Wing it!

—“I was hoping you’d be here today,” I said to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
“I'm always here on Wednesday mornings,” she said.
Maybe! 10-12 consecutive Wednesday mornings so far.
It didn’t seem to be that way until now. Prior to COVID-19, when my aquacise class was two days per week instead of one, I saw her only occasionally.
I like meeting her. We can talk, or so it seems.
“I have only one tiny thing to tell you,” I said.
That’s a conversation I practiced many times myself — and having something to say to her contradicted my entire point.”
…….Which was to allow a lady to talk to me as much as, or more than, I talk to her.
One of my lady friends mentioned she disliked talking with men because they try to take over a conversation.
I butted in on my lifeguard friend a few weeks ago.
For me to come to that pool with something to say doesn’t allow us to talk freely, the pleasure that comes from mindless chatter.
The babble that tells her you just wanna hear her pretty voice, plus you wanna talk to her.
To me, showing up with something to say — an agenda — is a flub.
Just talking freely to each other — mindless chatter — has rendered many pleasant conversations.
I had other practiced speeches in mind for other of my pretty lady friends.
Thankfully none occurred.
Only one successful contact today, out of four female contacts. And that wasn’t a practiced speech.
Hopefully my lifeguard contact didn’t bomb.
Next time: “nothing to say this time, except happy to see ya!”
“Forget the speech practice,” my critics would exclaim. “Your trouble is you think too much!”
This time I humbly agree with my critics.

For the heck of it…

—Yr Fthfl Srvnt decided to Facebook-search one of his pretty lady friends.
I happen to know her full name; with most of my lady friends I don’t.
So I fired up my Facebook. It goes direct to my “Timeline;” I never log out.
In the past I been able to Facebook-search direct through a search-window on my “Timeline.”
I poked around. No search-window on my “Timeline.” I tried this and I tried that, bombing each try.
At least an hour got blown, and I hadn’t eaten breakfast yet.
So I called my brother in DE, my fallback Facebook authority.
He was Bluetoothing in his car.
I don’t do much with Facebook, but my younger siblings do. I don’t have 4,000 FB “friends,” (maybe 60), and I’m first-born.
I post these blogs to Facebook, and occasional “Pearls-of-Wisdom” I steal (or “share”) from some fellow Facebooker.
But I don’t use Facebook as a means of communicatin’. FB “Messenger” is better than e-mail, but you gotta be Facebook “friends” to use it.
“Facebook is always changing things,” my brother said.
“Ya don’t say!” I exclaimed. “And always unannounced.”
“Don't worry Manny,” SuckerBird would say. “That Hughes guy will call his brother in DE. At age-77 he shouldn’t be drivin’ Facebook!”
“Go to your ‘Homepage’,” my brother suggested.
I never look at my “Homepage,” but it had a search-window.
I cranked in the name of my lady-friend, and there she was, among ten others with the same name.
“Well HOORAY!” I said. “And no scantily-clad buxom hotties displaying acres of exposed cleavage.
This was better than the FB search I did years ago for a pretty high-school classmate.
Acres and acres of exposed cleavage — these tarts were clearly not my high-school friend — same class as me: ’62.
89 bazilyun boobies to scroll through = “I can't breathe!”
That “Homepage” was my solution to an earlier Facebook problem.
Guess I gotta fire up my “Homepage” first. I guess that’s what a login throws up first, except I’m always logged in, but to my “Timeline.”
That “Timeline” is all I care about. I’m not drivin’ Facebook every minute of the day.
So will I “friend-request” my pretty lady friend? Probably not.
We seem to be real friends, and my liking her is better than a Facebook “like.”

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Enter pretty *****: stage-right

—“Whoooo, whoooo, whoo-whoooo!” the ringtone on my iPhone, the whistle of restored steam-locomotive Nickel Plate 765 approaching a grade-crossing: two longs, a short, and a long. (I'm a railfan.)
I’d just gotten up, and was getting dressed. My iPhone said it was “Honeoye Falls Pharmacy.”
Pretty ***** is head honcho of that pharmacy (my pharmacy).
“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed.
That could be *****, one of my all-time favorite pretty lady-friends.
“DON’T MUCK UP! Don’t cut her off!” I’ve done it before; you can’t just answer a SmartPhone.
Everything has to be done just so = ten seconds just to answer a phone-call.
Plus, you can’t get near a SmartPhone without it performing some unwanted magic.
“Quick!” the facial-recognition says; “that Hughes guy — FaceTime some unintended contact!”
It indeed WAS pretty *****. She announced herself, but I knew it was her just hearing her pretty voice.
Pretty *****, the lady-friend I most enjoy, and also the one I least expected to befriend.
She seems kind of dour, but not with me. It seems we enjoy each other immensely, and just the other day we really struck sparks.
“No pretty ***** will call you up!”
What a thrill! Pretty *****, the lady-friend I least expected to befriend.
She’s not gorgeous, but she’s pretty enough to intimidate me years ago.
Her pharmacy got an allotment of the COVID-19 vaccine. She wanted to know if I’d been vaccinated yet.
“Aw-man!” I moaned. “March 24th at Thompson Hospital. And I wish it had been you.”
For some unfathomable reason, pretty ***** and I became friends. I do my best to make a big fuss over her — she deserves it. And I like her!
For a long time I stayed away from pretty *****; it seemed she didn’t want me to get friendly.
Then “I can’t leave this store without saying hello to *****.” (In-store pharmacy in my supermarket.)
For whatever reason she liked that = she responded favorably.
“Yes *****, that Hughes guy likes you. And he’s not some lonely hot-to-trot widower; he can get along without you if need be, and try someone else. But maybe we could be friends; just talk. Romance is for kids!”
“You know what would happen if you were the vaccinator?” I’d say to her.
“We would talk and talk and talk and talk and talk some more. I’d hate leaving, and you’d hate going back to work.”
It’s great fun to talking to *****, and she seems to like talking with me.
I hope I’m as much fun as she is; I guess I am. Often she starts talking with me first, and yesterday she even called me up.
I look in the mirror and wonder how in the world she can get any pleasure out of talking with me. I’m way older than her, and I’m way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
70 years late I learn “no pretty lady will talk to you!” was BALONEY!
I have this debatable thought, probably mistaken, she may have called me up just so we could talk.

What would my wife think if she were still alive

—“I noticed I really make you happy sometimes,” I’d say to one of my pretty little lady-friends.
“The way you walk toward me quickly so we can talk. The way you smile and talk to me; it’s apparent we really enjoy each other.”
I won’t say that to her since it would kill the mood.
“He’s FLIRTING!” my wife would exclaim.
I agree with another lady-friend on this: namely that mere talking between persons of the opposite sex, if it’s devoid of sexual intent, is not flirting.
But my wife was fragile. She also had a difficult childhood, but mainly it was her mother.
My bereavement-counselor tells me I was extremely lucky to marry someone almost as screwed up as me.
Now that my wife is gone — April 17th will be nine years — I discover how severely screwed up I was.
The zealots and Bible-beaters were the EVIL ones. They convinced a five-year-old little boy he was disgusting, and totally unworthy of any companionship whatsoever, especially female.
Any joy I experienced talking with another woman would be threatening to my wife.
Now I find I’m a charmer; ladies love talking with me.
I let ‘em; I encourage ’em.
Ladies love talking! I let ‘em talk to me, and the one who cuts off conversations is always me.
So if my wife were still alive, my current contact with women would remain negligible. I wouldn’t wanna hurt my wife’s feelings.
My wife and I were very attached. Over 44&1/2 years there mighta been 10 times we slept apart.
We always shared the same bed, me hanging onto my wife more than her hanging onto me, probably because the one royally screwed up was me.
Discovering the sanctimonious holier-than-thous were WRONG has me befriending ladies willy-nilly.
I also discovered the joy and ease of striking up a conversation, and how much women like for me to do that.
Apparently striking up a conversation is rare. I’ve had ladies be thrilled I said something to ‘em.
I worry about my little lady-friend.
She’s married, so it shouldn’t be me that makes her so happy.
Me and another lady-friend had a talk.
I met my little friend’s husband, and he's a really nice guy. But I know how marriage can make the joy disappear.
You end up taking your spouse for granted.
“I bet I make her happier than her husband does — we always strike sparks.”
My friend agreed.
I know the guy, but he needs to get his butt in gear, and be as happy to meet his wife as I am.
She comes home from work and DRONE!
I meet her, and we’re both thrilled.
I noted to another lady-friend such enthusiasm is infectious. If I’m the least bit tentative or scared, my contact will pick that up: she’ll think I’m avoiding her.
I’m thrilled to meet my little friend, so she’s thrilled I’m thrilled.
Can her husband be similarly thrilled?
The poor girl loves someone liking her as much as I do.
During our cancer escapade I brought my wife home from the hospital determined I was going to change my ways. Stop being the jerk I was beforehand.
Didn’t work. No matter that hospital saved her life, I returned to being the same jerk I was before.
Mayhap my little friend’s marriage becomes just grin-and-bear-it.
I know she would not be the easiest person in the world to live with, but I know she can be happy; I’ve seen it!
Suppose I were married to my little friend, instead of the one she’s married to — perish the thought: I would drive her to divorce in no time.
Would I be able to sustain the joy we now have?
Probably. I'd be in the habit of being happy with her. With my wife I was in the habit of being a jerk. Her husband is in the habit of taking her for granted.
Habits seem to be forever.

• My little friend phoned me this morning, her pretense pertaining to another item of business. But I think she really just wanted me to make her happy.
• As a result of my wife dying, I see a Bereavement-Counselor once a month.

Let ‘er talk!

