I think I made her happy

—A friend, a fellow transit bus-driver, retired like me from Regional Transit Service (RTS) in Rochester NY……
Noted my frequent mention of the attire of “pretty-girl,” the attractive 21-year-old “main-squeeze” of my niece’s 40-year-old ex-husband.
I said that “pretty-girl’s” attire was meant to project her as eye-candy, a deeply-cut dress, and her obvious lack of a bra.
I noticed of course; I’m a guy, and I’m attracted to girls. (“GASP!”)
But what really attracted me was her smile. It was ravishing, her eyes too, and even her eyebrows.
(“Change the channel Luke!”)
If I may say so, I think my liking her made her smile even harder.
“YIPPEE! A guy likes me as a person instead of as eye-candy.”
I was more attracted to her smile than her cleavage.
Her dress was marginal. A dishrag sorta. All it had was a deeply-cut front. It was kind of frumpy.
Facially she’s a stunner. Outta shape but a joy to talk to.
She smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled and smiled. I think she liked that I paid little attention to her sexiness.
We were at the delayed wedding-celebration of my brother’s only son.
He married a few months ago during the pandemic, but it was only a civil ceremony. It wasn’t the full-blown wedding-celebration most weddings are.
I was the only one of my remaining siblings to come. I’m first-born of seven; me at age-77, then three youngsters remain. (My brother is one of them.)
Home to near Boston is a seven-hour drive.
I thought I could do it, since the car I have now, a 2017 Ford Escape, is much easier to drive than what I had previously: a 2012 Ford Escape.
My brother got me the new Escape. Since he retired from power-generation, he went into business with a friend flipping cars.
They purchase used cars from auctions, etc. then groom them for resale. My new Escape is a lease-return.
I hafta be careful to not let it go above 90 mph on interstates.
And most of the trip to my brother’s home is expressway.
Can you say “cop-bait?” At least it’s not red.
I traded him my old Escape, plus gave him 1,000 buckaroos. We figger the transaction saved me about $1,000.
I wondered why my niece’s ex, and his eye-candy girlfriend, were even there.
A wonderful opportunity for my niece’s ex to display his sexual prowess.
Show up at this shindig with his overly exposed eye-candy.
Except eye-candy seemed more attracted to me — perhaps the father-figure she never had.
And then she pleasantly discovered that over the past few months I’ve gotten very good talking with women. (“Impossible!”)
WOMEN LOVE TALKING!
So let ‘em; encourage ‘em. Don’t interrupt, don’t cut ‘em off, don’t even ask for clarification — that can wait.
A female talking with you is precious. That means she wants to talk with you.
Don’t try to take over the conversation.
Preparing to eat, eye-candy and loverboy came to sit at my table.
Then eye-candy sat right next to me.
Then when an opening occurred she struck up a conversation with me on-her-own. Usually it’s me.
Plus the one she’s talking to is the one who got so good talking with women. (“No way José!”)
We began talking with each other.
The usual mindless chatter: I get to hear her pretty voice, and she doesn’t hafta defend herself.
She quickly noticed I was more interested in face-to-face eye-contact, than glancing down the front of her dress.
“YIPPEE!” she might think to herself. “A guy who actually likes me as a person instead of a sex-object.”
At age-21 she’s not suspicious of all men yet.
Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!
I almost lost her once.
Primary rule regarding complementing an attractive girl: don’t be direct; inference only!
Mayhap she also noticed I didn’t wanna lose her.
Our yammering drifted to the death of my wife. Per usual I started crying.
“I wish I could find a guy who cared about me as much as this guy cared about his wife.”
She tried to console me, gently stroking my shoulders.
Enter loverboy: “Gotta get hottie-girl away from this guy. She’s too attracted to him!”
Uhm HELLO! I’m 77 years old: way over the hill, although I don’t remember a hill.
I’d only be the approving father-figure she perhaps never had.
Since my beloved wife died, I’ve encountered many women, some of whom became friends.
I strike sparks with a few of those “friends who happen to be female.” We enjoy each other’s company.
It’s hardly sexual or even romantic. It’s more just talking with each other, swapping emotions back-and-forth.
Enjoying each other’s company.
They are females of course; and I like females: it’s a designed-in trait.
Every once in a while I run across a female who could use my liking her.
I look at those photo-booth pictures I put on this blog-site before, and there’s eye-candy at my side smiling extravagantly.
She looks happy: “Goodie, a guy who actually likes me as a person. He likes me. I can tell.
With him I’m not eye-candy.”
I think I made her happy; I see it in her smile, which I’ll probably never see again in my entire 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.

