interested in me.
A dreadful mistake; she probably was no more interested in me than her other male clients.
About the same time, one of the lifeguards at that swimming pool said hello to me by name, and after a while I managed to get up the nerve to say hello back.
She’s not stunning, but for her age she’s attractive. She was 63 back then, but looked like she was in her 40s on her lifeguard stand.
Again, “why in the world would a pretty lady say hello to me? I am DISGUSTING!”
So began a long relationship prompted by thinking she might be interested in me. And despite my many foul ups and flubs trying to learn how to deal with women, she stayed with me = AMAZING!
Fortunately, I never had her phone-number. But I did have the phone-number of my aquacise-instructor. I texted her too much, probably thereby destroying any possibility of our ever being friends. I was acting like a lonely hot-to-trot widower.
The third lady is another lifeguard. She was the first attractive lady with whom I struck up a conversation on-my-own.
“I see you were named after the transmissions our buses used,” I said.
“You got that backwards!” she shouted. “Them bus-transmissions were named after me!”
It was Saturday afternoon, long ago, so after using the pool, I climbed out and noticed her name scrawled on a bulletin board.
“Your name has only one ‘L;’ the bus trannies had two.”
“Yeah,” she said; “they spelled it wrong.”
WOW! This girl is quick!
So began friendship with a third attractive lady, although there was no romantic misperception with her.
So the other day we met again: she was lifeguarding at that time. What a thrill; we are such great friends = we laugh and shoot the breeze. “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada.”
My bereavement counselor suggested I lay low with the aquacise-instructor, which seemed right to me; since I would seem forward if I said anything to her at all = let her do the talking.
I met that third lady later in my supermarket. Again, “yada-yada-yada-yada-yada! Haven’t seen you in months, and twice in one day! Happy to see ya!”
“Back for good?” she asked.
“Not sure,” I said.
“Why not?” she asked.
“Too clumsy,” I said.
She began telling me my aquacise-class would probably be beneficial.
I thereafter threw my speech at her I repeat to all my newfound lady friends, namely: “we could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but we’re here to buy groceries!”
“So come back to the pool again so we can talk,” she said.
“Reason enough,” I thought to myself.

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.

Taking my imaginary doggy for a walk

—Thanksgiving day, our first pandemic Thanksgiving in quite a while. Also my first meatless Thanksgiving.
“No turkey should I have to give its life,” I said to a friend yesterday.
Yrs Trly has gotten away from eating meat. I still eat fish; my brother calls me a “pescatarian.” I also still eat hotdogs, but no pork, no poultry, and no red meat.
What to do. All my relatives are far away, and the church up the street canceled its Thanksgiving dinner.
So, baked salmon and asparagus and cauliflower. Take salmon out of freezer so it can thaw.
How about up to Lehigh Valley RailTrail to hike my imaginary dog? That would be Killian, who I lost two months ago.
Lehigh Valley RailTrail is risky, especially if I meet a pretty girl. We start talking, and that’s always grist for this blog.
“No pretty girl will talk to you!” Yet so many do.
So off to Lehigh Valley RailTrail, promising myself I will attempt to strike up a conversation with every contact, male or female.
Here they come! Two pretty girls walking a dog.
Do it! Say something! Strike up a conversation.
If it falls flat: NOT MY FAULT! (Try someone else.)
“I see your dog is taking you for a walk,” I say.
“Chatter-chatter-chatter-chatter,” and the older lady smiles.
I stop, we turn towards each other, and our eyes meet. Hers are twinkling.
“I’m taking my imaginary doggy for a walk,” I said.
“What?” she smiled.
My wife, gone over eight years, would get it right away. Most people don’t.
“I’m taking my imaginary dog for a walk,” I repeated.
“You keep going and you’ll pass his ashes up by that marker.”
“Awwww…… When did you lose him?”
“Over two months ago. I’m still devastated,” I said whimpering.
“Sorry,” I said.
“That’s all right,” she said, her smile fading.
But we were still striking sparks.
That older lady, skinny as a rail, was probably the dog-walker’s mother, and their dog was lunging toward the woods.
My hyper-religious parents and Sunday-School superintendent neighbor would call our talking to each other FLIRTING! Evil and disgusting.
I managed to strike up a conversation with every single contact on that rail-trail — except the bicyclists, who roar past flat-out.
And that included a cute young jogger. She smiled when I told her to not stop.
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do you not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go directly to Hell!”
Versus “we could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but I gotta keep going. My car needs gas.”

More blog material

—“I never can get outta this store without striking sparks with some pretty lady.”
I thought that to myself as I trudged my supermarket in search of groceries.
We were all wearing masks per COVID-19, which forces us to notice eyes. I never noticed before, but my supermarket is awash in eyes, many of them gorgeous.
Sparkling eyes below stridently gray hair, young girls with pretty eyes, although their eyes are less vibrant.
After buying a pizza-slice for Saturday, I decided to spoon out lentil-chili for Sunday.
The chili goes into a cardboard container, and a lady was trying to separate out a container.
The stack was giving her 10-or-more containers. She fumbled a bit, ending up with three. She fished out one, then handed me the other two.
“No comment,” I said as we continued, hoping my saying that would project positively.
She then walked around me to another soup offering, and began ladling out that.
“Well I do have one comment,” I said, since we seemed to be talking to each other.
“Go ahead; say it!” a little voice inside me whispered. “Tell her she has pretty eyes,” and they were pretty. They sparkled.
“And your comment is……” the lady asked.
“We’re all wearing these masks,” I said. “That forces us to notice eyes.”
Hem-Haw, as I tried to get my nerve up.
Finally, “You have pretty eyes!”
Did she smack me?
No!
“Why thank you!” she gushed.
Not the first time I heard that. I could give numerous examples where I made similar compliments that ended with “why thank you!”
“Well of course she didn’t smack you,” my hairdresser would say. “You didn’t tell her she had an appealing rack!”
Yes, what got my attention was her eyes; as always.
Our eyes meet for a few seconds, then “she looks like someone I could talk to!”
My male friends tell me I have it all wrong: what matters is all the other stuff = what’s sexually attractive.
“NOPE!” I shout. “Talking with women is a lot more fun. They smile and smile and laugh with me, plus they’re likely to say something worth hearing.
“You keep telling ladies they have pretty eyes, and someday yer gonna get bit,” a friend tells me.
I hesitate, but gimme an opening! And I guess I’m more inclined to set up openings myself = strike up a conversation.
I bet that lady goes home and tells her husband some coot told her she had pretty eyes, and he wasn’t hittin’ on her.
I.e. it made her smile.