—“I noticed that sometimes I make you really happy.”
I could tell that to one of my pretty lady friends, but I probably won’t since it would ruin our mood.
Burdening our talking to each other with my hoary childhood would make me boring.
“Never in a million years will you make a pretty girl happy, Bobby! You are one pathetic loser!”
Let ‘em talk! Women love talking, especially to some guy not hitting on ‘em.
By encouraging that girl to talk to me, mindless chattering, I tell her I like hearing her pretty voice.
And she likes my liking her pretty voice.
I’ve had it happen; and totally unexpected.
“No pretty lady will talk to you! You are disgusting!”
Let ‘em, and they don’t walk away.
I learned something from one of my lady friends regarding conversation: Let ‘er talk! Don’t interrupt. By doing so you become friends.
“This guy wants to hear what I say.”
A few months ago a widow-friend told me how she disliked talking with men: their penchant to take over conversations.
I had to break that habit myself; although in my case it was more trying to not be boring = to fill space.
I since learned otherwise. Let ‘em talk! Don’t butt in!
Suddenly I befriend another lady.
Living alone, I conjure up things I might say to my various lady friends.
I meet a lady friend with an agenda in mind. We start talking to each other, and my agenda and conjured conversations are quickly forgotten.
Usually they don’t even come to mind.
I don't mind a bit. I discovered just jabbering with that lady friend is much more pleasant than pushing myself onto her.
Forget your agenda! Just wing it! Pointless yammering about nothing in particular.
It’s not Kierkegaard, but I like it a lot! A female is talking to me — don’t interrupt!
A pleasant exchange of emotions, back-and-forth. She triggers me, then I trigger her. The fact I like listening to her makes me attractive.
I learned just striking up a conversation with a lady can be extremely pleasant.
By so doing I told that lady she attracted me enough to say something to her. And most importantly I’m not hitting on her.
I’m not about to ruin my friendship with that first lady by blasting her with an agenda.
Often that lady friend will begin our conversations herself, often with repeated topics.
But I’m not bored. A pretty girl is talking to me, and I like it.
Let ‘er talk! Don’t interrupt!
Butt in and she’ll stop talking to me.

1957 ThunderBird

1957 ThunderBird. (Photo by Brian Kimball.)

—Here it is readers: one of the automotive style icons Yrs Trly lusted after all through high-school and college, a 1957 ThunderBird.
My most recent issue of Classic Car magazine had one on its cover, although it’s unique in that it’s the supercharged F model.
Ford probably wanted to field a Corvette competitor, which the T-Bird was until 1958, when it went to four seats.
The ’57 T-Bird wasn’t my primary passion at that time. That would be a ’55 Chevy Two-Ten two-door hardtop with Chevrolet’s fabulous new “SmallBlock” V-8, although I wanted a more recent Corvette motor with four-on-the-floor, 1960 or so.
All through college the ’55 Chevy remained my constant desire, and SmallBlock displacement increased to 327 cubes. After college it went up to 350.
But the ’57 T-Bird remained desirable, although its layout is ancient.
The early ‘Vettes were also ancient. The joke was the ‘Vette was a ’53 Chevy with a swanky two-seater fiberglass body.
The earliest ‘Vettes weren’t even a V8. Chevy’s SmallBlock made the ‘Vette desirable, although its chassis was still antique.
The two-seater T-Birds were V8, but by then the new SmallBlock V8 became available in the ‘Vette.
Those two-seater T-Birds were steel body on frame. The ’57 Ford sedans looked awful. The 57 ‘Bird used some of the styling fillips of the sedan, but looked great anyway — even the canted tailfins.
A guy in my high-school had one; he was probably class of ’60 or ’61 — I’m ’62.
His car was probably not high-performance. But it woulda been great for kroozin’, especially top-down.
Sometime during my high-school junior year I wrote a gigantic spec-book replete with pencil side-elevations.
It was an elegantly customized two-seater T-Bird powered by a 440 Dodge B-motor with four-on-the-floor.
I remember someone drag-racing a two-seater ‘Bird — I think it was a ’55 — motivated by a souped-up 427 cubic-inch boat-anchor.
Nice idea, except all it did was light up its drag slicks. All its weight was on the front-end.
So now another classic to add to my list of desirables.
Long-ago I looked at a ’55 Belair two-door hardtop, but it was junk. It needed a total frame-off. And even after that it would still be an antique.
What I drove home, our ’89 Civic All-Wheel-Drive wagon, was much more desirable. Slow, but it didn’t assault my senses.
A few months ago a RetroBird appeared at an auto-repair in Honeoye Falls. A two-seater T-Bird, but not antique.
I almost stopped, but didn’t.
That RetroBird would just be a toy, not something in which to chase trains, or drive long distance.
It also wouldn’t be All-Wheel-Drive.
Furthermore, I have more pleasant things to enjoy— like my lady friends, who I never expected.
That ’57 T-Bird would be no match against the smiling eyes of a happy lady-friend.

“The girl in the white T-Bird.” (Suzanne Somers; “American Graffiti.”) —The ‘Bird is a ’56.

• My brother and I chase and photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.

Continuing pool-side ruminations

—“No pretty lady will ever talk to you!” I said to my pretty lifeguard friend two years ago at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool. “And you did!”
My lifeguard friend blushed. Slight, but noticeable.
What did I do here, readers?
I backhandedly told her she was pretty; not propositioning her, nor hittin’ on her.
It was an aside. She’s 65 now; she probably was 63 back then.
I bet few tell her she’s pretty, but she is impressive. On her lifeguard stand she looks like she’s in her 40s.
“Here I am bopping north on Sand Road,” I told her the other day; “and a lady appears in front of me walking roadside.
‘I hope it’s not *****,’ I think to myself. ‘I won’t know what to say to her.
Not *****!’ I shout. ‘Arms are too flabby. ***** doesn’t have flabby arms.’
I slowed, but I didn’t stop,” I said. “I didn’t want that lady blowing me in to the Sheriff. How do I know you’re not gonna do the same thing?”
(***** runs, and often along Sand Road.)
Saying ***** doesn’t have flabby arms might make her feel pretty.
Beyond that, ***** is coaching a dude severely scarred by overly judgmental Bible-beaters.
That also may be making her feel good.
“While you were in Florida,” I told her, “I tried to strike up conversations with two of your pretty young cohorts.”
We both paused a few seconds, then ***** laughed.
It’s like she knew I was gonna say “I crashed mightily in flames.
A lonely hot-to-trot widower,” I told her.
She knows I was so messed up by the Bible-beaters, she puts up with my many flubs and faux pas.
Is she a “bleeding-heart ‘liberial’” as my sister would stridently exclaim? (I been told “liberial” is the correct CONSERVATIVE spelling.)
Maybe!
She endured a lotta insanity.
I turned her off twice. But then she returned, forgiving me I guess.
I’m not used to this, readers. My father was always keeping score.
My ability dealing with women is negligible. I always avoided ‘em; I was scared.
I wonder what my wife would think if she ever met *****.
She wouldn't be saying “what in the world does he ever see in her?” My wife would be saying “what in the world does she see in him?”
I admit that’s more me then my wife, but I puzzle at some of the extraordinary lady friends I gained over the past couple years.
Many are gorgeous, and ***** is rather impressive.
How in Hell’s name did I befriend so many pretty ladies when I’m hardly a stud, I’m 77 years old, and way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
I think of pretty ***** at my pharmacy, the pretty young jogger on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, plus the surfeit of smilers, laughers and blushers I struck sparks with since my wife died.
The older lady who kept smiling at me as I talked to her in front of my supermarket.
The fortyish bicyclist who kept smiling and smiling and smiling at me — I can still visualize her! She wasn’t that pretty, but WOW!
Or the lady walking her dog along Ontario Pathways at the Canandaigua Outlet Bridge. At least 25 minutes of continuous yammering, and she kept smiling and smiling and smiling at me.
She became embarrassed because her husband wasn’t with her, and we were having so much fun just talking.
A female cousin in NC tells me what women most want is men eager to talk; and I guess I am.
“No pretty lady will talk with you!” Versus: “let ‘em talk!” “Talk to me! I’m all ears; and if I may say so I really enjoy hearing your pretty voice.”
***** is more than a “pretty voice.”
She reminds me of my wife; she’s an entirely different person; she’s not my wife (who was extraordinary), but from what interchange we’ve had I can tell the marbles are probably up there — just like my wife.
She’s pleasant to look at, but more pleasant to talk to. Physical attractiveness was replaced by mental attractiveness.
A few weeks ago she remarked she noticed my much-improved eye-contact.
Others probably also noticed, but I think only marbles draw a conclusion.

A few months ago I was scared of *****

—“I was hoping you’d be here today,” I said to pretty *****, as she sprung from her workstation deep inside her pharmacy.
That’s telling her I was thrilled to see her, which makes her thrilled I'm thrilled to see her.
“Hi Bob,” she chirped, as she walked toward me.
“Goodie! We can talk!”
I’m not used to this, readers. “No pretty lady will be happy to see you!” But ***** is happy to see me.
“I realized last night when I first met you at Rite-Aid across the street I never once saw you smile.”
Notice my use of the word “you.” That alone is a major step forward. I’m no longer avoiding *****.
“Over here I see you smile, and it makes me extremely happy. Smiling-***** is the person I prefer.”
BAM! I just told her I liked what I saw — and that was a real “like,” not Facebook.
“You may have something for me,” I said. “But maybe not. The dentist has to call back.”
“When’s your dental appointment?” ***** asked.
“Not until next month,” I said. “I don’t need it right away,”
“That prescription is secondary. What I really came here for,” I said; “was to see you smile.”
I didn’t tell her that, but that was what was happening. A smiling female is gorgeous.
“You can’t see if I’m smiling,” ***** exclaimed. “We’re all wearing these masks!”
“Your eyes tell me,” I said. They were sparkling.
BAM! Did it again.
“You’re much happier here. I see it, and I like it.”
By now we were really striking sparks. It adds up. I make her happy, which makes me happy, which makes her happier still, which makes me happier yet.
“Not long ago I was scared of pretty *****,” I thought to myself as I motored home.
“Glad I stopped,” or “glad I said something,” or “happy to see ya!”
Go ahead! Tell ‘em! Don’t be afraid! They’re gonna like hearing you say that.
My reward is always joy, and if I may say so, just striking up a conversation with a pretty girl pleases her immensely — especially devoid of sexual intent.
So what would my wife think if she were still alive?
My wife was fragile. She’d probably feel threatened by my many joyous female encounters.
I probably wouldn’t do it to avoid hurting her feelings.
The fact she’s no longer around allows me to thoroughly enjoy *****.
And tomorrow it might be some other lady-friend.
But ***** and I sure enjoyed each other today. I love seeing her smile like that. Bring it out! Be thrilled to see her.
Before leaving I came back one more time: “I forgot,” I said, pointing to my left arm. “I got the shot,” I told *****; “vaccinated against COVID-19, at long last.”
Pretty ***** was thrilled: “I am so happy for you!” she exclaimed.
“Which vaccine?” she asked.
“Pfizer double-shot,” I said.
“Does your arm hurt or anything?” she asked.
“Nope!” I said; “just like when you gave me the flu shot. Nuthin’!”
As I left I gave her the pearl-of-wisdom: “yer young only once, but can be immature all your life.”
She laughed, and I love seeing her laugh.
“I’m gonna steal that!” she said.