Lucky for her

—The most plausible explanation regarding why “pretty-girl” seemed attracted to me is.…
She needed a father-figure.
I’m 77 years old, and my balance is so bad I have to go out of my way to keep from falling. I walk like a little old man.
She needed a pants-wearer to increase her self-worth.
Along comes some 40-year-old dude who lusts after her, which she perceives as increasing her self-worth.
Except it’s only lust-based. What’s beyond her sexuality doesn’t interest him — or does it?
I’d like to think my liking of girls is more than lust. (“Get ready zealots!”)
I was married 44&1/2 years to a lady who was extraordinary.
I told her what I liked most about her was what she had between her ears.
Meaning-of-life, figures-of-speech, obscure concepts, philosophy, etc. We could talk about anything.
We’d finish each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing.”
She was rangy, and not overly endowed. I had to convince her she could be pretty. “You get rid of them glasses, and let your hair grow, and you’ll look a lot prettier.”
Her mother raised her to feel inferior.
“I had the perfect husband picked out for you, but you had to go your own way. I don't know what you see in him? GUILTY!”
(I could tell stories about her mother.)
So now that my wife is gone, I perceive all female contacts as real people.
My wife died of cancer nine years ago, and I been on my own ever since.
I’m not interested in remarrying; I feel like I’m never gonna find anyone as extraordinary as my wife.
So here came “pretty-girl” with lover-boy (my niece’s ex-husband) at my brother’s wedding-celebration for his son.
She notices me, a creaky old geezer, that I may be the father-figure she never had.
—A) They sat at my table;
—B) She sat right next to me; and
—C) She struck up a conversation with me herself. (Usually it’s me.)
She thereby met a fabulous father-figure, a guy not drooling with lust, but who liked her as a person.
A “liberal.” (“GASP!”)
(I been told the correct CONSERVATIVE spelling is “L-I-B-E-R-I-A-L.”)
We began talking, just she and me.
She noticed my fervent eye-contact, that I wasn’t ogling down the front of her flimsy dress.
“Goodie,” she thinks to herself; “a dude who likes me, instead of perceiving me as another notch on his bed-post.” (“You think too much!”)
All I know is it seemed her reaction to me reflected a deep void in her personality: that she lacked a male or father who liked her personally.
Lover-boy wasn’t filling that void; he was just lusting after her.
Her attraction to me seemed rather strong; like I was radiating that I liked her as a person instead of as a sexual conquest.
I was radiating the approval she needed, and she seemed to need it strongly.
I was making her happy; her smile was ravishing.
Thank goodness she’s only 21: too young to become jaded or suspicious of all males.
And thank goodness I’m learning 70 years late that all women are not suspect.
I’ve met and encountered a few negatives, but I still am not jaded or suspicious of all women; and doubt I ever will be.
Now I hafta hope that poor girl someday meets a guy like me who likes like her as who she is, because I’ll probably never see her again in my entire life.
I had her smiling profusely; like I apparently filled her void.
Lucky for her: she met a father-figure who made her happy, and really happy, not just lust.
(“DREAMIN’!”)