“Names make it personal”

—That head was prompted by the following exchange:
“Can I say your name again before I take a nap, ****** ****?
What you’re seeing here is ‘How to Win friends and Influence People’ learned 70 years late and on my own.
Address your contact by name; I’ve noticed people like that.”
“Never too late to start something new,” she remarked.
So maybe she liked my addressing her by name. I hope so.
If it did make her happy, she’s not the only one. I’ve noticed so many others liking me using their names. Like it tells them I enjoy their company.
It hadn’t been that way for years, and I didn't attend no Dale Carnegie course.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby at age-5 I was convinced no one would ever talk to me — especially not attractive females.
Now that my wife is gone (over eight years), I find that Faire Hilda, etc. were wrong.
And now that I’ve engaged people the first time in my life, I notice they like my using their names.
“Names make it personal:” a pearl-of-wisdom. People seem to wanna talk more if I use their names.
Why did I hafta lose my wife to notice this?

“Marked-for-life”

—“Think about it Bob,” my friend e-mailed me. “The ‘marked-for-life’ stigma is no more.”
“I wish it were,” I e-mailed back.
Over the past couple months, Yr Fthfl Srvnt has been blogging all too much about my incredible and mind-blowing success with pretty ladies.
My friend, like me, is a retired RTS bus-driver. He’s one of the ones to whom I e-mail my blog-links.
And unlike most, he seems to enjoy my celebrating my triumph over my sordid childhood.
Granted, the ones who marked-me-for-life, my hyper-religious parents, and my hyper-judgmental Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, the infamous Hilda Walton, recede into my filmy past.
Both parents are dead, and I’m sure that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor is also dead.
All are forgotten, but “marked-for-life” still exists. Self-loathing continues, plus continual amazement I have so much success with pretty ladies.
“No pretty lady will talk to/smile at/hang out with/associate with/ENJOY your company!”
Yet so many do, and I am amazed when they do.
“He has to be making that up!” people tell me. Over 76 years I met thousands. Out of those thousands only two seem to understand my childhood.
One is my aunt, 90 years old, who was continually badmouthed by her mother; that she shouldna been born = she was a mistake.
The other is my cousin, my father’s brother’s only child. “I don't know how in the world my father ended up being as decent as he was, after the childhood he had.”
So I wonder what made my father how he was = distant and unapproachable; continually telling me I was evil and disgusting.
“I could talk to the Old Man,” my kid brother tells me.
“Well I sure couldn’t,” I say. “He always told me I was rebellious.”
I also wonder what made my father’s mother, my grandmother, the way she was — such that anyone named “Robert,” my grandfather, my uncle, and me, were automatically disgusting. (Except my grandmother didn’t ascertain me as disgusting. In fact she defended me against my father. “Tom, ya gotta stop being so hard on your children!”)
So now “marked-for-life” has me feeling unworthy when pretty ladies like my attention. “No pretty lady will ENJOY your company!”
No one has smacked me yet, plus just about every contact I made has been pleasant.
So, “if you’ll please excuse me. I can’t leave this store without telling some girl she has pretty eyes.
It’s these masks of course. They force me to notice eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes.
And this store is awash in eyes, many of them gorgeous.
One of my lady friends told me ‘eyes are the window to the soul,’ and here in this store they’re everywhere.
Some pretty lady and I meet eyes, and WOW!
Smack me if you wish, or tell me to get stuffed, but you have pretty eyes.
I hafta keep doing that to convince myself I’m not evil and disgusting.
You have pretty eyes, you have pretty eyes, you have pretty eyes, and you have pretty eyes!
I hope you enjoy my telling you that, but smack me if you wish.
By so doing I counter my being “marked-for-life.”

• For 16&1/2 years (1977-1993) I drove transit bus for Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester, NY, a public employer, the transit-bus operator in Rochester and environs.

Facebook fulminatin’

—“Go ahead, make my day!” yells a hyper-religious friend of mine on Facebook to another friend who had the awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity to question the character of those who support The Donald.
I too find myself wondering about the character of the hyper-religious who support a president hot to grab the privates of starlets.
But if I said anything I’d just be adding to the racket Facebook became.
Wild accusations, misinformation, conspiracies, etc.
A friend of mine, who like me uses her Facebook to project who she is, posts to her Facebook something she actually read.
She usually gets a few responses. But often they’re just a thumbs-up or a “like” or “Congrats.” —I’m left wondering if the responder completely read her post.
If a word-generator like me stumbled across her post, I’d say too much. And I no longer respond directly to her Facebook. After all, I delete from my own Facebook. It’s her Facebook.
But she dare not discuss politics, or she’d get a torrent of noisy blustering.
I picture my zealot friend quietly typing anger into his computer keyboard, foaming at a distant friend who also is at home with his computer.
Ever notice how people try to one-up Limberger et al on Facebook?
Or use Facebook to demonstrate their alleged computer prowess?
Some of us aren’t scoring points. Then too, some of us actually think. (Or should I say “think for ourselves,” instead of letting Limberger think for us.)
That friend I mentioned might say something worth hearing, as do others. My deceased wife was like that. Her wit and intelligence would leave the self-declared “genius” behind.
But saying that on Facebook is only adding to the madness Facebook became.
Instead of civil discourse with friends, Facebook takes away diplomacy and tact.
Suddenly our friends can be STUPID!
Ya don’t face-to-face tell someone they’re stupid.

• “Limberger” is Rush Limbaugh. I call him that because I think he stinks.

Ain’t dead yet

—Recently an 82-year-old widow-friend moved out of her home of 45 years into what might be assisted-living. Except she’s still independent, and cooks for herself.
So now another of my widow-friends is badgering me to do the same. I’m 76 and she’s only 66.
Interestingly this is the same lady who a few years ago advised me to be more forward with another lady-friend. I argued against that at least 45 minutes, but finally acquiesced.
It’s the biggest mistake I ever made, probably ruining any possibility of ever becoming friends with a lady who I consider significant. Suddenly I was a lonely, hot-to-trot widower.
My counselor later weighed in: “Yer not *****. You’ll make many more lady-friends being yourself.”
Which is what happened. I’m apparently a charmer, and all I do is talk — no grab-ass. And women seem to love talking.
Arrayed against this one “move-out” advisor is a phalanx of others. Most important is my doctor.
“You’re fine,” he says.
“As long as you can hike that 2.8 miles on Lehigh Valley RailTrail without incident you shouldn’t move.”
I admit my balance is terrible. I’m still on my feet, and no cane yet, although I have to concentrate hard, and grab walls etc.
What got much better is my ability to offset worsening balance. I hardly fall anymore because I’m always doing things to offset falling.
“Do you wanna move?” A lady-friend asked.
“No,” I said.
“So don’t,” she said. “It’s your life!”
I always feel my father gave up too early. He cut loose even before my younger sister finished college.
My parents moved to south FL into a retirement community. My sister had to return home to that.
I don’t think my parents were in their 70s yet. They woulda been in their 60s when my sister turned 20.
“Maybe you should move,” an older widow-friend says. She’s in her 80s and has eyes that sparkle.
“But only if you think you should,” she said. “It’ll be your decision.”
I ask around, and everyone tells me to not move yet.
The only one telling me to move is that lady I no longer listen to. A year after my first attempt at being more forward, she advised I try again.
“No way José!” I shouted. “Once burned, twice shy!
I lost a good friend because of that. I try and I try, but too much damage.”
“You’re not *****,” my counselor says. “Just be yourself.”
So I guess I’m staying put. “If you say so,” I told my sparkly-eyed widow-friend. She’s well over 80 and lives by herself.