She waved goodbye to me

—“Oh my goodness,” I said to myself is I entered the swimming-pool area at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
*****, my pretty lifeguard friend at that swimming-pool, was back from Florida, tanned, and lifeguarding that pool.
I looked for her earlier; she was probably in the bathroom. I figgered she was still in Floridy.
Suddenly I gotta be confident with *****, the lady-friend I currently fear most.
***** is 65 years old, but very impressive for her age. She looks late 40s on her lifeguard stand.
Somehow or other ***** and I became friends, despite all the foul-ups I made with her.
I guess she found me interesting, or at least worth befriending. I always feel like she could do way better than me.
***** walked around and we began talking. “No pretty lady will talk to you!” But ***** isn’t walking away.
—Enter stage right: what little experience I have talking with women:
Let her talk! Don’t interrupt! She’s talking to me. She’s not losing interest. She isn’t walking away.
We talked a while; just back-and-forth. “Where in Florida?” I asked. Let her tell me. Don’t interrupt!
If there’s one thing I learned since my wife died, it’s to cherish a lady talking to you. Do that and we develop an interest in each other.
My interest in ***** was misdirected at first; you could even call it semi-romantic.
She said hello to me by name in passing — probably just being sociable.
“Why in Hell's name is she talking to me? She could do way better!”
That’s the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton surfacing to haunt me:
“no pretty lady will ever talk to you!”
On-and-on we went; yet ***** hung with me, despite my many flubs and foul-ups, one of which was a real zinger. (I been advised to not use the word “boner.”)
***** is married of course, yet somehow or other we managed to get past my original romantic intent.
So now, at long last, we seem to be just friends; which is how it shoulda been originally, and how I prefer; since I’m still semi married myself, even nine years after my wife died.
I doubt I could get physical, yet I really like talking to her — she reverses “no pretty lady will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Many lady-friendships have developed since ***** first said hello to me. Faire Hilda has been reversed. 14,000 rpm in her casket.
So talking with ***** became important, and continues I hope.
Yr Fthfl Srvnt has always been a little scared I might turn her off.
“No pretty lady will ever talk to you!” Yet we keep talking, which makes me feel like I’m getting away with murder = Hilda and my hyper-zealous parents are reversed!
*****’s lifeguarding ended at noon, so she departed as my balance-training class ended.
I changed clothes to leave myself, then departed the YMCA.
As I walked toward my car, I think ***** waved at me as she drove out herself. I couldn't see who was driving, but it was her car, a Subaru.
“Would I have noticed if it had been pretty *****, head-honcho at my Honeoye Falls pharmacy? Pretty ***** I’m fairly confident with. I am not as confident with *****.
Maybe I should not be so lacking in confidence; after all she did wave at me.
All of this freaks out my critics: mere verbal interchange between persons of the opposite sex is normal to them, but salacious to someone like me raised by Bible-beaters.

• 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).

Thinkin’ about pretty *****

—“Too much thinkin’ again,” my critics would shriek.
Thinkin’ about pretty *****, head-honcho of my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls.
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she’s pretty enough to have been intimidating years ago. She’s a tiny little thing with long brunette tresses and pretty blue eyes.
“Gotta say hello to ***** before I leave,” I say.
She bounces up from her workstation toward the counter so we can talk.
And sometime ago she seemed to badmouth her husband.
What did I just do, readers?
I recognized and said something to her, which made her happy. “YIPPEE, that Hughes guy; we can talk!”
***** always seemed angry before, but that was before where she is now. That was when she worked for a big-box pharmacy; trained as a pharmacist, but used as a clerk. She’s much happier now, which I can see; which makes me happier too.
She also loves talking. A typical female I guess. She’s eager to talk, and hesitates going back to work.
Marriage can ruin things. You end up taking your partner for granted.
I’m not married to *****. I might see her once a week — two weeks recently.
She goes home to her husband every night, and probably gets taken for granted. Not as pleasant as being met by some dude thrilled to meet her.
Would I be similarly thrilled if we were married?
I think we feed on each other. The fact I like seeing her makes her like seeing me. It adds up. We end up really enjoying each other’s company.
I have other lady friends I enjoy meeting. They counter “no pretty lady will ever associate with you!”
A few weeks ago I noted to one of them if I was the least bit hesitant or tentative about meeting her, she probably would pick up on that, and not respond favorably. Being scared of her would get misperceived as avoiding her. (Even if I’m scared, I’m avoiding her.)
Not a problem with pretty *****. She always bounces away from her workstation as soon as I show up. I’m no longer scared of pretty *****.
One of my female contacts is rather impressive. We strike sparks occasionally, but she’s semi frightening. I always wonder why she even associates with me.
Would that I be as confident meeting her as I seem to be with *****.

It’s all new to this kid

—“70 years late,” I tell my bereavement-counselor; “I discover people who like me.”
This counters “Nobody will like you, Bobby! You are abhorrent!”
And most are girls. (GASP!)
My aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool suggested I strike up conversations with men as much as I do girls.
“I tried,” I told her; “and it rarely works.
Men get defensive, or start hurling that macho-crap atcha.
I strike up a conversation with a couple along some rail-trail, and the one who starts talking to me is the wife. From the husband I get silence: ‘what’s she talking to him for?’
I tell a joke to some couple, and the one who laughs is the girl. The guy gets upset. “No fair! He made her laugh!”
The other day I tried to strike up a conversation with an older gentleman in my supermarket parking lot. He about took my head off!”
Women don’t do that. Strike up a conversation with a female, and they like the fact you’re attracted to them enough to strike up a conversation.
At this point my critics tell me I think too much; that I over-analyze events which to them would be normal; talking for example.
For me just talking to anybody, women especially, would be utterly unimaginable.
“Nobody will wanna talk to you! Just keep to yourself!” (My brother calls that shyness.)
And mere talking to women was sinful.
“All males, including you at age 5, are EVIL and salacious!”
Now I find my upbringing was ALL WRONG! And talking to people, especially women, is extremely pleasant.
So pleasant I conjure up imaginary discussions, or opening lines that attract talking with ladies.
“I remember you. You look familiar.”
Works like a charm.
The lady is attracted by the fact she attracted me enough to say something to her.
She especially likes that I recognized her.
“Are you who I think you might be?”
POW! Off we go!
Talking with anyone, women especially, is all new to this kid.

Confidence restored?

—Sunday-Sunday-Sunday! Down to Mighty Weggers to buy groceries for the coming week.
Eyes-eyes-eyes everywhere! We all were wearing masks, so eyes are all we see.
A few were gorgeous, and some sparkled.
After self check-out a store-employee smiled at me. Her eyes told me.
Tell her! Do it! She’ll like you noticing.
“Your eyes are twinkling,” I told her.
I’d made it a point to not say anything in that store to a pretty girl.
But her eyes were irresistible. I had to say something.
“Why thank you,” she smiled.
I used the men’s room before my long drive home.
When I came back out, there was pretty *******, alias “pigtail-girl,” stocking mangoes or something — ******* is a store employee.
I aimed my cart toward *******.
“Just saying hello,” I said to her.
She smiled at me like she always does.
“I no longer think of you as ‘pigtail-girl’,” I said to her. “To me that’s a put down. To me you’re *******.”
She smiled, agreeing “pigtail-girl” was a put down. (People prefer hearing their names.)
Confidence in engaging pretty girls restored?
Somewhat.
“No pretty girl will smile at you!” And ******* is doing it.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but her smile makes her a pretty little thing.

• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.

Beating down the ghost of Hilda Q.