Eye Candy

—“No wonder ‘pretty girl’ seemed attracted to me,” I kept saying.
Her boyfriend thinks of her as eye-candy, but to me she’s a real person.
“Eye-candy” is my cleaning-lady’s assessment of the relationship between “pretty-girl” and her boyfriend.
“They’ll never marry,” my cleaning-lady said.
“Boyfriend,” my niece’s ex, is age-40. “Pretty-girl” is 21.
At age-21 she won’t know much.
“I don’t know what she sees in him,” my brother’s wife kept commenting.
“I hope he’s not taking advantage of her,” I said.
—A) She sat at my table.
—B) She sat right next to me.
—C) She started our conversation herself.
Usually it’s me who strikes up conversations, and usually I get a positive response. (“Oh sure!”)
Then my cleaning-lady suggested another factor which might explain “pretty girl’s” attraction to a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
“Maybe she’s looking for a father-figure; like maybe she comes from a home where her father disappeared.”
I know from experience I strike sparks with females pretty well: “you are so much fun to talk with;” “we could talk forever;” “I hope we meet again;” “you are so sweet.”(“DREAMIN‘!”)
I learned how to do it: I ascertained what works and what doesn’t.
So once “pretty girl” and I began talking with each other, she became drawn to me. (“Never in a million years!”)
This is what usually happens.
“YIPPEE; a guy is talking with me as if he takes me seriously, i.e. he wants to hear what I say.
He’s not trying to snag me as a trophy.
He doesn’t butt in or interrupt. He lets me talk; he encourages me.”
So I hope I left my mark, and it looked like I mighta, considering her ravishing smile.
My mark being that I liked her as a person, despite her loose-fitting dress, and obvious lack of a bra.
Nice to notice, but what I really enjoyed was talking with her. I was oblivious to her sex-appeal.
I think she noticed: I wasn’t lusting after her; I just enjoyed talking with her.
I’m not sure she enjoys her role as “Eye-Candy;” she’s too young.
“She didn’t need to dress like that,” I kept saying to my cleaning-lady.
“Not with the smile she had!”
So now I hafta hope she meets some guy who likes her as a person much as I did — since I probably will never see her again in my entire life.
And she was pretty; not physically in good shape, but pretty in her face.
She was a joy to talk with. And I think she noticed I liked talking with her — such things radiate.
With me she wasn’t “Eye-Candy.”
If a girl as pretty and attractive as her wants to strike up a conversation with me, I damn well better respond positively.
And thanks to that silly dog I previously had, I’m no longer scared of pretty girls. I.e. I no longer listen to the sanctimonious zealots who would tell me “No pretty girl will ever talk with you, Bobby!”

• I could picture “pretty girl” again, but promised I wouldn’t.

Last time

Last time readers, I promise. “Pretty-girl” to my left, happy R***** to my right. (Photo-booth photo.)

—A) Of all the 40-50 tables under our wedding celebration tent she sat at my table.
—B) Instead of sitting across from me, she sat right next to me.
Readers, I’m not used to this. A pretty girl wants to hang out with me? (“She was being sociable!”)
—C) An opening occurs, and she snags it. She wanted to talk with me.
Again readers: I’m not used to this.
A pretty young girl striking up a conversation with a lifelong scumbag?
She’s only 21: not enough experience with men to become jaded about all males.
She’s outta shape, but her smile is ravishing. Her eyes sparkle. (“Change the channel Luke!”)
Even her eyebrows are pretty. I noticed and WOW!
I admit I radiate attraction to a girl. (“BALONEY!”)
Apparently I also radiate desire to talk, and women love talking.
Talk free of lust, and treating her as a desirable real person.
I started crying talking about my wife’s death.
She tried to console me. Here she was stroking a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
Her boyfriend, age 40, my niece’s ex, wanted to get her away from me. They moved to another table.
So why was I so smitten with this girl?
Probably because she was the first pretty girl to openly like me. (“She was socializing!”)
I’ve had it happen before, but not so strongly.
—A) She picked my table.
—B) She sat right next to me.
—C) The one who struck up our conversation was her.

Not jaded yet

There she is again: “pretty-girl” at my left, and my niece “R******” at my right. “Will you please button that dress? With a smile like that, you don’t need to be a loose woman.” (In the photo-booth.)