Pool renewed

—Yesterday (Thursday, November 19th) Yr Fthfl Srvnt revisited Canandaigua's YMCA swimming-pool, first time in six or seven months.
I day-dreamed I’d meet ***** or ****** ****, the two pretty ladies who a few years ago began my recovery from a dreadful childhood.
That YMCA had been closed due to COVID-19; but re-opened perhaps a month ago.
Neither lady is gorgeous, but both are attractive; both are in their 60s.
I don’t know who actually was first; they both were about the same time.
***** said hello to me by name for no reason whatsoever. That counteracts “No pretty lady will talk to you, a legacy of my early childhood.
****** ****, an easy smiler, smiled at me, thus counteracting “No pretty lady will I ever smile at you!
Then she wanted to meet my new dog. Mind blowing! “No pretty lady will hang out with you!”
Enjoy my company? Impossible! I am DISGUSTING!
Thankfully, neither lady was there; which probably was better, since my new-found confidence with pretty ladies seems to be withering.
Yrs Trly has befriended so many pretty ladies since those first two.
I also no longer have my four-legged chick-magnet, who fearlessly dragged me into meeting gorgeous women = girls I previously woulda avoided.
“Oh what a pretty dog! Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking to yet another pretty girl!
And I found that talking to a pretty girl — just talking — goes over extremely well. They like that I’m not “hittin’ on ‘em” = trying to get physical.
No touchy-feely!
All we’re doing is just shootin’-the-breeze; and women seem to love talking = a simple exchange of emotions, whereby we trigger each other.
So thankfully ***** and ****** **** weren’t there. The women who were, I could talk to without fear.
One was *********, an old friend who years ago co-led a “grief-share” I attended shortly after my wife died.
Another was *******, a life-long widow in her 80s I befriended some time ago for whatever reason. (She has sparkling eyes.)
Then there was ****, a lifeguard at that swimming-pool, who I didn’t recognize because she was wearing a mask, plus her hair was different.
“Didn’t you used to do the steps, when I was here on Saturday afternoons?” she asked.
“Do I know you?” I asked. “If so I don’t remember your name.”
“****,” she said.
“Eyes,” I told her. Her eyes were pretty, and I wish I’d had the nerve I had two weeks ago: I woulda said her eyes were pretty. I did say something, but it lacked the self-confidence I had two weeks ago.
The next time I see her I will try harder = I will try to have what little confidence I seem to have gained.
She’s not gorgeous, but she has pretty eyes. And it seems I been able to get away with telling girls they have pretty eyes. No one has smacked me yet.
“It’s these masks,” I told her. “I shop that supermarket down in town and eyes are everywhere, many of them gorgeous.”
Like “look what we been missing!” I say to myself.
“Eyes are the window to the soul,” another lady-friend tells me.
****** **** also happens to be my aquacise-instructor, which means I’m gonna meet her again, even if ***** retired, when I restart that aquacise class.
This is frightening to me, since my withering confidence will radiate.
****** **** has always been important, being one of the first, if not the first, to lead me away from my sordid childhood.
“No pretty lady will ever smile at you,” yet she did.

• My “chick-magnet” was “Killian,” a rescue Irish-Setter, my most recent dog. He made age-11, and was my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely friendly dog. I had to put him down over two months ago — yet another dog lost to canine cancer.

Strike up a conversation

—“You made my day,” my contact said.
Yrs Trly finally got around to calling back the deposit I made for a future Amtrak trip.
Almost a year ago I reserved an Amtrak trip to Fort Lauderdale to visit my niece. The trip was in April, and I canceled due to COVID-19.
Empire-Service across NY had been stopped. Amtrak performed the service.
Instead of requesting a refund I decided to turn that into a deposit for a future trip.
But as my stability degraded a future train-trip seemed impossible.
Amtrak to Fort Lauderdale involves changing trains in New York City. This would be frightening to me.
Penn Station in New York City is a zoo.
I made the trip two years ago, but barely. I almost missed the train back to Rochester.
Without my wife I am lost. She covered for me, stroke survivor that I am. —She died over eight years ago.
My brain works well enough to be ascertained as normal. But I’m no longer the font of confidence needed to navigate Penn Station. I remember how terrified I was that other time.
I don’t like making telephone calls. I used to let my wife do ‘em for me.
I always have to deliver my “speech” to my contact: “You’re talking to a stroke-survivor. I do okay, but I may hafta ask you to slow down or repeat. I also may lock up = unable to get my words out.
It’s called aphasia; Google it! Mine is slight, but I have it. If I didn’t warn you, you might get mad at me. I’ve had it happen.”
So, “call Amtrak” into Siri on my iPhone.
I got a machine, of course, and it couldn’t crunch more than five words. “I need to refund the deposit I made for a future trip” is way more than five words.
After three attempts: “I give up!”
Apparently the machine could crunch that: “we’ll connect you with a service-rep” — a human-being I hope.
I drove that poor lady nuts. “Reservation number?” she asked. “No idea,” I said.
Around-and-around we went. “I’ll hafta research,” she said.
“Please hold during the silence: BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA-BOOM-CHICKA!” Some unbearable rap-racket that passes for music nowadays. (At least Little Richard could hold a tune.)
I ambled to this desk to rifle through my steaming-pile of accumulated papers.
VIOLA! There it was, my long ago Amtrak reservation. She could identify me with that. I thought that Amtrak reservation was gone.
“I detect a slight Philadelphia accent,” I said
“Yep, born and raised in Philly,” she said.
Business my foot; it’s more fun to talk. So let’s talk!
“I’m from south Jersey,” I said. “But I been up here since late 1966.”
“Where in south Jersey?” she asked.
“Are you familiar with Haddonfield?” I said.
“Heard of it,” she said.
“Go out State Route 70, the Marlton Pike from Camden, toward the Jersey seashore, and you’ll pass north of Haddonfield.
Are you at 30th Street?” I asked. (That’s Amtrak’s Philadelphia station on the Northeast Corridor.)
“Nope,” she said. “Amtrak Service-Center up near Levittown.”
“North of Philly,” I said. “The farthest north of Philadelphia I been is Willow Grove, and that was the air-station back in 1951!”
“That airbase is closed now,” she said.
Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada. More than half of our phonecall was just shootin’ the breeze.
So now my Amtrak deposit goes back onto my credit card, and “you made my day,” she crowed, obviously smiling.
Proof yet again that striking up a conversation so often goes over extremely well.
If it doesn’t, try someone else.