—As in Hilda Q. Walton, my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, who along with my Bible-beating parents, convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM!
Actually, my parents weren’t denigrating my maleness. They declared me EVIL and rebellious because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
The past week was a downer regarding my lady-friends. It gives my critics the opportunity to loudly proclaim “no pretty lady will have anything to do with you!”
—On Monday, I had no reason to go to my pharmacy, where I normally would meet pretty *****.
No chance to say hello, after which she bounces out of her workstation to come talk with me.
—On Tuesday I discovered astonishingly-pretty ******, one of the “temperature ladies” per COVID-19 outside Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department, was married. She seemed too young.
That scotched entertaining her with “the speech:” “yer gonna to get married someday; whatever ya do marry somebody who can make ya laugh. My wife always told me the reason we lasted 44&1/2 years was because I could make her laugh.”
—Wednesday would be my aquatic balance-training class at the Canandaigua YMCA swimming-pool.
There I would meet *****, my pretty lifeguard friend, to whom I love talking.
She’d gone to Floridy with her husband.
She’s rather impressive, so I wonder why she even associates with me.
I do have other lady friends there, but I like talking with *****. She reminds of my wife. She isn’t my wife; she’s an entirely different person, but the brains are there.
Plus she seems to like talking to me, and of course talking is all we ever do.
Sometimes she smiles at me, and when she does WOW!
—On Thursday I’d hike Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and chance meeting my pretty young jogger friend with whom I once struck up a conversation, and we thoroughly enjoyed each other.
We’ve met two or three times since, and it’s always thrilling.
No rail-trail; it was raining.
—So Friday, one last chance to strike sparks with a lady friend; after four consecutive days of nuthin’.
Friday fell flat too, except my aquacise-instructor seemed to wanna talk with me.
Friday is another visit to that YMCA swimming-pool, but no aquacise class. This would just be “water-walking,” slosh around in that pool with self-directed attempts at in-pool exercise.
Just sloshing around in that pool is work.
“DREAMIN’!” my critics would scream. “No cute aquacise-instructor will wanna talk to you, Bobby! You are ONE PATHETIC LOSER!”
I entered the pool area wanting to talk to that aquacise-instructor’s sidekick, a retiree who once did aquatic therapy in that pool.
Now she volunteers, helping the aquacise-instructor.
“I can’t talk right now,” my aquacise-instructor said to me. She was otherwise occupied.
“No problem,” I would say. “I was aimed at your sidekick.”
Sidekick and I began talking, and soon sidekick dragged the aquacise-instructor into our discussion.
But we drifted apart, since I already had said most of what I planned to say.
Later that aquacise-instructor pulled me aside, apologizing for not talking to me earlier. I think she wanted to talk with me.
I was so flummoxed I ducked. A cutie wants to talk to me? “NO WAY JOSÉ!” my critics would bellow.
I worry about faltering self-confidence, the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton haunting me.
I notice increasing hesitance to take the risks I earlier took with other pretty ladies.
A week or two ago I said something my YMCA lifeguard-friend about how if I was the least bit hesitant or tentative (scared) about meeting her, she would pick up on that, and probably be less responsive to my saying hello to her. (She might think I was avoiding her.)
She looked befuddled at first, like “what’s he telling me that for?”
But then she seemed to crunch it.
REALLY? That’s the sorta thing I would say to my wife.
Eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes-eyes at my supermarket, but I’m afraid of telling a lady she has pretty eyes. I did it a few weeks ago.
“Take the risk!” my bereavement-counselor advises. “If you succeed, that counters your childhood. If you fail, try someone else.”
It ain’t easy beating down Hilda and my parents after what they did to me. Self-worth destroyed!
I also have the problem of not feeling like I’m in the real world. Reality nearly disappeared after my wife died; also after my stroke.
I keep two small reminders in my kitchen.
First is something posted long ago by that aquacise-instructor to her Facebook: something about “absent friend.”
I keep it to remind myself that aquacise-instructor does indeed exist. She’s not a figment of my imagination, which my critics claim is “twisted.”
Second is a small thank-you note given me by that lifeguard friend last year, after I gave her an extra train-calendar for her railfan friend in FL.
I keep it for the same reason: to remind myself she exists.
It’s like half the reason I continue that aquatic balance-training is to reacquaint myself with reality; prove to myself I am indeed in the real world.
I look pool-ward, and there’s ***** up on her lifeguard-stand waving at me.
I walk into the pool area, and there's Mrs. ******, smiling with sparkling eyes.
Maybe I should go to my pharmacy for a pretty-***** fix.
Or risk female encounters at my supermarket.
I haven’t been smacked yet!

• My brother and I photograph trains down near Altoona PA, where the old Pennsylvania Railroad crossed Allegheny Mountain. The railroad is now Norfolk Southern. Every year I take 13 of our 89 bazilyun photographs to assemble into a calendar — I do it with Shutterfly. I give those calendars as Christmas presents.

Voicemail maunderings

—“Hi Robert, this is ‘John’ calling from ****’s office. Just wanted to let you know I set up your next appointment for…….”
“****,****,****,” I said to myself. My voicemail translator made her into “John.”
“So pleasant to hear your pretty voice again,” I thought to myself. “It has been so long since we last talked.”
Which had me wondering why it was so joyous to hear her voice again.
**** isn’t that pretty; in fact she’s almost a frump.
Down at my supermarket: “I know you; you look familiar; you work at *****. You’re the receptionist who sets up my bereavement-counselor appointments.”
I struck up a conversation with her years ago. My wife would call it FLIRTING; my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool says it’s not.
To that lifeguard mere conversation between individuals of the opposite sex isn’t flirting.
Like me, my wife was raised by Bible-thumpers; mainly her mother and other female relatives. Her father wasn’t so difficult.
Per the Bible-beaters any interaction between individuals of the opposite sex is EVIL and salacious.
My wife was fragile. To her, pleasant interaction between me and another female was threatening.
So I hardly said anything to any other females — I didn’t wanna hurt my wife’s feelings.
So now that she’s gone — she died nine years ago — I strike up conversations with women willy-nilly.
**** was well after my wife died; bereavement-counseling began afterward.
Long ago I walked inside my counseling emporium, and there was **** looking cute and pretty.
She had an engaging smile, so I struck up a conversation. By then I developed enough nerve to be able to do that.
She wasn’t cute in my supermarket, but so what? I knew her, and she recognized me.
“Happy to see ya!
Little more than that!
So hearing her pretty voice again was extremely pleasant.

Lady friends

—People wonder why I continue aquatic balance-training at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool considering my balance degraded over the three years I’ve done it.
I have neuropathy: poor nerve communication to-and-from my feet — not diabetic.
No walker or cane yet, but I stagger and fall occasionally. I also walk flat-footed, and shuffle somewhat.
Standing on only one foot in that pool, with nothing to grab, is near impossible.
I was led to believe I’d return to the balance I had earlier. It worsened. What got much better was my ability to counter worsening balance.
So down in Altoona with my brother last month to shoot train photos in the snow: “Jack, will you please park next to that cutout so I don’t hafta get out across a snowbank?”
And no woods for This Kid. Questionable footing is a guaranteed fall.
My aquacise-instructor, the lady who leads my balance-training class, would celebrate my persistence.
But there’s more than that. I developed three fabulous lady friends at that swimming-pool, and much to my surprise.
I’m a product of hyper-religious Bible-beaters who convinced me at age-5 that no female would ever associate with me.
Any contact between the sexes was automatically EVIL and disgusting!
—My first fabulous lady friend would be that aquacise-instructor herself: a cute little sprite for age-61, in excellent shape, and totally devoid of thunder-thighs.
She’s also an easy smiler — her eyes sparkle when she smiles.
She was the first pretty lady to smile at me, or at least the first one I noticed. (If my wife did I never noticed.)
Then she wanted to walk dogs with me, which to someone like me was equivalent to a date.
“Just because a lady smiles at you, doesn’t mean she’s interested in you,” another lady friend once told me.
I wish I’d known that three years ago: no experience with women whatsoever!
There also were other incidents I could misread.
I stopped chasing her around the pool a while ago.
Only recently have I been able to begin talking to her again. Previously it was difficult due to the fact she was an instructor.
Now, thanks to the pandemic, I’m more able.
I also switched from talking to her, to letting her talk with me. I came to prefer her immediate reaction.
I do this with other ladies too. Women are just as capable of inspired thinking as men. In fact, to This Kid what matters is what’s between the ears, not sex appeal.
—My second fabulous lady friend would be my pretty lifeguard friend. She’s 65 years old, but doesn’t look it on her lifeguard stand. She’s rather impressive.
Every time I see her I think what in Hell’s name is she doing hanging out with me? I am nothing compared to her. She could do a lot better.
One time she walked out of the women’s locker room in a blue-plaid flannel shirt and slacks — she looked fabulous; not gorgeous but stunning and statuesque.
Why in Hell’s name, etc.
Years ago she said hello to me by name — she was probably just being sociable. I managed to crank enough nerve to say hello back, later of course.
So now we seem to be friends, and that’s despite the many flubs I made with her. I’m always dumbfounded.
We wave and laugh and smile at each other, and she’s not an easy smiler.
When she does smile she lights up the entire pool area. Fabulous eye-contact, it knocks me flat! “No pretty lady will smile at you!” And occasionally she does.
She’s married of course, as are all the others. But we seem to have got past that.
That is, any romantic intent on my part is long gone.
What friendship we have now is based on talking. I usually try to talk to her first; she’s the one who attracts me most.
Not only is she impressive, she’s also great fun to talk to. She possesses serious gray-matter.
She reminds me of my wife, although my wife was extraordinary.
—My third fabulous lady friend would be a second lifeguard friend.
She’s 58 years old, and also doesn’t look it.
Years ago I struck up a conversation with her outta the clear blue sky, and she was incredibly quick to parry it. By then I developed enough nerve to strike up a conversation with a female.
“YIPPEE!” I say to myself. “It’s ******.” We laugh and talk, and know each other. We always look for each other.
Years ago ****** and I made a deal, that she would cut me slack no matter how unsociable I was — I have so little socialization experience.
She still hangs with me.
****** is one of my three fabulous lady friends at that YMCA pool.
Every one is classy: no smokers, no drinkers, no gamblers, no lounge-lizards, no sluts or slatterns, no Harley mamas.
All pure as the driven snow: just like me.
I know my pretty lifeguard friend runs, and I’m pretty sure all three swim laps.
If none of those three lady friends were at that pool, I probably would continue my aquatic balance-training. As a shut-in I’d be bored silly in no time. No Dr. Phil for This Kid!
But those three fabulous lady friends make me wanna come to that pool.
I noticed last month return from Altoony is no longer depressing. It’s my lady friends.

• RE: “Pure as the driven snow: just like me;” —I heard the guffawing when I wrote that.

The superiority of face-to-face

One of my aquacise-instructor’s Facebook posts.