—Yrs Trly wonders why I keep being drawn to that picture of “pretty-girl.”
She kept being attracted to me, or so it seemed. (“Impossible!”)
I have this crazy notion that maybe the reason they switched to a different table was so my niece’s ex-husband could get “pretty-girl” away from me.
(“DREAMIN’!”)
Over and over again I look at that picture. I even have it on my kitchen-wall to remind myself I’m still in the real world — post stroke and after my beloved wife died.
I keep other things on my kitchen-wall related to females I know.
My sense of reality was utterly destroyed with my stroke and my wife dying.
I admit I enjoy the cleavage, although there isn’t much.
It’s a designed-in trait: I’m a guy and she’s a girl.
She’s not Stormy Daniels, but she’s not flat.
But every time I look at that picture I think to myself “Will you please button that dress! You don’t have to be a slut. Your smile is fantastic; eyes too. You’re a joy to face-to-face!”
I sure hope my niece’s ex isn’t treating her like a dishrag. She’s only 21, and he’s 40.
I’d like to think he takes good care of her, but I worry about that dress.
It was rather frumpy, like all it was designed to do was be revealing.
So ex shows up at our shindig with his scantily-clad trophy-girl to demonstrate his sexual prowess.
Yet trophy-girl seems attracted to a 77-year-old geezer who hardly can stand.
What I can do is talk, and let her talk.
I radiate I really enjoy talking with her, which she perceives as I’m attracted to her.
I am, and she likes that.
She sat right next to me, an opening occurred, and she snagged it. It wasn’t me.
I mentioned the loss of my wife, and started crying as I always do.
She tried to console me: how ‘bout that Mr. ex?
Trophy-girl is stroking a 77-year-old geezer who can hardly stand.
I keep mentioning to my Bereavment-Counselor, and many others, that 70 years late I’m finally discovering the absolute and incredible JOY of interacting with women.
“You’re not late,” that counselor says. “This was the perfect time for you.”
Thinking about this (“get ready with the remote Luke!”), I’m so far along in years I doubt I can become jaded about women.
I’m having so much fun with women I doubt I could ever become jaded at all.
Not long ago a neighbor cut down a dead tree for me, and we got to talking about women.
“I’ve had it with women,” he said. “Never understand ‘em; they drive me crazy.”
“Not this kid,” I said.
“Girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.”
And here comes “pretty girl,” smiling and eyes flashing, eager to strike sparks with me.
Here we go! “Talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!”
Pointless yammering, but I get to hear her pretty voice, and she gets to have a dude talking with her.
My brother near Boston collects Harley Davidson motorcycles.
I collect “friends who happen to be female.”
If it’s Monday it will be *****. If it’s Tuesday it will be ******. If it’s Wednesday it will be either of two lifeguard friends.
If it’s Thursday, Saturday or Sunday I chance meeting my pretty jogger friend again along Lehigh Valley RailTrail. Friday may be another lifeguard friend. And Saturday or Sunday may be two or three “friends who happen to be female” at my supermarket — plus the innumerable pretty strangers with whom I may strike up conversations.
And last weekend it was “pretty-girl” in Massachusetts, who I probably will never see again in my entire life. What a shame!

• There was at least one other “pretty girl” at this wedding shindig, a “looker” with very shapely legs. She knew what she had, so she flaunted ‘em on the dance-floor; tossing aside her split skirt. Nice to ogle, but I preferred my 21 year old “pretty girl.” After all it was she that struck up our conversation. Most women there were overweight.
• Would that I could give the names of each weekday friend. The Internet is loaded with loathsome lotharios, and I don’t want my “friends who happen to be female” being stalked. I’ll spill the first letters: Monday is “E,” Tuesday is “A,” my three Canandaigua YMCA lifeguard friends are “C” and “A” on Wednesday, and “J” on Friday. My three supermarket friends are “C,” “M,” and “N.” I don’t know the names of my jogger friend or “pretty-girl.” And Tuesday it looked like pretty A***** wanted to talk, and I couldn’t. (“She was just socializing!”)

Two incidents

My niece R***** is to my right; R*****’s ex’s new “main-squeeze” is to my left. Would that Yrs Trly could crank a smile like these two! (In the photo-booth.)

—Incident number-one:
“When you told me that pretty girl a-hangin’ with R*****’s ex was only 21, and R*****’s ex was 40,” I said to my brother’s wife; “I thought -A) that dude is a-robbin’ the cradle, and -B) I’m old enough to be her grandfather!”
“I don’t know what she sees in him!” my brother’s wife exclaimed. “He sure made R***** feel inferior.”
“Maybe they can talk,” I said. “Talk is very important, and many men refuse.”
I was south of Boston, attending the wedding celebration of my brother’s son who was married a few months ago during the pandemic.
We had the celebration outside in my brother’s giant backyard. I think it will last too, since my brother’s son married a smiler.
We ate outside under a large tent.
I sat at a table, and here comes ex’s new “main-squeeze” to sit right beside me, with ex the other side of her.
“Did she intend this?” I thought to myself. (“DREAMIN’!”)
Perhaps she deduced I’m a talker, and also I’m attracted to her. That stuff radiates.
No conversation until the famblee-dog appeared.
“Oh,” I said; “the famblee-dog, who wants me to pet her. She decided I’m a dog-person.”
“I’m a dog-person too,” pretty girl chirped, turning toward me smiling, pretty eyes flashing. (“Kick the phonograph, Luke!”)
Off we went: “Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
The old waazoo: pointless yammering; I like hearing her pretty voice, and “YIPPEE, a guy who finds me attractive, and likes talking with girls! Plus he’s not hitting on me.”
Yrs Trly comes along, attracted to her as much as I hope R*****’s ex is.
Now what? A second dude who also finds her attractive and wants to talk with her.
Is the poor girl getting a dude who likes her as a person?
She’s very cute, but sad-to-say, she’s not as attractive as my 65-year-old lifeguard friend.
Wrinkly knees, and wrinkles up-close-and-personal. But on her lifeguard stand she looks middle 40s.
What attracts me are: -A) she’s in shape. She swims laps and runs.
Main-squeeze is very pretty in her face, pretty eyes and eyebrows, and a gorgeous smile. But beyond that she’s not in shape.
Another friend might complain I’m judging a girl by salacious parameters.
I disagree!
What attract me are the smile and the eyes (“Here we go again!”), not sexual attributes.
Smiling and flashing eyes are only occasional with that lifeguard, but when I get ‘em I am smitten!
Also: -B) we can talk. Somehow we became comfortable talking.
She’s also someone I already know. I know what works, and also what won’t.
I think she likes knowing I’d rather not lose her.
With pretty girl I had to be more careful.
I made her nervous once; I could see it in her facial expression.
We got past that, perhaps because she could see I didn’t wanna lose her.
We talked about losing my wife, and per usual I started crying. “I wish some dude cared about me as much as this dude cared about his wife.”
She tried to console me, but eventually she and R*****’s ex moved to another table.
I saw both her and ex a few more times after that, and spoke to her once at a table behind me.
Her response was flat, but by then I was more interested in talking to ex.
I started walking out, but then saw them both at a table outside the party.
Two years ago I wouldna done this, but I turned toward them both.
She saw me coming, and looked happy to see me coming.
“Not you this time,” I said to her. “This time *****” (ex).
Let him know I value his friendship as much as hers. I.e. I’m not trying to cut past him.
“Are you by any chance computer savvy?” I asked.
“Meh!” he gesticulated.
“What if I wanna view American Graffiti in entirety on my computer screen. That sounds like download it somehow, but I don't know how anything works.
I’m probably one of the oldest people at this party, and most of those here are 30-40 years younger than I am.
I need explanation.”
“Your best bet,” he said; “is Amazon.”
Pretty girl unholstered her SmartPhone and fired up American Graffiti via Amazon.
“Four dollars to rent, or eight dollars to purchase.”
Being the skinflint all Hugheses are “I prefer four dollars to rent.”
We talked quite a bit more concerning how things worked, and noted I had to watch the entire flique in 24 hours if I rented.
No way José! “Ten minutes here, 20 minutes there, another 10 minutes, then 30 minutes. I’ll be doing good if I can watch the whole movie in less than two weeks!”
I saw ***** again later: “I sure appreciate your letting me pick your brain. I’da rented that sucker eons ago, but never knew how anything worked.
I think for eight bucks I’ll just buy it. Eight bucks is peanuts.”
I saw pretty girl one more time and waved at her faintly. Let her know I’m not avoiding her.
Then into the garage to go into the house for bed. But to do so I had to pass the photo-booth.
A photo-booth had been set up in my brother’s garage to take digital pictures of those who attended.
I avoided it for some time, but to go into the house I had to pass it in the garage.
“Here for a photo-booth picture?” the lady asked.
I was set to defer, but R***** and pretty girl were nearby, so the photo-booth lady wanted to get us all together for a picture.
So here came pretty girl one more time so the old geezer could wrap his flaccid arms around two pretty ladies.
“Are you sure?” I asked pretty girl.
Our bodies merged, and I did something the Bible-beaters would never approve: I touched two pretty girls (“GASP”); headed DIRECTLY for Hell, smiling all the way.
(Photo above.)