“I’m sorry”

“I’m sorry,” I would say to the pretty lady taking my temperature before I enter Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
“It's your eyes,” I would tell her. “They’re smiling at me, and that’s the worst thing you can do to this kid.
‘No pretty lady will smile at you,’ and you are.”
I didn’t say that. I did a few weeks ago, and it made her nervous.
I can’t have that! Let her do the talking. “Smile at me if you wish, but I ain’t makin’ you nervous.”
And of course she was smiling at me = I wasn’t making her nervous. Let her do the talking = lay low for me.
“You can use our sanitizer,” she said. I thereupon squirted sanitizer three feet across her desk.
“I can take care of that,” she smiled, as she redirected the squirter.
“Do I dare use this thing?” we laughed.
She’s laughing = hooray.
Our eyes met. Wow! I’m not used to this.
“I hope your husband sees what I see,” I might say.
Many ladies love when I say they have pretty eyes. But a few don’t.
I don’t wanna put a smiler on the defensive. I’m not macho-man; I’m a “bleeding-heart liberal,” says my sister.
Makin’ ‘em happy is not putting ‘em on the defensive.

Another supermarket encounter

—“Are you who I think you might be?” I asked a lady approaching me in my supermarket.
“Probably not,” she said; “since I don’t recognize you.”
“It’s these masks,” I said. “You look like someone I know.”
“And who might that be?” she asked.
“Her name is ‘*****’. She’s a lifeguard up at the YMCA swimming-pool.”
“Well my name is *****,” she said.
“Same hair, same eyes, but wrong person,” I said. “Sorry!”
Sorry I keep thinking about *****, readers. It’s hardly sexual. At my age?
She’s not gorgeous, but she’s attractive for age-64. She looks in her 40s on her lifeguard stand.
***** may be the first attractive female to say hello to me in my entire life. There probably are others, but she’s pretty close.
There was an earlier cutie-pie as my therapist following my knee-change.
***** was probably just being sociable. But she was saying hello to me by name, for no reason other than to say hello.
She wasn’t welcoming me to a class; it wasn’t “good morning Bob.”
Had it not been for the my earlier success with that cutie-pie therapist, I woulda never said hello back to *****.
“Did you say hello to me earlier?” I asked.
“Yes I did,” she said.
“Sorry I’m late, but hello back,” I said.
***** smiled, and she’s not an easy smiler.
I was probably an hour past her saying hello. Yes, I did generate enough nerve to say hello back.
So began reversal of my torrid childhood, whereby “NO ATTRACTIVE FEMALE WILL EVER TALK TO YOU!”
Had my hyper-religious parents come to my defense, that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, also hyper religious, woulda crashed mightily in flames.
But no; my parents heartily agreed. I was just as disgusting as that neighbor said I was, all because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
Any contact with anyone of the opposite sex, even if only verbal, would be evil and disgusting.
Convincing a five-year-old little boy he’s disgusting is just as disgusting.
“Marked for life!” I always say.
I’ve since befriended many more women, many of them pretty, way more than expected; mainly by talking.
And if I may say so, I think women really enjoy talking = the simple exchange of emotions, whereby we trigger each other.
I’ve had it happen so many times. And ***** may have been first. Plus she stayed with me despite the incredible flubs and faux pas I precipitated trying to get used to interchanging with women.
The fact I never had her phone number probably made our friendship possible.
So now that neighbor and my parents all spin in their graves: 14,000 rpm, enough to power FL south of Orlando.
“Go to Hell, Bobby. Do you not pass go. Do not collect $200. Go directly to Hell!”
It’s also notable I’ve gotten so I can strike up a conversation with a complete stranger = someone who might not be who I thought she might be.
Five years ago, after our eyes met, I woulda walked right past if I didn’t recognize her.

• “What about your wife?” people ask. “She was different,” I always say. “She was raised by her mother to be a frump; I think I convinced her she could be pretty.
• A recent crotch-rocket motorcycle might be capable of 14,000 rpm. A Detroit V8 will start tearing itself apart at 8,000 (if it gets there).

Gotta get up my nerve

—This morning (Sunday, November 15th) Yr Fthfl Srvnt found himself thinking about *****, my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
***** and I are worlds apart. She’s married — as far as I know — and not the mess I am.
But I always feel like she was the first pretty lady to drag me away from my sordid childhood: convinced at an early age no attractive female would have anything to do with me.
She may not actually be first, but one day she said hello to me by name outta the clear blue sky. She was probably just being sociable, but I never had anything like that happen over 65+ years.
And she wasn't just saying “good morning” as my assigned contact. She was saying hello for no reason other than to say hello.
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she is stately and statuesque. Attractive for her age, which was 63 when we first met. (On her lifeguard stand she looks like she’s in her 40s.)
And in fact, our first contact was that first time she said hello to me.
I was confused. Her saying hello to me was contrary to what I expected = “NO PRETTY LADY WILL EVER SAY HELLO TO YOU!”
I was so confused it was in-one-ear-and-out-the-other. I set about doing an hour of balance-training in that swimming-pool.
Class finished, I climbed out of that pool, thinking I gotta get my nerve up.
Instead of just walking away to the locker room, and perhaps because I earlier had contact with a real cutie-pie in a physical-therapy following my knee-replacement……
I turned the other way towards *****’s lifeguard stand.
“Did you say hello to me?” I asked her.
“Yes I did,” she said.
“Well,” I said; “sorry I’m late, but hello back.”
She smiled, and *****’s not an easy smiler.
We exchanged a few words, maybe 30 seconds, then “see ya later alligator,” as I walked away, recovery from my sordid childhood begun.
And amazingly she stayed with me, despite the many flubs and foul-ups I made trying to get used to engaging women.
Even despite an incredible faux pas which I thought would end our relationship forever.
The next day, here comes *****! Smiling like “happy to see ya!”
“Well,” I thought to myself; “if you can forget yesterday, I guess I can too.”
We talk, and laugh, and since ***** I’ve gotten much better talking with other ladies, some of whom are smashingly beautiful.
I never told ***** much regarding my sordid childhood, but once I said to her “No pretty lady will talk to you, and you did.”
WHAM! She blushed. I had just backhandedly told her I thought her pretty.
She didn’t take offense, or smack me. What she did was smile at me = she really liked my saying that.
I hope her husband tells her that once in a while. I know how marriage can utterly destroy flirting like that. You take attractiveness for granted.
Many pretty girls have come-and-gone since *****; girls I woulda avoided 10 years ago.
But I always feel like ***** mighta been my first tenuous step away from a dreadful childhood.