—“I know what I was going to say to you,” I shouted to my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
“I’m getting all your stuff again, your Facebook stuff.
……Something about insects wintering in your dead garden stalks.”
“Yeah, I remember that,” she said. “Don’t tear up your garden too early.”
“Being silent when angry,” (above). “And something about water eroding a mountain with persistence.
Sometimes I get notified you posted something, then nothing for a while.”
That aquacise-instructor and I are Facebook “friends.” Long story: a SuckerBird Fast-One.
“Maybe it’s in my ‘homepage’,” I’d tell her. “But I never look at my ‘homepage’.”
“Suddenly there you are again. Okay, but I never know what Facebook is doing. Why now, but other times nyet!
We talked more after our aquacise class. I try to not interrupt.
I admit I enjoy talking to her. She smiles and her eyes sparkle. I get that from other women I talk to:
—Surprising ******* at my supermarket.
—**** at my physical-therapy.
—The pretty young jogger I met on Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
All counter my childhood: “No pretty lady will associate with you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
She’s probably that way with most people, but a pretty lady smiling at me was mind-boggling.
That led me astray = inexperience.
70 years late. Never again!
Another lady friend told me just because a girl smiles at you, doesn’t mean she likes you.
That lady was an easy smiler, and had to fight off loathsome lotharios.
I also said something else to that aquacise-instructor. Droll repetition of how I came to prefer face-to-face over text, e-mail, FB “messages,” etc.
Face-to-face gets her immediate reaction, instead of possible misinterpretation of what I wrote.
The written word can be very pretty, but it’s one-sided.
It shelters me from the immediate reaction of my contact — which might be negative.
Now I’ve had so many pleasant face-to-face female contacts I question the value of the written word.
Maybe at long last that aquacise-instructor and I are actually talking with each other, instead of just me talking to her (writing).
Face-to-face is much more productive — and pleasant.
I had to lose my wife to find this out — nine years next month.
And 70 years late thanks to Bible-beaters in my childhood.

• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.

Talking with ladies, continued

—Several minor word-tricks are making it so ladies wanna talk with me.
So yes, I hope my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool has returned from Floridy by Wednesday.
She’s married, she’s 65 years old — doesn’t look it on her lifeguard stand — and most importantly she’s female and rather striking.
She counters “no pretty lady will associate with you!”
Ergo, we seem to be friends. We laugh and talk, and she never walks away from me.
She even smiled at me once — something I never will forget!
She’s not an easy smiler, so WOW!
“No pretty lady will smile at you!” But suddenly POW!
Direct eye-contact.
I have a small story I wanna tell her. Actually it’s not a story; it’s more a question. She likes my stories I guess.
I have a second female lifeguard friend at that pool, who also doesn’t look her age.
I ran the following past her: “I noticed when I walk into the lobby, and look up into the pool-area to see if you or ***** are here, you usually see me pretty quick, then wave. So my question is whether or not you are getting a signal or something which tells you I’m looking for you.”
“No signal,” she said, but I still wonder.
Next is to run that past my 65-year-old lifeguard friend.
“When you get a chance, I have a question for you.”
“I used to get this with my wife,” I’d say. “We used to finish each other’s sentences,” or “‘I was just thinking the same thing!’”
Notice my wording readers: I’m giving her the option of refusing to talk with me.
That is a lot friendlier than just starting to talk to her. I'm not shoving something down her throat. She can send me packing if she wants.
“Some day,” I say to my aquacise instructor; “I hope we can talk about what physical-therapy has me doing.”
Wording here readers: I just gave her two options. “I don’t wanna talk,” or “some other time.”
Prior experience tells me she’ll probably wanna talk.
“Some day,” I once said to my lifeguard friend; “I hope I can tell you my elevator story.”
SCREECH! Shift finished, she was about to swim laps.
“You go swim your laps!” I said.
“Those laps can wait!” she said. She’s giving me the look.
Notice how I worded things readers: I didn’t just start telling her the story.
If I had, she woulda walked away to swim her laps.
Another word-trick is to tell the lady I wanna hear her input: “I hope we can talk…..” not “I wanna talk to you.”
Let her know it will be us talking, not just me = I want her input.
Women are just as capable of inspired thinking as men; perhaps even more so.
Females are very desirable and enjoyable to us men-folk, but most desirable to This Kid is what’s between the ears.
“Your problem is you think too much,” my critics will say.
My guess is the average male learned how to talk to women at an early age. I’m learning 70 years late.
If I use the right words, I have incredible and mind-blowing success talking with ladies.
I enjoy it, and I think they do too.

Additional pleasant female encounters

—“While you were in Floridy with your husband,” I’d say to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool……
“I became friends with two of your pretty young cohorts who like you also lifeguard this pool.
One’s name is *****, the other is ******; and I think both may be new.
I did it pursuant to your admonition striking up a conversation with a girl wasn’t FLIRTING. (GASP!) I agree, although my wife wouldn’t. Sometime I’ll explain that.
Experience tells me striking up a conversation with a girl never bombs. I haven’t been smacked yet, and neither lifeguard stalked away.”
Conversation was the usual mindless chatter. It wasn’t Kierkegaard.
No matter! I'm talking with a girl, and she wants me to continue.
By striking up a conversation I indicated to that girl she attracted me. Plus I didn’t have evil intent; I wasn’t hitting on her, or trying to snag her as a trophy-girl.
She seemed like someone I’d enjoy talking to. —Equal terms too.
I don’t play that “women-are-inferior” card. That girl might say something I wanna hear.
I kept thinking ***** might be ******.
“We look alike,” ***** said.
“But there are discernible differences,” I said to *****. “****** has blue eyes I think. Your eyes are brown.”
“Yes, ******’s eyes are blue, but mine are actually hazel, depending on the light,” ***** said.
That meant I looked at *****’s eyes, and liked what I saw. In other words I admired what women prefer, not their sexual attributes.
“You have the eyes,” I say to some pretty stranger.
“You are cute,” or “you are so sweet,” the girl coos as she caresses my arm.
Men friends tell me I have it all wrong. Sexual attributes are what matter, but not to this kid.
“All I need is one of your smiles, Sunshine of your eyes, oh, me, oh, my…..” —A line from “Scotch and Soda,” sung by The Kingston Trio in 1958.
Then there was Mrs. ******, my aquacise-instructor.
She recently had big surgery, and when I first saw her last week she looked like she’d been hit by a truck.
“I hope we can talk sometime before you leave,” I said to her — an opening-line I found always works.
Now she wants to talk with me; I set her up. I asked her permission.
“What’s he gonna say to me? What’s on his mind?”
Finally “you have one minute,” she says to me, which like usual became five minutes.
“I just wanna know your surgery wasn’t cancer-related. Seeing you the other day was seeing my wife all over again.”
“No cancer,” she smiled, as I started to leave. (She also looked better.)
She didn’t just zip away, or head to the door by herself. She stayed with me, which unfortunately I misinterpret as romantic. (Not any more.)
She’s just being sociable, but in the world in which I grew up, any contact between the sexes was EVIL and salacious.
To fill space: “I decided face-to-face communicatin’ is a lot better than the written word. If I text you, I don’t get your immediate reaction which, excuse me, I love getting.
There’s a pretty good chance you’ll say something I wanna hear.
With text, I get a delayed reaction, which may be to something you misinterpreted.”
“Yeah,” she said. “With face-to-face if I misinterpret something you can correct it right away.
If I think you’re mad at me, you flip that.”
“I feel like I been hiding behind the written word all my life. I know I do it pretty good, but it’s always one-sided!”
“Anyway,” I thought to myself: “what I really like is just talking with you. It’s risky, but worth the risk.”
Mayhap Yr Fthfl Srvnt finally said something she really liked hearing. Maybe after years and years of foolishness and folderol we’re actually talking to each other.
Dreadful childhood reversed I hope?
We’ll see what happens next week, except it’s a different lady-friend every day of the week.
(And as always: “No pretty lady will ever be interested in you!
Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”)

Critics in repose

—“If I knew you were up here, I’da used self check-out so I could say hello to you.”
I said that to ***** manning my supermarket’s self check-out.
***** is rather plain, and would have no idea who Søren Kierkegaard was. She’s probably late 40s or early 50s.
No matter! I know *****, and ***** knows me: “haven’t seen ya in a while,” she said. “Happy to see ya!”
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt learns the consummate joy of meeting people.
***** doesn’t hafta be equivalent to my extraordinary wife, nor my cousin ****. Just meeting ***** is as pleasant as talking philosophy.
Same with other employees in that store; pretty *******, who always smiles at me, and ******, who says hello before I even notice her.
Plus all the unknown ladies I’ve told have pretty eyes or a gorgeous smile.
Eyes are all we see anymore, and I can’t escape that supermarket without encountering gorgeous eyes.
I haven’t been smacked yet; no huffy walkaways.
“You are cute;” and “you are so sweet!”
“You were shy,” my brother declares.
“Ever consider that Bible-beaters made me shy?” I asked. “No one will talk to you! Just keep to yourself, Bobby!”
Wonderful things to tell a five-year-old little boy; marked-for-life by Bible-beating zealots.
One of my friends, who also happens to be a critic, suddenly walked into the store and noticed ***** and I were talking.
As my friend roared past, she began warning ***** to be careful with me; that I was questionable, mayhap?
***** and I were clearly enjoying each other (GASP!), much to the disbelief of my friend.
It’s the same sorry litany I been hearing all my life.
“***** will not wanna associate with you!” Yet there we were.
Prone to self-loathing, and always thinking poorly of myself, I’m an easy mark for critics.
Parents, siblings, friends — they mean well, but “your problem is……”
Thinking poorly of myself, I am nothing when people start badmouthing me.
What I usually do is in-one-ear-and-out-the-other.
Makes ‘em madder still.
What I end up doing is strike sparks with my lady friends to feel better about myself.
Enter ***** et al. They counter my hoary childhood, whereby “no pretty lady will ever be interested in you!”
***** isn’t that pretty; in fact she isn’t very pretty at all.
But she is female, and “no female will ever be interested in you! You are REPREHENSIBLE!!!!”
Yrs Trly noticed a few weeks ago that returning home after chasing and photographing trains with my brother in Altoony (PA) is no longer as depressing as it once was.
“Back to reality,” I used to say to my wife as we aimed homeward. Even after she died, it remained “back to reality.” (April 17th will be nine years.)
But now “reality” is no longer as depressing as it once was. It’s my lady friends, and ***** is one of them.
Back to ******* with her pretty smile, plus my numerous lifeguard friends at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool, plus my pleasant female contacts on Lehigh Valley RailTrail. Plus all the women I haven't befriended yet but surely will.
Those that determined my fear of women — my parents and that Sunday-School superintendent neighbor — have all faded into my filmy past.
Self-loathing and withered self-confidence remain, but even my critics are fading into my filmy past.
I’ve had so many mind-blowingly successful female encounters, I just can’t believe my critics anymore.
I take risks that earlier seemed inconceivable.
Ladies seem to love the attention: “hooray-hooray, a guy who wants to talk to me, and he’s not hitting on me. He’s not trying to take me home as a trophy. He wants to hear what I say.”
I strike up a conversation with a pretty young girl, and she is thrilled.
The first time I said anything to pretty *******, I fully expected to get smacked, or at least told to get lost.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but she turned and smiled at me — that made her a pretty little thing.
What a reward that was; incentive to try again.
So “hello *****,” among many others; “happy to see ya!”
And perish-the-thought, ***** is happy to see me.
This is all new and pleasing to one raised by Bible-thumping zealots.