—Incident number-two:
“So what are you trying to tell me R*****?”
We were in my brother’s kitchen after the party, and R***** is my brother’s only daughter.
“I'm trying to get you to stay an extra day,” R***** said.
The last time I saw her was depressing. She was overweight and looked awful.
Readers, I just exercised the most important facet of Dale Carnegie’s “How to Win Friends and Influence People.”
SAY THE PERSON’S NAME!
Which tells R***** I thought enough of her to address her by name — that’s how she perceived it.
“Uncle Bobby likes me! He likes what he sees!”
I make her feel good by just saying her name. Two years ago I never woulda done such a thing, but I discovered it works; i.e. it’s worth doing!
“I can't stay an extra day!” I said. “I have an appointment on Monday.”
“Yeah,” she said. “But it’s TeleMed. You could do it from here.”
“I thought about that,” I said. “That counselor and I both have iPhones, so we do our appointments FaceTime.
Beyond that,” I said; “I’m also outta pills. I don’t have any for Monday.”
She kept badgering me.
Dare I say it? I think she wanted me to stay around to keep making her happy.
“I'll tell you what the real problem is,” I said. “It’s girls; girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.
They’re so much fun to talk with, and I love talking with ‘em.
I have so many pleasant lady friends — ‘friends who happen to be female’ — and I wanna get back to ‘em.
We talk and talk and talk and talk and talk, and enjoy each other’s company.”
“Why girls?” She asked.
“Because many years ago, at age-5, I was convinced no girl would ever have anything to do with me.”
“That’s insane!” she said. “Who convinced you of that?”
“My hyper-religious parents and my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor,” I said.
Here I'm the famblee punching-bag.
It’s like every famblee needs a punching-bag, and I’m it: the same sorry litany I been hearing since I was five years old.
If it’s just you and me; we enjoy each other — talking.
I think it’s ‘No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!’ Versus ‘Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada.’
‘You are so much fun to talk to;’ ‘we could talk forever;’ ‘I hope we meet again;’ ‘you are so sweet.’” (“All balderdash!”)
I was making R***** happy. I liked what I saw, and she picked that up.
There's nothing I like more than making a girl happy — I never even imagined it.
Too bad I couldn’t stay one more day: I like making R***** happy.
I also wish I coulda hung around an extra day for pretty girl. That shindig will probably be the last time I ever see her in my entire life.

• I have a print-out of that picture I used. I think I will cut it out and paste it on my kitchen-wall to remind myself this really happened. After a stroke and my wife dying my sense of reality got obliterated. I have other things on my kitchen-wall to remind me I’m still in the real world. “Pretty girl” is also very pleasant to look at. It’s her smile.