Yet again the eyes

—“Gotta stop checking out ladies’ eyes,” I thought to myself as I trudged quietly through my supermarket.
Saturday morning = go to supermarket = buy groceries.
Plus check out female eyes, much like Trump and his macho minions checking out the other stuff. But instead of “looka that one,” or “I’d like to get physical with her,” with me it’s “she looks like someone I could talk to” or “she’s smiling at me; I can tell!”
Per COVID-19, we were all wearing masks, and another lady-friend once told me “the eyes are the window to the soul.”
I kept to myself, but maybe I shouldna. I’ve told quite a few ladies they have pretty eyes, and I’ve yet to get smacked. I guess at age 76 I’m safe, but I always get a positive response. The lady smiles, blushes, and/or thanks me profusely.
I worry keeping to myself is my childhood resurfacing. “NO PRETTY LADY WILL SMILE AT YOU,” yet so many do.
I kept to myself, but some lady almost ran into me. Her eyes twinkled as she screeched to a halt.
If I’d said anything, I woulda said “yer eyes are twinkling,” and I bet I wouldna got “buzz off, creep!”
Returning home I decided to check out the kennel where I daycared Killian.
I hadn’t visited in a while = didn’t wanna wear out my welcome.
My college-age friend might be there, manning the store alone by herself.
“Do I dare come in?” I’d ask. “I don’t have a dog.”
“Sure!” she’d probably say, the equivalent of “happy to see ya!”
We’d talk and laugh, and laugh some more. I also would make her smile. Sorry zealots, but I love it!
“FLIRTING!” my parents and Sunday-School superintendent neighbor call it.
Evil and disgusting! Which means I’m evil and disgusting myself.
Just enjoying each other’s company isn’t “how ‘bout it honey!”
We’da been striking sparks, which makes me feel good too.
Maybe I shouldna been so reclusive at the supermarket.
Do it! Strike up a conversation! Make ‘em smile!
I’d probably smile myself, a triumph over my sordid childhood.

• “Killian,” a “rescue Irish-Setter,” was my most recent dog. He made age-11, and was my seventh Irish-Setter, an extremely lively dog. He was my fifth rescue. (Yet another dog lost to canine cancer.)

Newfangled gizmo

—Last week I patronized a new MAC store called “Mac-Avenue.”
It’s nearby in Victor (NY), and much closer than my previous independent MAC emporium (Mac Shack); about seven miles instead of 20.
I never used Mac-Avenue before, since I always used Mac Shack, and Mac-Avenue seemed rudimentary.
Mac Shack also had Andrew, my wondrous all-knowing tech-guru.
Me and Mac Shack go back a long way — at least 15-20 years. First was my G3 beige desktop, then came my gigantic G4 tower, which I still have.
Then came my heavy 17-inch dual-core “MacBook Pro” laptop, “Leopard” at first, but later updated to “El Capitan.” That was via a friend, used from the online Apple Store. It wasn’t Mac Shack; but Mac Shack serviced it.
Mac Shack did the operating-system upgrade.
Mac Shack also got me into a standalone back-up hard-drive for Apple’s “Time-Machine;” and that standalone had failed.
I am now on a new MacBook Pro laptop, eight core, 64 bit, also purchased used from the online Apple Store; but by Yrs Trly.
Its operating system is “Catalina,” but it wasn’t Time-Machining because my standalone had failed.
Around-and-around I went with Mac Shack trying to get my Time-Machine working. The owner (not Andrew) suggested my standalone had failed, and it failed out of warranty, so I’d hafta get a new one.
Back-and-forth we went, and I wasn’t getting anywhere. Weeks passed.
Finally I decided to give up on Mac Shack. Beside Mac Shack I had two other options: one being Mac-Avenue, and the other being the nearby dreaded Apple store, where one takes a number and joins the crowd.
With COVID-19, I had to make a service appointment for all three locations, so I decided on Mac-Avenue.
So, up to Mac-Avenue for a new standalone. Nice lady, with pretty eyes, but not Andrew.
She was very helpful, and I even told her she had pretty eyes. But then came how to pay for it.
I took out my credit-card, and gave it to her. She then brushed it over some magic plastical thingy.
“Wait a minute!” I shouted. “I was expecting one of them Apple-‘Square’ things.” (My dog-groomer uses one.)
“See this Wi-Fi icon on your credit-card?” she said. “I brush that over my reader, and it grabs all your information. I don’t hafta use my chip-reader.”
“Kewel!” I said.
Last night (Wednesday, November 11th) I had to buy gas after our weekly bereavers eat-out.
I pulled into a Speedway gas-station north of Canandaigua, then took out my credit-card, planning to put it in their chip-reader.
Suddenly I noticed the pump had one of them Wi-Fi reader thingies on it.
“Try it and see what happens!”
I wafted my card over the reader thingy, and suddenly the pump lit: all fired up and ready to roll.
LA-DEE-DAH!
Wondrous technology! When I graduated high-school back in 1962 even pumping your own gas was beyond comprehension = a pump-jockie did it for you. “Check the oil sir?”

• Every week, usually once per week, I eat out at a restaurant with others who also lost their spouses. We been doing that for years — my wife died over eight years ago.

A gentle flirt

—“If I don’t come into town, I won’t be able to see you!”
I said that to the receptionist/office manager at my nearby investment-firm.
She’s probably in her 40s, if not pushing 50; but she does smile at me, which makes her attractive.
I guess we enjoy talking to each other.
I called regarding a snail-mail I received from that investment-firm the other day. Probably 300 words or more, which is way beyond what the average stroke-survivor can cogitate. But it seemed to indicate my address-of-record had been changed to that of my brother in northern DE.
“Uhm……”
So I called that investment-firm to see if I could drop in per COVID-19 regulations. (I had other errands.)
“Do you need to see ****?” she asked. (**** is my investment-advisor.)
“Doesn’t matter who,” I said. “It may be you or him.”
“I have that letter up here on my screen,” she said.
“Well okay, it looks like my address-of-record has been changed to that of my brother in northern DE.”
“Not according to what I have,” she said.
My letter was dated October the 15th; her’s was November the 4th — and it indicated my address-of-record had been changed back to what it was before.
“My bad,” she said. Some time ago I noticed my brother’s address in northern DE was “Willington;” which shoulda been “Wilmington.”
We attempted to change that a few weeks ago, but her address change went wonky = changing my address-of-record to that at my brother in northern DE.
She apparently reversed that, so now my address-of-record is what it was before = correct.
“You'll soon be getting another letter, indicating the correction,” she said.
“So I guess I don’t need to come in there,” I said. “But if I don’t I won’t be able to come see you.”
FLIRT ALERT! Very gentle.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun; but back to work ****!
I only mention this because five years ago it wouldna happened.

• I had a stroke October 26th, 1993 from an undiagnosed heart-defect since repaired. I pretty much recovered. Just tiny detriments; I can pass for never having had a stroke.

“Get outta here!”

—“Are you saying I shouldn’t sell my house and move out?”
I asked that to my doctor as I left my biannual physical.
“No; you’re fine,” he said. “But get rid of that blood-pressure monitor; it’s unreliable;” which is why we tested it.
“Your blood-pressure has been fine for years. It always is here, no matter what your at-home monitor says.”
“So are you saying I should just let you guys monitor my blood-pressure? That’s six months away.”
“You could get another monitor, but it too might lead you astray.”
With that I lifted the lid on an in-room trashcan, and dropped in my ancient monitor.
So end years of in-home monitoring. That monitor began rendering sky-high readings.
“Your nurse also suggested I had another dog in me. I thought Killian would be my last, but I just lost him to cancer, and I figured he was good for four or five more years.
She also asked me how my mood was. I miss my doggie = no one to talk to. But worse is feeling I’m at death’s door.
“Do you smoke?” she asked.
“Absolutely not!” I shouted, blasting her ear off.
“So glad I never started,” I added.
“But it’s hard getting out of bed when my balance is so awful, and in the mirror I see a little old man who grabs and leans on walls etc. to keep from falling.”
“How about a cane or a walking-stick?” My doctor asked.
“I tried both,” I said; “and they throw off my balance. I do better without.”
“You’re getting older,” he said. “Circulation to the part of your brain that controls balance drops off, so imbalance sets in as you age.
Just don’t move out yet, but get rid of that monitor.”
“And I’m looking for another dog, although I don’t know as I should. That’s another dog to walk, and spoil rotten. I certainly spoiled Killian rotten.”
Usually it’s “Get outta here! See me in six months.”
Not this time!

Another “pretty eyes” encounter

—“Are you who I think you are?” I asked the lady who came into my doctor’s lobby to sanitize chairs.
Our eyes met as she turned toward me.
“Yes, you are who I thought you might be.” We were wearing masks per COVID-19.
“It’s your eyes,” I said. “I never knew your name, but I recognize your eyes.
Now, dare I say this? You have pretty eyes!”
“WHY THANK YOU!” she gushed.
“Yer not the first one who thanked me,” I exclaimed.
“I’ve told many women they have pretty eyes, when they have pretty eyes, and no one has smacked me yet.”
“Well of course not!” My hairdresser says. “You haven’t made some sleazy remark; you noticed their eyes.”
“And that’s what I always notice first,” I'd say.
“Flat as a board,” male friends tell me. Plus this particular lady was overweight.
But “the eyes are the window to the soul,” a lady-friend told me once.
“You look like someone I could talk to,” I’d say.
Her eyes were smiling, and to me that’s what matters.
The other day I noticed a girl in the supermarket parking-lot. Skinny as a rail, yet blessed with a gigantic rack.
To me that would be a distraction.
“Is that real?” I’d ask myself.
How ya supposed to talk smothered in boobies?
To me talking is primary; everything else is secondary. A lady might say something worth thinking about.
If she smiles at me, I am done!
I've had it happen. A complete stranger, but she kept smiling at me.

I did it

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt hiked his 2.8 miles on Lehigh Valley RailTrail without engendering blog-material.
I did it by being antisocial, avoiding conversation with those I passed.
Joggers, dog walkers, bicyclists — some fast, some slow.
There was one exception: three girls jogging toward me. One stopped, requiring they all stop.
When they restarted toward me, I said “I used to run myself, and you’re not supposed to stop.”
Smiles galore as they chided the original stopper, who called herself the caboose.
Railroads no longer use cabooses. They use a flashing rear-end device (the “FRED”) which radios trainline air-pressure to the train’s engineer.
They also use lineside defect-detectors, to detect flaws a caboose-crew monitored.
I guess cabooses are still in use on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, even though the railroad is gone.
Instead of saying “and so the wife dutifully falls in behind her husband,” I only said hello or waved.
I did say hello to the dogs; there were a couple.
Dogs always wanna check out me = a fellow dog-person.
Slinging words (writing) is much more fun, but mail goes unopened, and lawn goes unmowed.
Lehigh Valley RailTrail is notorious. Pretty girls often, and they reverse my childhood. “No pretty girl will smile at you, but they do on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
All I hafta do is talk to ‘em = strike up a conversation.
Conversation with a pretty girl is automatically blog-material.
That even happens with men!
That rail trail is risky.

The infamous Danny

If there’s a Ferrari in the parking-lot, it’s Danny. (iPhone photo by BobbaLew.)

—Yesterday (Saturday, November 7th) Yr Fthfl Srvnt had the consummate pleasure of meeting “Danny Wegman,” scion of Mighty Weggers.
Danny is the son Bob Wegman, the founder of Wegmans.
I had to purchase a memory-chip for my camera, and to do that I hafta motor into Rochester.
Driving there I’d pass the new Calkins Road Weggers, what I call “the Palace.” Clock-tower, spires, the whole kibosh.
This is a grocery store? It’s not the “jewel-in-the-crown:” the gigantic Pittsford-Plaza Wegmans that has a two-story section.
I needed coleslaw and baked beans for my Saturday-night meal, so I figured I’d use the new Calkins Road Weggers.
In the store I passed two gentlemen, one kempt and showered, and the other looking like he just got outta bed.
Ruddy complexion, and Danny is ruddy complexion. But his hair was all matted and disheveled. He looked like a Walmart shopper, but no pajamas.
He was telling some lady she’d do fine after surgery; that he did.
“Knee-replacement?” I asked.
“Nope. Shoulder replacement,” he said, pointing to his left shoulder.
I pointed to my left knee: “no longer the one I was born with.”
We continued, me in search of baked-beans and applesauce.
The store is so big ya need a powered shopping cart.
We crossed paths again.
“Any chance you guys can tell me where the applesauce and baked beans are? Ya look like store employees, and this isn’t the Wegmans I normally shop.”
They turned to help, and I noticed “Danny” on the name-tag of the ruddy one.
“Wait a minute,” I said. “Yer not the infamous “Danny” who owns a Ferrari, are ya?”
“I own a Ferrari,” Danny whispered.
“And your name is on the store, right?
A few years ago I returned to my south Jersey roots, and there in the gigantic parking lot of the defunct Garden-State-Park horse-race track was a Mighty Weggers.”
“Cherry Hill Wegmans,” Danny said.
“And my first stop returning from Altoona (PA) is the Wegmans in Williamsport,” I said. “You guys are taking over the entire planet!”
Danny collared a cute store employee. “Will you please take this nice gentleman to the applesauce and baked beans?”
“‘Nice gentleman’ my foot!” I said. “My sister called me a bleeding-heart liberal.”
Sorry Danny; you looked frail. I no longer see the full-of-life CEO I saw just a few years ago.
I hope he’s okay.
I tell my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool the marbles still work pretty good, but everything else is falling apart.
We’re getting old Danny. You may own a Ferrari, but you can’t take it with you.

• The photograph is old (2013). Wegmans began using a new marquee on its stores a while ago. The car is also old, but fairly recent. To my mind, it’s the best-looking Ferrari Danny ever owned — although it’s probably only a V8.
• Per my math, Danny is age-73. Not as old as me, but almost.
• When I was a child, we lived near the gigantic “Garden-State-Park” horse-race track in south Jersey. Its grandstand burned many times, and I guess the track eventually failed. Garden-State-Park had large parking facilities, and was also served by a railroad spur.

“Slap me five!”

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt avoids politics or religion in these blogs.
Doing that is an excellent way to lose friends.
“So Jack, let’s not talk about that. I wanna remain friends.”
At Transit they told we bus-drivers to not talk politics or religion with our passengers. “Do that and yer liable to get blown in!”
So I avoid talking about Trump; I have readers who are Trumpsters with whom I wanna remain friends.
Same thing with hyper-religious zealots who read this blog. “Do me a favor: let’s not talk about it. I wanna remain friends.”
So yes, I’m a bleeding-heart liberal (Gasp!) destined directly for Hell. “Do not pass go, do not collect $200, go directly to Hell, Bobby!”
That being said, I have a blog in mind which mentions Donald Trump.
The other day (Thursday, November 5th) I did a blood-draw for an upcoming medical appointment. I did it at nearby Thompson Hospital in Canandaigua.
Blood-draw finished, as I started to leave, the one who did it made an anti-Trump remark.
That stopped her in her tracks: dreadful mistake = she’d let out an anti-Trump remark.
“Are you a Trump supporter?” she asked anxiously.
“ABSOLUTELY NOT!” I bellowed.
“Slap me five!” she yelled. Social-distancing be damned!
OFF THE HOOK! I wasn’t gonna sue her and her hospital.
“And I ain’t hip to all the evil he’s been charged with, but the one thing that turns me off is that Billy Bush video. The one where he brags about grabbing the privates of starlets.
‘Locker-room talk,’ his supporters say.
Not in any locker-room I ever been in. And if I heard talk like that I’d stalk outta the locker-room.
I’m sorry, but I have too many lady-friends, and was married to one 44&1/2 years. I refuse to think of women as mere dishrags.”
She walked out into an adjacent hallway to turn in my blood vials.
Disappeared, and I hope’d I’d meet her again before I left.
“We could talk forever,” I said when she reappeared.
“Yeah, but I’m on the clock,” she said.
“With any luck he won’t be reelected,” I said; “although I hear he’s trying to stop vote-counting in PA, yet resume vote-counting in GA. (Go figure!)
After that the question is whether he will actually concede and leave office if he loses.
“I just want him to go away!” a friend wails.
Whatever, that poor nurse is off-the-hook; she spilled to a non-Trumpster; and Trumpsters can be difficult.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993).

Girls night out

—“All right,” I said to the girl doing my blood draw at Thompson Hospital this morning. “You have pretty eyes.”
“Why thank you!” she said; proving yet again I can tell that to a girl without getting smacked.
Sorry I had to mention that readers, but after last night I had to tell a lady she had pretty eyes.
Last night was our weekly bereavers eat-out: me and three others who lost their spouses, me being the token male.
“He can park his boots at the foot of my bed anytime!” one widow exclaimed after Googling some hunk movie-star on her SmartPhone.
“But can he talk?” I asked.
“DOESN’T MATTER!” she shouted.
So I later Google-imaged this hunk movie star hoping he might be a charmer who might be able to talk as well as render a good time in the sack.
Maybe. I didn’t see the charmer I often see in others.
“No lady will ever talk to you!” I was told at age-5.
Now, 70 years later, I find that was bunk.
Ever since my wife died, I been making lady friends galore, and all I’m doing is talking to them, which they seem to love.
Give ‘em an ear, and they won’t stop.
All this is new to this kid, in light of “no lady will ever talk to you!”
But apparently more is needed than just talk — ya gotta be a glowering hunk to attract ladies.
“But what’s he gonna be like at dinner?” I asked.
I’ve made too many lady friends just talking. We talk and talk and talk and talk = a simple exchange of pleasant banter.
And often they smile at me — there’s that bicyclist smiling at me along Lehigh Valley RailTrail: we talked and talked and talked and talked 20-25 minutes.
I’m sorry it was so much fun, and we had to stop. What a drag!

More celebratin’

—The other day (Monday, November 2nd), after hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and saying hello to my dog’s ashes……
I patronized a nearby supermarket to buy bananas.
Yrs Trly was followed into the store by a pretty girl, fairly cute, with gorgeous eyes.
“Uh-oh….. another turgid celebration of his amazing and mind-blowing successes with pretty ladies.”
It’s true of course, and I hear about it. The fact I do this blog is supposedly because writing is good for you. My wife died over eight years ago.
I don’t hafta publish, but I get numerous reads.
I Facebook these blogs as soon as I publish, then send e-mail links to my “readers” the next day.
That way I know if I get Facebook hits. I usually get one or two, sometimes more. I don’t know who they are, but only Facebook “friends” get them until I e-mail those blog-links.
Supposedly my blogging became catharsis, but I have readers. Occasionally I get comments, some direct to my blog.
My success with pretty ladies is mind-blowing, entirely unexpected after the childhood I had.
“No pretty lady will associate with you!” When they do, and many do, it reverses my childhood.
Months ago I was telling my lifeguard friend at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool about my childhood.“No pretty lady will say hello to you,” I said; “and you said hello to me.”
WHAM! She blushed and smiled. And she’s not an easy smiler.
I backhandedly told her she was pretty, and she loved it!
Not long ago I was talking with my college-age friend at the nearby kennel where I used to daycare my dog before I put him down. We were having a similar discussion about my tortured childhood.
“‘No pretty girl will talk to you,’ and here you are, talking to me.”
Again, SMILE ALERT! —I did it again!
And it’s not Trump grab-ass. All I’m doing is telling a girl she’s pretty.
She could tell me to get stuffed, but they always love it. They always smile at me.
Once I was hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and a bicyclist was sitting on a rock where I turn back.
Would I get there before she left? I did, and I think she mighta been waiting for me.
So began at least 20-25 minutes of continuous talking.
And she kept smiling at me, which is all it takes. She wasn’t that pretty, but her smile and twinkling eyes made up for that.
Finally I stopped us: “we could talk forever, and it sure would be fun. But I have things to do.”
Ladies love talking: the one who stops conversations is me.
I could give example after example. I’m amazed I do as well as I do: my childhood has me expecting utter failure.
So here I am in my supermarket, as is a girl with gorgeous eyes.
I’ve done it before = tell a lady she has gorgeous eyes. And if I may say so, the fact I noticed her eyes, instead of her rack, goes over extremely well!
So do I tell this girl her eyes are gorgeous? I’d like to, but only if we stumble into each other.
I had that happen before in a different supermarket, but there the lady walked toward me. “If you were who I thought you might be, I'd be singing happy birthday to you. Today is my friend’s birthday. Same build, same hair, but wrong person.”
“My birthday is this weekend,” she exclaimed.
She smiled as I sang happy birthday to her.
But I ain’t chasin’ “pretty-eyes!” I turned down an aisle, and there she was at the other end. But she walked away.
If I don’t get to tell her, so be it! (If I chase, I’m being forward.)
I have a hunch she woulda smiled = making us both feel good!
People tell me I’m dreamin’ to feel so positive. But I think if I was suspicious that would radiate — and I’d turn ladies off.

One human, one canine

—I almost had the rail-trail to myself this morning (Monday, November 2nd).
2.8 miles total, but one human and one canine at about 2.5 miles. During summer I might see 30 on a weekday, or 60 on a weekend.
But today was cold = down jacket, hat, and gloves.
I thought today might be the first time I did my 2.8 miles without seeing anyone. But a girl walking her own dog walked past as I said hello to Killian.
“Are you okay?” she asked, as I stood at the marker whimpering.
“Just saying hello to my silly dog,” I said. “His ashes are right over there.”
“You picked a good spot,” she said.
“We hiked this rail-trail many times,” I said. “He’d pull me off to the side towards these woods, then bark at all-and-sundry.
I never saw anything, but ‘CRITTERS BEWARE’!”
The girl was young and cute, but not gorgeous. She was a little overweight — that always turns me off.
“At least I don’t have this rail-trail to myself,” I said. “You’re the first one I encountered.”
She wasn’t someone I’d flirt with — that is, “flirt” as defined by my childhood = evil and disgusting.
My cleaning-lady and I discussed this: evil flirting versus acceptable flirting.
“Flirting,” for me, is great fun. I’m not trying to get cozy; I’m just trying to make the girl feel good = strike sparks.
I tell my receptionist friend at our motor-lodge in Altoona that the reason we keep using that motor-lodge is because that receptionist keeps smiling at me.
“Yer doin’ it again! You gotta cut that out! How am I supposed to be good boy when you keep smiling at me?”
Call that a “flirt” if you want; she’s smiling at me again.
To see her smile like that makes me happy, so “happy to see ya!”
She knows me, and I know her, so we strike sparks. We shoot-the-breeze and say hello to each other.
We enjoy each other’s company.
That girl’s dog mighta been a coonhound; although I’m probably wrong, since I confuse beagles with coonhounds.
“You ain’ nuthin’ but a hound-dog; cryin’ all the time!”
“He’s friendly,” the girl said.
Her dog was desperate to say hello to me = check me out. Yanking and pulling toward me.
“SNIFF-SNORT!”
I finally continued toward the parking lot; maybe 300 yards to go.
We passed and re-passed each other. Normally I woulda let the girl go ahead of me, since I trudge.
But they also were slow, so fell behind me.
Not often do I finish that rail-trail without being passed.
And not often do I finish that rail-trail without striking sparks with some pretty girl.

• Lehigh Valley RailTrail is marked with markers at each half-mile. During my hike I pass the marker at 11.5 miles. I put Killian’s ashes at that marker so I’d know where I put ‘em.

Garbage in garbage out

—“SuckerBird, you’re forcing me to ‘share’ something, I don’t wanna ‘share’!”
Engage old waazoo = “Who programs this stuff?”
“Garbage in garbage out!”
My wife fell into programming computers while I was still driving bus. A fellow bus-driver’s son was also a computer-programmer, which is from where I got garbage in garbage out!
Anyone reading this blog knows how exasperated I get with Facebook. Every time I fire it up I get mired in the “Slough-of-Despond.”
Twenty minutes become three hours.
Secretive unannounced interface changes, and on and on.
Hairballs galore! And I don’t have all day.
How I got to that “share” option I have no idea. I was trying to fiddle a video that wouldn't play.
I tried this and I tried that, but didn’t see a “cancel.”
The fact I even have a Facebook at all is due to a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies.
And then of course there’s SuckerBird etc. secretly trolling my iPhone contacts to suggest “friends.”
I only have 55 Facebook “friends,” and I could “unfriend” perhaps half. I don’t feel 89 bazilyun Facebook “friends” mean I’m worth something.
Every time I fire it up, I gotta figger it out.
And it seems like what comments or “likes” you get are no more than 3 to 5 words, like “CONGRATS,” or “you go girl!”
WRONG CENTURY, I presume: born in 1944 = well before “try it and see what happens.”
Every time I fire it up, I gotta engage guile-and-cunning.
Plus I have a SmartPhone eager to make pocket-calls if I dare breathe on it the wrong way. —How many times have I corrected some unintended video call?
Wondrous time-saving technology = twenty minutes become three hours.
Lawn awaits, mail goes unopened, or laundry waits too, until I finish wrastling with time-saving technology.
Every night, I’m lucky to get to bed by midnight, because I had to fiddle time-saving technology.
I managed to find an out on Facebook, so I didn’t hafta “share” what I didn’t wanna “share.”
Wrastle this, and wrastle that = “try it and see what happens!”
SuckerBird and his cronies are always steering me into some time-consuming hairball.

• The “Slough-of-Despond” is from John Bunyan’s Pilgrim’s Progress (1678). Think “swamp-of-despair.”

“You think too much”

—Yrs Trly continually thinks about that fiftyish lady smiling at me when I said hello to her.
That was a few days ago. She was attractive for her age, and she glanced at me as I passed, so I whipped around and said hello to her.
WOW! She smiled so hard she lit up the entire parking-lot.
Obviously she was thrilled: a guy (me) had noticed her, indicating she was still attractive. She probably thought she was older than me, but I’m probably older than her.
Whatever, we were really striking sparks. She was so happy she smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled.
That’s all it takes, readers. Some lady smiles at me and I am done!
Too bad I’m so out of it = clueless and innocent dealing with ladies. I’ve gotten so I can strike sparks, but follow-up is beyond the pale.
“I’m not used to this,” I said as I scurried away — or should I say “ran” away?
Not the first time! I’ve gotten so I can tell a girl she has pretty eyes. But when I do, I walk away almost immediately. “See ya later, alligator!” I have no idea what to do next.
So, “I’m not used to this” as I ran away, an honest assessment of my complete inexperience dealing with women.
There have been encounters were we followed up, often quite long. But her reaction left me speechless.
Plus there was a second lady there. I couldn’t just face-to-face alone with this smiler.
I try to imagine shooting the breeze with her. It’s happened, often successfully, despite never knowing what to talk about.
I think about a contact I had a while ago with a lady who wasn’t that pretty. We talked and talked and talked and talked at least 20 minutes — the one who had to cut us off was ME.
“We can’t talk forever. It sure would be fun, but I have things to do.”
I mentioned I once drove city-bus, which triggered my contact saying she rode city-bus out to Mercy High-School.
“I drove that,” I say. “I mighta had you as a passenger.”
She smiled: “this guy is really interesting!”
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada,” and women love talking.
“Tell me more, keep going!” —In other words “tell me about yourself; go-ahead! I’m interested!
And I won’t bore you with bragging about myself, since there’s nothing to brag about.
We’ll just trigger each other; it’s called shooting-the-breeze.”
But I wonder if that would work with my smiler-friend.
She’s probably so experienced my innocence would quickly crash: like all I could do was make her feel good by acknowledging her.
“This guy is nothing,” versus “this guy is really interesting. He noticed me, but this guy is nothing.”
If the other lady hadn’t been there: “Mind if I sit down? I don’t know you from the Moon, but you keep smiling at me. Can we talk?”
“You think too much,” my critics say.