“We meet again”

—“Are you who I think you might be?” I asked a pretty young jogger on Lehigh Valley RailTrail this morning as she stopped to talk to me.
“Yes I am!” she smiled.
There you have it readers: the reason I always walk that rail-trail. The same pretty young jogger who smiled at me a couple months ago.
“WOW!” I thought to myself. “I thought I’d never see you again in a million years!”
I didn’t say that, but wish I had.
“Unbelievable,” I shouted. And “happy to see ya!”
We talked a little about trail conditions. ICY here and there, but no YakTrax® or cross-country ski-poles. 70+°.
She jogs with heavily-treaded running shoes.
Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk, punctuated by smile-smile-smile-smility-smile, and twinkling eyes.
“You saw that ice down there,” I said.
What I also shoulda said is “4-6 months ago I struck up a conversation with you and you were thrilled.
A guy (me) who wanted to talk to you, but wasn’t hitting on you.
You could actually talk to a guy without protecting yourself.
I told you I was so glad I struck up a conversation with you; that striking up a conversation always works.
We really struck sparks.
You hoped we’d meet again, and we did.
That months-ago encounter was so successful I came away more likely to strike up a conversation, especially with a pretty girl.
That tells the girl she attracted me enough to say something to her, but not ‘how ‘bout it, honey?’
She likes that; and that’s a real ‘like,’ not a Facebook ‘like.’”
What a JOY to meet that pretty jogger again, and totally unexpected.
The girl who started me striking up so many conversations — befriending so many pretty girls.

Kierkegaard et al

Søren Kierkegaard in his 20s.

—Many years ago, probably 1961, when I was in 11th grade………
…….One of my mother’s sisters, an aunt, was committed to an insane-asylum after her husband bled to death in a bathroom accident.
So what to do with their children. A gigantic family pow-wow was held at an uncle’s abode in Lansdowne PA outside Philadelphia.
Quite a few aunts and uncles attended. My mother came from a large family.
The pow-wow was held in my uncle’s kitchen, and since that uncle was first born he tried to preside.
Much weeping and wailing and gnashing of teeth. And bellicose bickering by all-and-sundry. My mother's family was loud and assertive.
I remember that uncle pounding the kitchen table with a pot. Also my mother crying.
The last of that uncle’s children still lived with him, one being my cousin ****, same age as me.
**** and I sat in the living room quietly discussing existential philosophy, especially Søren Kierkegaard and Jean-Paul Sartre.
“I wanna marry somebody like my cousin ****,” I said to myself as we motored home. “Somebody I can talk to!”
Fortunately I did, although I stumbled into her, and my wife wasn’t like cousin **** at first.
I was very lucky, since I woulda driven cousin **** to divorce in no time.
Like me, my wife also had a difficult childhood. Mainly it was her mother, hyper-judgmental.
I probably had it worse, but could cook, iron, etc. better than my wife because her mother sanctimoniously destroyed my wife’s confidence.
In not long my wife began talking with me much like cousin ****. She could discern figures-of-speech, obscure concepts, philosophy; “I was just thinking the same thing!”
Most of my fabulous lady friends have no interest in “the meaning of life,” but still are great fun to talk to.
Primarily because they’re females. They counter my hoary childhood, whereby no girl would ever have anything to do with me!
Of the many females I befriended over the past few months, I can think of only one who might know of Søren Kierkegaard.
That would be my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
She’s 65 years old — doesn’t look it — and might have a philosophical bent similar to mine.
Talking with my other lady friends is great fun, but it seems to be at a lower level than what my lifeguard friend and I attain.
That lifeguard retired from professional employ; her lifeguarding is only a retirement gig. I’m also pretty sure she’s college educated.
With most of my lady friends it’s “hi, how are ya?
I think your name is ******; I know another girl named ******.
Happy to see ya! Glad I said something!”
The other day I threw something at my lifeguard friend similar to what I’d say to my wife.
Hooray-hooray; she looked a bit befuddled, but it didn’t turn her off.
Someone I can talk to, mayhap?
And that’s all I ever do: she’s married, and so am I sorta. Although my beloved wife died almost nine years ago.
Kierkegaard is long ago. Professors at my college wanted me to become a scholar, but I decided that was navel picking.

Confidence restored

—Yrs Trly’s confidence wilted after watching that video Johnstown newspaper reporter John Rukosky shot interviewing my brother and I down near Altoona.
“Who’s that little old man at left?” I kept asking. “I look like a geezer!
How can a guy so old have so many fabulous lady friends, many of whom are gorgeous?
How am I supposed to radiate confidence if I meet my pretty lifeguard friend Wednesday? She’s impressive, and I’m ancient.
If I’m slightly unconfident, she’ll pick up on it!
I don’t wanna lose her. She counters my childhood.
‘No pretty lady will smile at you!’ And she does.”
I viewed that video Sunday, and hiked Lehigh Valley RailTrail the next morning.
Icy, but I made it without falling, thanks to YakTrax®. 2.8 miles.
Next would be errands. First drop off old computer monitor at Goodwill, then visit my Honeoye Falls Pharmacy pertaining to COVID-19 vaccination.
“Hi Bob!” pretty ***** chirped as she sprang toward me.
“I don’t think you have anything for me,” I shouted.
Nothing found: ***** didn’t walk away; she came closer so we could talk.
“Any chance you guys could vaccinate me against COVID-19?” I asked her.
“I doubt it,” she said. “We’re not a chain.”
“I don’t wanna go across the street,” I wailed. “You and I are friends.”
And so it continued: talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk.
“Did you get that little piece of paper with my blog link?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“Did your little boy hit the link?” I asked.
“Yes, and he was thrilled,” she said. “Train pictures galore!”
Confidence restored thanks to pretty *****. Direct contact with her pretty blue eyes, and smiling under our masks.
Yes, she’s a girl: GUILTY-AS-CHARGED! “No pretty girl will ever strike sparks with you, Bobby!”
Yet “happy to see ya,” and she’s happy to see me.
“What matters to women,” my cleaning-lady said; “is not your age, or the studly thing. What makes you attractive is you wanna talk, and you’re not creepy.”
“So thank you pretty *****. I walk into your store, and you’re happy to see me.

• Not long ago I hit ***** a little too hard = hittin’ on her, so to speak. How do I reverse that? Next visit “happy to see ya,” I said. “Let’s talk!” she said. Friendship restored = all is forgiven!

Little old man

A little old man, 77 years old, prepares to photograph the passing train with his cannon (telephoto)-on-tripod. (Photo by John Rucosky.)

—In the middle of February Yr Fthfl Srvnt and his brother traveled to Altoona PA to chase and photograph trains in the snow.
On Wednesday my brother drives out from where he lives near Boston. It takes him nine hours.
If the light is still good when he gets there, he’ll take photographs.
I drive down on Thursday (five hours), and my brother takes photographs himself while I drive down.
The light is usually still okay when I get there, so we’ll join up to chase and photograph trains together.
Then we’ll chase and photograph trains all day Friday. We both go home Saturday.
Thursday afternoon, after meeting up, we drove down to South Fork to photograph trains coming around a curve.
While there, a photographer/reporter for the Johnstown Tribune-Democrat newspaper, stopped to talk with us. His name was John Rucosky.
“Up-and-down this corridor I been, interviewing owners of railfan-oriented businesses, but I’ve yet to meet any railfans.”
Who knows if Rucosky knew what he called the “Route-53 Corridor,” is what we railfans call the West Slope (of Allegheny Mountain).
PA State Route 53 parallels the old Pennsylvania Railroad mainline south from Allegheny summit to South Fork. Maybe 17-20 miles.
That railroad, which is now Norfolk Southern, is extremely busy. It’s one of the two west/east railroads from the midwest to the East-Coast megalopolis. The other railroad is CSX.
As such, the West Slope sees many trains, and they are dealing with a mountain = assaulting the heavens climbing, and maximum braking to avoid runaway trains going back down.
Both sides of the mountain are railfan paradise, and there are many locations where it’s possible to get fabulous train photographs.
The railroad splits many small towns, most of which have a newish road bridge over the railroad.
The railroad has few grade-crossings — I can only think of a couple. Those bridges make great photo locations, and they usually have sidewalks, which separate you from traffic.
You’re above the train, plus there are other locations from where you can watch or photograph trains.
I been chasing trains since age-2; my brother became a railfan himself a while ago.

Me at left; my brother Jack at right. (From video by John Rucosky.)

Rucosky began interviewing us, shooting video with his Smartphone.
“Because this is where the trains are,” my brother and I shouted.
“Every railfan should be required, BY LAW, to visit Horseshoe Curve,” I said, pointing.
That interview became part of Rucosky’s story, which includes the video, plus a photo gallery.
Rucosky’s story got picked up by Associated-Press, and was circulated nationwide.
My DE nephew found it in his Facebook feed, apparently published in some GA newspaper.
“That’s Uncle Bobby!” he exclaimed. (Lede picture published above. Rucosky used that photo as his lede — that picture sells the story!)
I fired up the GA story on this laptop, and it included the video of me and my brother.
“Who’s that geezer on the left? I look and sound ancient!”
My reaction was “how do I attract so many fabulous lady friends when I when I’m so way over the hill — although I don’t remember a hill.”
There’s *****, my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, who I goofed up so many times, yet she still seems to wanna talk to me.
She’s not gorgeous, but for age 65 she’s impressive. How do I ever remain friends with somebody like her?
Then there’s *****, my pharmacist in Honeoye Falls; also not gorgeous, but pretty enough to be intimidating six years ago.
“I can’t leave here without saying hello to *****.” BOINK! She springs from her workstation so we can talk.
And ****** in Wegmans produce. Every time I say hello to her she smiles at me. No longer is she a big sturdy girl, she became a pretty little thing.
And ****** (Long Tall Sally), and *** at Thompson Physical-Therapy, the college-age PT trainee I befriended, all because I struck up a conversation with her.
“I recognize you, and you recognize me” = let’s talk. It makes her happy, and she makes me happy.
And pretty ******, one of the vaunted “temperature-ladies” in the lobby outside Thompson Physical-Therapy.
****** is astonishingly pretty; so pretty I goofed her up royally perhaps a month ago.
But then: “Hey! Where ya goin’? You can’t go anywhere! Who’m I supposed to talk to?”
“Don’t worry,” she said. “I’ll be back” = if we can talk all is forgiven.
So now every time I see her we talk = enjoy each other’s company. And ****** is extremely pretty.
Plus all the nameless smilers, and blushers, and ladies who say I’m cute, and “you are so sweet!”
Plus the pretty young jogger I met on Lehigh Valley RailTrail THRILLED I struck up a conversation with her without hitting on her: “YIPPEE! A guy wants to talk to me, and he’s not trying to collect a trophy-girl.”
“Cute” isn’t “geezer.”
My cousin in NC tells me what women like most is talking.” The fact I encourage talk makes me irresistible. Creakiness becomes irrelevant when I encourage women to talk. Let ‘em, and I attract ‘em like flies.
“YIPPEE!” A guy they can talk to without fear.
Every time I walk outta the toilet-stalls in the Canandaigua YMCA locker-room, and see myself in the mirror, I see the same person I see in Rucosky’s video. “Why in the world would ***** ever wanna be friends with me?”
***** and I talked a little the other day, and I said “if I am the least bit hesitant or tentative about meeting you, you’ll pick it up.
In order for us to enjoy each other’s company, I hafta be happy to see you. And I am (I can’t be scared).
If I’m happy to see you, you’ll be happy to see me. That’s how it works, and it always works.”
“Happy to see ya!” saved my butt from who knows how many foulups.
Hundreds of fabulous lady friends, and I make more left and right.
As my deceased sister would say, regarding the Rucosky video, “fuggedaboudid!”
And for pretty ****** in the Canandaigua Weggers produce-department: “GUILTY-AS-CHARGED! ‘No pretty girl will smile at you!’ And there you are smiling at me.”

• The “temperature-ladies” in the lobby outside Thompson Physical-Therapy are there per COVID-19. ****** takes your temperature. (Her sidekick has prettier eyes.)

“Don’t overdo it” continued

—Yrs Trly is considering a small experiment with a girl I recently befriended……..
….. In my ongoing attempt to befriend desirable females, contradicting my early childhood, when Bible-thumping hyper-religious zealots convinced me “no pretty girl will ever have anything to do with you!”
My experiment is based on two observations:
—1) If I request permission to relate a story, the girl usually wants to hear my story. I’m not shoving it down her throat, and she can refuse.
Requesting permission has worked.
“Maybe not now,” I say; “but some-time.”
That sets the girl up. “What’s on his mind? What’s he gonna say to me?” She wants the story; just slamming her with my story turns her off.
I did that with another lady once, and “drop everything!” She wanted to hear my story, and right now!
—2) If I minimize my talking, the girl wants more — talking that is. Women love talking.
“Just saying hello,” I said to ****** yesterday at Canandaigua’s Weggers.
She smiled at me. No sexual import; she didn’t hafta defend herself. Yet she got the male recognition women love.
I’m safe; I’m not hitting on her.
And I don’t call her “pigtail-girl” any more, since that might seem forthcoming.
Dale Carnegie says use her name, which I did later.
She smiled at me again!
My story is to tell her I said nothing to her for a while fearing she might take my head off.
Her smiling at me turned her into a pretty little thing, a girl (GASP).
My lifeguard friend is also a girl.
She long-ago said hello to me outta the clear blue sky — she was probably just being sociable — which left me stunned.
“What’s she saying hello to me for? “No pretty lady will ever talk to you! You are disgusting!”
“I'm hoping we can talk before I leave,” instead of just throwing my topic at the lady without notice. That sets the lady up = now she wants to talk with me.
Little-by-little the dude learns the art of conversation with women. —Scared of women over 60 years.
So now I find myself conjuring long-winded yammering with my various lady friends. Talking to myself; yammering never delivered.
I stopped chasing my pretty lifeguard friend around the YMCA swimming-pool, in hopes I wouldn’t be sickening.
We talk and laugh and swap stories occasionally. It’s wonderful: I’m talking with a female.
I have other lady friends, and garner ‘em like crazy. All I do is encourage ‘em to talk, which they seem to love. Make ‘em laugh, listen to ‘em; but not hit on ‘em!
Girls-girls-girls-girls-girls! So pleasant. For me the thought of interacting with women was beyond imagining.
Thinking myself a charmer, a good laugh, a storyteller, is hard to believe when I was convinced I was EVIL and despicable.
Requiring my lady friends to parry such madness is depressing.
“No pretty female will ever hang out with you, Bobby!”
BUNK!

“Don’t overdo it!”

—Having perused the sugar-hits in the bakery in Canandaigua’s Wegmans, I arrowed my cart toward the banana-rack.
There she was, ******, alias “the pigtail girl,” long blonde hair braided into pigtails.
“Don’t overdo it,” my little voice said.
“Just saying hello,” I said to her.
She looked up and smiled at me. We were wearing masks, but her eyes sparkled.
When I first spoke to ******, perhaps three weeks ago, I thought she might take my head off.
She’s a big sturdy girl, but her smile makes her a pretty little thing.
“Maybe I'll come back later after you’re done,” I said to her. Her banana-rack was still half empty.
I left to continue shopping but remembered I still needed bananas. When I returned ****** was gone.
A shame, since I forgot to use her name. I don't call her “pigtail-girl” anymore; I wanna remain friends.
Dale Carnegie says the most important thing you can do to make friends is to use the person’s name.
I never learned that, but now, 70 years late, I find it really works. Especially with women, who I befriend like crazy, but that’s another story.
Apparently addressing a person by name tells them you value their company.
And I failed to use ******’s name.
Shopping complete, I turned into self check-out. There was Long Tall Sally, who I wouldn’t dare call that. It would hurt her feelings.
“Don’t overdo it,” the little voice repeated.
“Just saying hello,” I said. “Happy to see ya!”
“How are you?” she exclaimed.
“I recognize you, and you recognize me.”
“‘******’, eh? I’ll hafta remember that, even though I’m no good at names.”
We talked a little before I left. There’s lots more I could say to her but “don’t overdo it.”
After self check-out I use the restroom before my long drive home.
When I came back out there was ****** stocking tangerines.
I steered toward her. “******,” I shouted. “You got it!” she said, smiling again.
Smashing success, from not overdoing it. Ladies smile at me, especially ******. Her eyes sparkled, and a while ago I thought she might take my head off.

Gotcha!

—The other day, Sunday, February 28th, while quietly keying in my monthly train-calendar blog……
…….This new laptop went into a mysterious hissy-fIt — nothing but a black screen with the spinning multicolored soccer-ball.
My mouse still determined the location of that soccer-ball, but beyond that nothing.
My old MacBook Pro, an ancient dual-core, occasionally did that.
Reboot time! Kill the machine by holding down the power-button maybe ten seconds: making it reboot.
This new MacBook Pro doesn’t have a power-button.
Just flipping it open —1) makes it reboot if it had previously been shut down, or —2) wakes it back up if it had previously been put asleep.
After that I hafta log-in to get this new rig running.
Later my desktop-picture reappeared, along with my login thingy, but I couldn’t log in — nothing but the spinning soccer-ball.
I couldn’t shut off normally. I use the Apple menu, to which I couldn’t get. I hafta log-in to get to that menu.
So how do I kill a rig without a power-button, and not logged-in?
So began a surfeit of frenzied hair-pulling.
It was the weekend of course. All ‘pyooter, dog, and health emergencies occur on weekends.
At least it was Sunday; that’s only a one-day wait.
My guess was there was some magical trick for killing a no power-button laptop.
Google-time! I still had a working rig: my ancient MacBook Pro.
“How does one deactivate a MacBook Pro without a power-button?”
I got the usual Google gobble-de-gook: “use the power-button to force-quit your MacBook Pro.”
AHEM, weed through Google’s deluge of insanity; Apple’s help-desk was suggested. I used it before.
More madness and frustration: “please enter your Apple ID.”
I did that, or so I thought, but of course it bombed = “invalid this” or “invalid that,” followed by “too many failed login attempts = try again later.”
“Steve, you’re acting like Gates = unfriendly to aging stroke-survivors.”
I gotta change to a new Apple ID? 15 minutes is turning into three hours!
And how am I supposed to change my Apple ID when I can’t even see what I’m doing?
As a stroke-survivor I have sloppy keyboarding, and if my passcode type-ins are invisible, or are quickly made invisible, no wonder they don’t match. I can’t review what I mistyped.
After at least two hours of frenzied madness, I finally decided to just give up and go to bed. I would call my ‘pyooter-guru Monday, the next day.
I would allow this laptop to sleep all night, but on its battery — in hopes it would run out of volts and die.
6-8 hours of sleep allows my frenzy to die down.
When I awoke the next morning, the first thing I did was flip open this laptop to see if it was still hung; it was.
While still in bed I conjured a new question to hurl at Google: “how does one force-quit a MacBook Pro that lacks a power-button?”
I fired up my old rig, and hurled the question at Google.
VIOLA! Apparently I worded my question correctly.
“Hold down the Command, Control, and Touch-ID buttons all at the same time at least 10 seconds.”
BAM! The screen went totally black, and the spinning soccer-ball disappeared.
Suddenly there it was: the beloved Apple icon; this thing was re-booting!
HOORAY-HOORAY; I wouldn’t hafta drive 20 miles to wrastle my computer-guru. —Or try to explain things with stroke-addled speech.
So, back in business. This blog is being done into Apple’s “Pages” with voice-recognition.

• The “Touch-ID button” is a new laptop thingy, for logging in via yer fingerprint.
• “Steve” is Steve Jobs, cofounder and one time CEO of Apple Computer. He died not too long ago. “Gates” is Bill Gates, CEO of Microsoft. I don’t use Microsoft Word®, because it punishes stroke-survivors.

Hangin’ on

—On Wednesday I visit Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool for my aquatic balance-training class.
I hope my friend ***** will be there — she’s been there every Wednesday for weeks.
I hope we meet, and I don’t muck up.
I have another pretty lady friend who like ***** also lifeguards that pool, and I may be developing another, but that lifeguard is young. ***** is 65.
No matter, ***** doesn’t look 65 on her lifeguard stand. She looks late 40s. My other lifeguard friend is 58, although she too doesn’t look her age.
She has two fully grown children, but I guessed she was in her 40s.
***** isn’t gorgeous, but she’s impressive.
I always wonder how I befriended her. I’m hardly a stud, I’m age-77, but we seem to attract each other, probably because we talk.
Although I think only 25% of what I say is worth hearing. With ***** I tend to fall flat.
The other day went pretty good. I had ***** smiling and laughing. I love seeing her laugh.
She let her hair down the other day to let it dry, and I said “leave it that way. I like it!”
I have another lady friend who let her hair down once, and I told her the same thing.
It’s one of the perks of old-age: we geezers can tell a girl she’s pretty.
***** isn’t extremely social. Often her eyes wander. When she smiles at me, with direct eye contact, it’s ravishing.
I got that once, and I admit I’m a sucker for it.
“No pretty lady will ever smile at you!”
Some time ago ***** walked outta the locker-room in a blue plaid flannel shirt and slacks. My reaction was “what am I doing hanging out with such an impressive lady?”
Stately and statuesque.
We have a deal, sorta. ***** told me she’d continue showing up, if I didn’t quit aquacise.
“Okay,” I thought to myself. “I’ll keep doing aquacise.”
It may very well be she shows up Wednesday because that’s the day of my aquacise. She doesn’t hafta, plus her lifeguarding is only a retirement gig. She could lifeguard other days.
I always hope I meet *****. We talk and laugh and swap stories. She seems happy to see me; I don’t think she could fake it well.
But mainly it’s that she’s female (GASP), and impressive, which counters “no pretty lady will have anything to do with you, Bobby! You are DISGUSTING!”

• RE: “I’ll keep doing aquacise.” Despite continual aquatic balance-training (three years so far), my balance worsens with age.

A male Scheherazade

—“Now that I have another girl calling me ‘BobbaLew’,” I would say to my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool……
“I figgered you might wanna know how ‘BobbaLew’ came to be.”
That’s because a few years ago I told her the name I preferred was “BobbaLew,” which she now calls me.
“That’s a long story,” I would say. “‘BobbaLew’ goes back 60 years. I doubt I could compress my story into 60 seconds.”
But I noticed if I wanna tell a story, to anyone really, but especially females, they wanna hear the story — and right now.
That girl perceives I wanna spend time with her, sharing a story as it were.
She likes that, or seems to.
“Sometime I gotta tell you my elevator story,” I say.
SCREECH!
I get the look. She wants the story, and she wants it NOW!
“That other stuff can wait!”
I call this the male Scheherazade bit.
After discovering his first wife had been unfaithful, an Iranian sultan began marrying virgins as revenge.
He’d spend one night with ‘em, then behead ‘em the next morning so they couldn’t dishonor him.
Eventually his aide-de-camp, who supplied the virgins, ran out of virgins-of-noble-lineage, so the aide offered his daughter Scheherazade when she volunteered.
Scheherazade began telling a story to her sister, but stopped mid-story because it was dawning.
The king was enthralled; he wanted to hear the end of the story.
So he spared beheading her so she could finish the story the next night. After which she began another, also leaving it unfinished.
So the sultan spared her another beheading.
And on and on it went: 1,000 stories over 1,001 nights.
That king fell in love with Scheherazade and made her his queen.
I’m not beheading my lady friends, nor are they beheading me. I also am not having my way with them.
But I like telling ‘em stories. They seem to enjoy my spending time with them — entertaining them as it were.

Who’s it gonna be today?

—“Were you by any chance the one who sold me that standalone last October?”
“Probably,” the lady said. “I’m the only female on the staff.”
“I sorta remember telling you you had pretty eyes,” I said.
“Why thank you!” she whispered, probably repeating what she said to me last October.
Some women have ‘em, but most don’t.
I’ve told hundreds, and I’ve yet to get smacked.
I was at my computer venue to get my standalone backup-drive working. I had to leave behind this laptop, but it would be a “quick-fix.”
I’d run errands while it was being fixed.
“And that wasn’t a FLIRT!” I yelled, as I walked away.
“Per Governor Cuomo?” a customer asked.
“It was just an observation,” I said. But the lady was smiling = I think I made her happy.
“See ya later, alligator!” she laughed as I exited the store.
“After ‘while, crocodile,” I shouted back.
We were wearing masks, but her gorgeous eyes sparkled.
Maybe a half-hour later, she called my cell-phone. I was running an errand at least 15 miles distant.
She needed my computer master login password; I hadn’t left it with her.
That master password is **************.
I returned later to pick up this rig.
“If interested,” I told her; “************** is the neatest motor-vehicle my wife and I ever owned.
We drove that sucker all the way to Montana, and all the way up the Pikes Peak Highway.
There was only one problem: every 300 miles, 30 gallons!
I pulled into a lonely gas station out in Wyoming, no civilization visible anywhere, and I heard cheering out back: ‘slap another steak on the grill, Martha! 40 gallons!’”
“You are so cute!” she exclaimed. Her eyes twinkled. She was laughing.
Every morning I ask myself “what day is it today?”
—If it’s Monday it’s pretty ***** at my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls.
—Tuesday is the “temperature-ladies” outside Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
—On Wednesday it’s my pretty lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
—Thursday I chance meeting some pretty young jogger as I walk my imaginary dog along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
—Friday it’s that YMCA swimming-pool again, where I chance talking with my aquacise instructor: another attractive smiler.
—Saturday it's the Wegmans supermarket in Canandaigua. “Happy to see ya” with those I know, and “gotta say hello to her” with the unknowns.
And if I may say so, women love talking, and here I am talking on equal terms, but not hitting on ‘em.
I’ve had it happen so many times. “Say something to her, say hello.” She’ll be thrilled she attracted me enough to wanna talk to her.
Things were different this week. Thompson PT’s “temperature ladies” were Monday, plus I had a young college girl doing my physical-therapy as a trainee — we had a wonderful time.
So I figgered no fabulous female contacts today (Tuesday).
But there was that lady at my computer-store.

• “See ya later, alligator” is prior century. Say that to a millennial, and they’ll think you’re whacko. “Call Security!

“Women don’t bite!”

—Yesterday (March 1st, 2021) Yrs Trly had an appointment at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
Physical therapy supposedly makes me better at countering declining balance.
Instead of my assigned therapist, I was turned over to her shadow, a young college girl.
“I been warned,” shadow said. My therapy was entirely programmed by her.
I noticed I kept looking askance — no eye-contact. I had to keep reminding myself to look into her eyes.
“Look right at her,” the little voice kept saying. “Don’t be scared; you can do it!
Finally I said to her: “I’m sorry, but I’m not used to dealing with women. I really enjoy your being my coach, but I’ve always been terrified of women.”
It’s my childhood of course.
“No pretty lady will look at you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
We talked about it. “Long sorry story,” I told her. “You don’t wanna hear it.”
“Well we women don’t bite,” the girl said.
Those are the same exact words as one of my aquacise instructor’s clients.
I struck up a conversation with her a couple weeks ago, and “YIPPEE! He’s talking to me!”
That client and I go back a long way. Previously I avoided her.
Any contact by me with the opposite sex was automatically EVIL and disgusting.
That client was thrilled, but my perception was that I was FLIRTING! EVIL!
“No female will have anything to do with you. You are SCUM!”
I been told just talking to a woman isn’t flirting.
I also been told my eye-contact is much better, but I couldn’t look at shadow-girl without continually reminding myself to do it.
It’s the ghosts of my Bible-beating parents and hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor.