The tables are turned

—“Are you blocking me?” I asked my aquacise-instructor, pertaining to my inability to copy her into a text I sent to another.
Suddenly the tables were turned. No longer was I a whimpering-wuss unable to be definitive with an attractive lady.
Think about this readers. (“Hand me that-there remote Luke!”)
Suddenly she worries I think she’s blocking me; that I blurted it out reflected I didn’t care that much.
The other night I Facebook “messaged” her about something she posted to her Facebook “timeline.”
I don’t contact her much anymore, but we still are Facebook “friends.”
I suggested I coulda face-to-faced my comment instead, but it appeared she was mad at me.
Here we are again readers: I put her on the defensive again.
“I'm not mad at you!” she fired back.
Now the other side:
I tell my pretty jogger friend on Lehigh Valley RailTrail “I am so glad I said something to you!”
Some time ago I struck up a conversation with her, and she was thrilled.
A guy wanted to talk with her, but he wasn’t hitting on her.
The other day I met her again, and “I hike this rail-trail because I might meet you!”
What’s happening here readers? (“Uh-ohhh!”)
How did the whimpering-wuss get so assertive?
And I bet my pretty jogger friend is thrilled I tell her I like meeting her. (“She’s faking it!”)
That’s telling her flat-out I really like her. I won’t go into why, except to say it’s her smile.
(“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
She’s also a girl (“GASP”).
Tell a girl I really like her, tell an attractive female to ease up? No way José!
I’d be afraid to offend.
Now I don’t care anymore. I’ve learned face-to-face is usually pleasant.
If it bombs, try someone else.
Pretty girls especially. They’re the ones that hafta constantly defend themselves against loathsome lotharios.
Be the dude they can talk to without fear.
“YIPPEE! A guy who wants to talk with me, but he’s not after me.”
I’ve had it happen.

• Her smile tells me she likes me; and my history tells me “no pretty girl will ever like you Bobby.”

“It was meant to be”

—So said my pretty little jogger friend the other morning along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
I’m heading back toward my car, I hear footsteps behind me, she jogs past, then stops and turns toward me, smiling, eyes sparkling. (“Broken-record alert!”)
“Oh my goodness,” I say.
“We meet again,” she says.
“Fifth or sixth time?” I ask.
“Can I just say one little thing?” I asked. (Permission readers…..)
“You were thrilled I struck up a conversation that first time we met. And I was thrilled myself that doing that went over as well as it did. I was surprised.
And one more thing,” I asked.
“This morning was hard getting going,” I said. “My wife died nine years ago, I don’t have my dog anymore, I live alone, so sometimes I feel very depressed.
Then I come out here and hike this rail-trail and I meet you.
Why do I always hike this rail-trail?” I said. “In hopes of meeting you.”
“Well,” I thought to myself later; “my dog’s ashes are along this rail-trail too.
Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, nose-to-the-ground, furiously barking into the woods. ‘Critters beware!’”
“That is so sweet!” she cooed. (Same response every time.)
“What kind of dog was he, and what was his name?” she asked.
“Killian, as in Killian Irish-red,” (say it twice); “an Irish-Setter.“
“Awwww,” again.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada-yada”……
At least five minutes of continuous face-to-face yammering.
But I like hearing her pretty voice.
“High five,” she exclaimed, as she readied to continue. (She wanted to touch me: “GASP!”)
Yr Fthfl Srvnt is reconsidering what makes a girl attractive.
I’m beginning to think it’s just that the girl likes me.
The fact my wife liked me is what attracted me to her.
She was plain at first, but flowered into this extraordinary person I could talk to. Philosophy, meaning-of-life, obscure concepts, they all were in there. And somehow or other I got ‘em all going.
We’d complete each other’s sentences, or “I was just thinking the same thing!”
The other day I hiked all the way around Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool to say goodbye to one of my new lifeguard friends.
“Hi Bob,” she smiled, eyes sparkling. (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
I think I made her happy; she radiated happiness. (“She was faking it!”)
Ergo: she likes me. It’s not lust — are you kidding? 77 years old, 40-50 pounds overweight, flabby, and way over-the-hill, although I don’t remember a hill. I’m old enough to be her grandfather!
I’m beginning to think what matters is that the girl likes me. It’s happened all-too-many times already, and every time it does I am smitten.
“No pretty girl will like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!” (“KerClick, KerClick, KerClick!”)
My jogger-friend seems to like me. (“Never in a million years!”)

The learning curve

—Over the last 8-10 months of learning how to deal with women, Yr Fthfl Srvnt has noticed a few things.
Although they may only apply to the type of women I prefer: no smokers, no drinkers, no gamblers, no sluts or slatterns, no facial steel, no hair dyed green, no multi-tattooed Harley-mamas with acres of body-art.
Only the classy ones; ladies as pure as I am.
(“Balderdash!”)
And fortunately I befriended a few.
My niece’s boyfriend suggested if I really wanted to attract ladies, I should get a new Corvette.
NOPE! 100,000 smackeroos for something that attracts ladies I don’t like?
NOPE again!
Maybe a new open-roof sports-car, but I prefer All-Wheel-Drive.
I need All-Wheel-Drive to chase trains; I’m a railfan.
I can imagine even classy ladies enjoying top-down motoring.
Open-roof, wind-in-the-hair, reach for the sky: FREEDOM!
A widow friend of mine only buys convertibles. She took me along once on errands: top-down.
That was her Buick, and the first top-down convertible I ever rode in was a white 1956 Buick.
Her Buick became possessed of numerous software glitches, so she traded for another top-down convertible; this time an Audi — same color as her Buick: also white.
There’s something to be said for attracting ladies with a top-down convertible. But to me there’s gotta be more to that lady then her being attracted that way.
That lady has to be attracted to me (“Never happen!”), plus she also has to have what matters: what’s between the ears.
I used to say my beloved wife, who I lost nine years ago to cancer, was smarter than me.
I know I’m pretty smart (“Again, balderdash!”)
But I always felt like my wife was smarter than I was.
As a result of my childhood, my experience with women was/is zilch!
“What about your wife?” people ask.
“Special case,” I always say.
Hopefully I can explain that someday, but the thing to say now is I was attracted to her at first only because she was attracted to me.
We both were royally messed up. With her it was her mother, and with me it was both parents at first, but my mother got better as I got older.
I’ve always been attracted to ladies, so now that my wife is gone, I no longer hafta avoid hurting her feelings; she was rather fragile.
I can be attracted to ladies with abandon.
So how do I attract these fabulously desirable females? I.e. not turn ‘em off!
From experience:
—1) Forget telling her point-blank you find her attractive.
Inference dudes; tell her indirectly = infer it.
Maybe sluts want point-blank, but This Kid prefers class.
The mere fact I wanted to strike up a conversation with that lady tells her she attracted me.
“I see your dog is taking you for a walk,” or “I remember you; you look familiar!”
I’ve used those opening lines hundreds of times; and they usually work.
If they don’t, too bad for that girl. I coulda charmed her!
(“No way José!”)
—2) Be careful what you say to that girl. Don’t say something utterly stupid.
A while ago I commented to my lifeguard friend “I was thinking about you last night.”
She walked away in disgust; I thought I’d lost her forever.
I’m bridging the boy/girl gap; ya don’t say something like that to a classy lady.
It wasn’t evil, just poorly worded.
Perhaps because I didn’t throw up my hands shouting “No more women for this dude!”
Instead, what can I do to win my friend back? I reworded my comment into something that wouldn’t turn her off.
My experience with women is nil; but I won her back!
—3) If the girl starts talking to you, LET HER!
Don’t interrupt, don’t cut her off. I may not understand what she’s telling me, but I don’t beg clarification. That’s interrupting.
Women love talking; the simple exchange of emotions.
The fact some woman talks to me tells me I attract her.
(“She’s being sociable!”)
The fact I listen to her tells her she attracts me.
One of my widow friends told me what she dislikes most about talking with men is how they try to take over a conversation.
Even if our talking is just pointless yammering; I like hearing that lady’s pretty voice.
She’s telling me thereby that she likes talking to me.
As you all know, at a very early age I was convinced that such a thing would never happen: no girl would ever wanna talk with me.
Yet my lifeguard friend, among so many others, all of them female, never tell me to buzz off.
They never walk away; but I had to learn how to keep them from walking away.

Girls-girls-girls-girls-girls

—70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt is discovering the wondrous joy of interacting with females.
Or more precisely: the fact women are attracted to me.
(“Impossible, and you know it! I would be SO GLAD to tell ya!”)
—The first thing I do when I enter Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool area is walk over and say hello to my lifeguard friend, a female, impressive for age-65.
—I go to my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls where I hope *****, head-honcho, is there. She jumps up to greet me and we begin talking = we enjoy each other.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada;” which translates to “I like you, and you like me!”
(“Never in a million years!”)
—I blow 10 minutes before leaving that YMCA swimming-pool so I can say goodbye to another one of my pretty lifeguard friends.
“Hello Bob,” she coos; then she smiles and her eyes sparkle. Again: “I like you, and you like me!”
(“DREAMIN’!”)
I’ve yet to come up with words which adequately describe my utter disbelief that women would like me. “No female will ever like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and salacious!”
There has been a learning-curve.
Since I am so driven to want girls to like me, I take note what attracts ‘em, and what turns ‘em off.
Per my childhood, the idea of a girl liking me was totally beyond comprehension.
I couldn’t even imagine such a thing!
The thought of a girl liking me never even crossed my mind.
70+ years late Yrs Trly finds that was Bible-beater bunk.
A wonderful way to scare a 5-year-old little boy from ever interacting with females — plus give my sanctimonious, hyper-religious, Sunday-School superintendent neighbor a way of venting against her dashing husband who was probably fooling around.
The other day my current neighbor and I were talking. He mentioned he’s had it with women.
Off I went: “girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls! Oh how I love ‘em.”
I had to learn how to interact with ‘em. But now that I have, I’m having a wonderful time.
A while ago I met my 65 year old lifeguard friend, and noted how I had been thinking about her the night before. She walked away in disgust.
At this point I coulda thrown up my hands like my neighbor and said I’d had it with women: “never understand ‘em; fuggetaboudid!”
Instead I thought about what I could do to get my lifeguard friend back.
(“Your trouble is you think too much!”)
I decided to try what she did with me some time ago. I would be happy to see her. That other time she was happy to see me, despite my earlier inserting foot in mouth.
And how could I reword what turned her off? How about “I was thinking last night about something you said.”
IT WORKED! I got her back.
Unlike my father she didn’t keep score, and I think she liked I didn’t wanna lose her.
Another time I said to her “if I’m the least bit tentative or unconfident or devious, you’ll pick it up.
If I project I’m happy to see ya, you’ll pick that up too. It's infectious.”
“Well I'm glad you think about this stuff,” she said. She’s noticing I care about her.
I could let my all-knowing critics destroy my interaction with women.
(“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”)
The same sorry litany I been hearing ever since I was four years old: “Never in a million years will you befriend a female! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
If I’m happy to meet that lady — and I am — I’ll get a positive response. I almost always do.
That lady will smile at me and her eyes will twinkle. We enjoy each other, which leaves me smitten.
Suddenly my hoary childhood is reversed.

E-mail to ****

—My friend **** ******, a retired RTS bus-driver like me, read my “Say goodbye to *****” blog, and commented that proper etiquette was to say hello and goodbye to friends.
But to me saying hello and goodbye to an attractive female friend has a little more to it.
Ergo:
“If that cute young lifeguard had not waved at me excitedly earlier — the ‘happy to see ya’ wave — I probably woulda just walked out.
It looks like I oughta say goodbye to *****, and thereby let her know I like her. Not lust, just a girl I like as a person.
To do that:
-A) I hafta look inside the pool area to see if she’s there. My exit is the other direction. If I avoid her I save a minute.
NOPE! I prefer striking sparks with *****. I’ve happily struck sparks with females too many times.
-B) She’s in there, so walk all the way around the pool fully dressed (“CALL SECURITY!”) to her lifeguard stand — 50-75 yards. Maybe two minutes.
-C) Shoot the breeze with pretty *****. 4-5 minutes lost.
—Saying goodbye to ***** burns 5-10 minutes, but she smiles and her eyes sparkle. I made ***** happy — which makes me happy.
Of course that’s worth 5–10 minutes.
No way am I avoiding *****.
Go the extra mile. Her smiling tells me she likes me.”
(“DREAMIN’!”)
“No pretty ***** will like you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”

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

Say something to her

—Saturday morning: off to Mighty Weggers in Canandaigua to purchase groceries for the coming week.
I walk into the store, and there’s pretty ****** stocking raspberries. No pigtails, long blonde hair down.
I’d ask her where the pears were, and thereby say hello to her.
“It's only one ‘E’?” I shouted; “I thought I was two.” I was reading her name-tag.
I saw her again later.
“Don’t worry,” I said to her. “I’m not slingin’ your name all over the Internet.
I don’t want some creep stalking you!
I do your name as asterisks, but I was doing seven, and I guess it should be six.”
She smiled and her eyes sparkled, which is why I always say hello to her.
That Weggers is doing a “grocery-reset,” which is supermarket lingo for “moving everything.”
I ambled down a center-aisle, looking down the cross aisles.
Thankfully that Weggers is kind enough to put clerks out to tell you where things were moved to.
Here comes a pretty little girl in a yellow “helping-hands” tee-shirt.
Our eyes met, and “cooking-spray,” I asked.
She walked me to the aisle where cooking-spray now was, but I met her again later.
“Mustard,” I asked.
“Aisle 12a with the condiments,” she chirped.
I met her again later, but all I did was wave.
What I didn’t say is “I’m 77 years old, which qualifies me to tell you you’re a pretty girl.
That’s one of the perks of old age. I can tell you that without getting smacked.”
(“Just humor him! He’s a harmless geezer!”)
I didn’t say that to her, although the thought crossed my mind. (I’ve done it before.)
A pretty little thing, preferable to the Harley-mama in another “helping-hands” tee-shirt.
Now to “self check-out,” hoping to meet ******, another one of my Weggers friends who happens to be female.
No ******, but a fairly cute girl was standing in wait in front of her checkout lane.
“Well,” I said; “I don’t see my friend, so I guess it will be you.”
She began ringing up my groceries, but I noticed her name-tag had the same name as a girl I once knew.
Say something to her! By doing that you tell her you find her attractive. She’ll like that.
“Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada,” followed by “I’m old enough to be your grandfather!
That other girl had a five-letter name; yours is only three letters. She also was a millennial, born in 2000.”
“Well I’m Gen-X,” she said.
“What’s ‘Gen-X’?” I asked.
“17 years old,” she said, smiling, pretty eyes twinkling. (We were still masked.)
“Go to Hell, Bobby! Do not pass Go, do not collect $200! Go DIRECTLY to Hell!”

• “Mighty Weggers” is Wegmans, a large supermarket-chain based in Rochester where I often buy groceries. They have a store in Canandaigua.
• I used to call ****** “pigtail girl.” She’d have her long blonde hair braided into waist-length pigtails. I stopped, because we decided it was demeaning. —****** is a Wegmans produce clerk.

“I think I made her happy”

—“Buy the card!” said the little voice in the back of my head.
That would be ******, my other lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
Although my Bible-beating father would stridently insist she was Satan.
“Don’t buy that card!” a second little voice would say. That would be the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton spinning in her grave.
“You give that card to *****, and she’ll think you’re coming-on to her.”
Fortunately I’ve had enough pleasant experiences with women, including *****, I don't listen to Hilda much anymore.
I bought the card and gave it to *****. It was a sympathy card. Her mother died.
Not much in it; just “thinking of you.”
Plus a little of myself: a quote from the Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám, a legacy of “that funky little college just north of where you grew up.”
That would be Houghton of course. My lifeguard friend is Wellsville south of Houghton.
“***** told me you gave her a sympathy card! That’s the first thing she told me. She even showed me your card.”
That was ******, the one my father would insist was Satan.
“I think I made ***** happy,” I said. “And I almost didn’t buy the card. I shouldn’t think women would automatically be turned off.”
“You did make her happy,” ****** said.
“Boy I sure am glad I gave you that card,” I kept saying to *****.
“I almost didn’t buy it. I was afraid of being misperceived.”
***** bopped me over the head with her rescue-board. Then she dropped to her knees poolside to tell me something about relatives getting angry regarding her mother’s passing.
Engage what little experience I have interacting with women: she’s talking to you. LET HER! Don’t interrupt; don’t cut her off!
I coulda sought clarification, but let her talk!
***** switched to another topic.
Someone once told me what bereaved people need most is to talk about it. Beyond that, maybe I’m also making her feel better.
***** said something about hesitation regarding family crisis.
“Just buy the damn card!” I shouted. I did, and look what I got? A happy *****.
(“Impossible!”)
By buying her that card I told my lifeguard friend I cared about her — and she liked that.
This is entirely contrary to the way I was raised.

• The quote from The Rubáiyát of Omar Khayyám: “The Moving Finger writes; and, having writ, Moves on…” —I usually say that every time someone dies.

“New and exciting”

—One of my friends at Canandaigua's YMCA swimming-pool, who happens to be female, keeps badgering me to strike up conversations with men as well as women.
Like I’m biased towards women.
Well, sorta.
A designed-in trait I guess. I always been attracted to women.
Plus striking up conversations with women seems to always work. With men I might get that macho crap, or my head gets taken off! (It’s happened.)
What’s notable is that I am much more likely to strike up a conversation with anyone then I was just a few months ago.
Men, women, frumps, ugly persons, Wicked-Witch-of-the-West, et al.
The other day I hiked trails in a nearby park, and struck up conversations with anyone that came along, probably at least 20; maybe 30.
Male, female, groups, husband-and-wife: “I see your dog is taking you for a walk.”
OFF WE GO! “Yada-yada-yada-yada-yada!”
People wanna talk!
“Yippee! This dude wants to talk with me!”
I’m sure some think I’m weird, but all too many don’t.
There’s no telling what you might hear when you let someone start talking to you.
And perish-the-thought I often like what I hear.
Maybe two months ago it was exciting just to talk to a girl.
Then it became exciting to notice girls wanted to talk to me. (“Impossible!”)
Now it’s anyone — all are open-season.
There were only two people at that park the other day with whom I didn’t attempt to strike up a conversation. Both were girls, and both looked nasty.
I also can tell when someone would rather keep to themself. Let ‘em; try someone else!
It’s their loss; I coulda charmed ‘em! (“Never in a million years!”)
Wanting to strike up a conversation with someone tells that person you’re attracted to them.
That works like a charm, especially with a pretty girl. There’s nothing a pretty girl likes more than being able to talk with a guy without being hit on.
I’ve seen it myself; I’ve had way too much success.
I say something to a pretty girl, and she’s thrilled.“Yippee! This dude is talking with me!” (“She’s just being sociable! You are dreaming Bobby!”)
So I’m feeling like my pool friend is outta date.
After the childhood I had, the fact a pretty girl would wanna talk with me is mind-blowing — new and exciting.
(“Never! No pretty girl is gonna talk to you!”)
But I feel like it’s gone way beyond pretty girls.
I discovered it’s just too much fun striking up a conversation with anyone.
So I do it with anyone.“No one will talk with you Bobby,” is history.

“Here she comes!”

—“Did you wanna speak to ***** again?” asked *****’s assistant from inside my pharmacy.
“I have one more thing to ask her,” I said.
GOODIE! Here she comes! Bouncy-bouncy!
We’re both probably thinking the same thing = “we’re gonna talk!”
Here comes *****, who I hafta force myself to not call “pretty *****.”
Calling her that would be flirtatious.
She’s not gorgeous, she’s married, and I’m old enough to be her father.
But she’s pretty enough to have been intimidating when I first met her: “no way will I ever become friends with *****.”
She’s also a tiny little thing, but has incredible moxie.
It’s her pharmacy, just in-store in a supermarket, but she’s head honcho.
***** is turning out to be much more pleasant than I ever expected.
I first encountered ***** in a big-box pharmacy across the street from that supermarket.
She always looked mad; I don’t think I ever saw her smile.
Once she was assigned to give me a tetanus shot: “Uh-oh! Here comes angry *****. Gotta be on my best behavior!”
She’s not angry anymore; now I see “smiling *****!”
I realized I wasn’t seeing “angry *****” across the street; I was seeing “up-the-wall *****.”
Now that she’s on her own I see happy *****.
Which makes me happy too. What a joy seeing a happy girl!
She and her husband have two very young children.
Their little boy, currently age-6, is apparently a serious railfan.
I found this out because every year I give ***** one of my train-calendars, which she passes along to her little boy.
He’s thrilled with that calendar, and takes it to bed with him. He also has many of my train photos plastered all over his bedroom walls.
I still have many of my previous train-calendars on hand, so I went through ‘em so I could pass along previous calendars to her little boy, via *****.
I hadn’t seen ***** for a couple weeks — often it’s just her assistants or her husband.
Finally, the other day: *****. Hooray-hooray; “happy to see ya!”
***** is probably my favorite lady-friend; but mainly because we talk — and ***** loves talking.
“Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!” And I love talking too.
Two years ago she gave me a flu shot in her new pharmacy.
Shot finished, I thought she’d wanna leave immediately to go back to work.
Nope; she crossed her arms and leaned against the wall. She wanted to talk!
I was dumbfounded: a pretty girl wants to talk to me? This is not the way I was raised.
Apparently I’m a rare bird; unlike most men I really enjoy women chattering with me.
It’s probably due to my childhood; that long ago I was told no attractive lady would ever talk to me.
“We could talk forever,” ***** once said to me.
“Yes we probably could,” I realized later.
“Boy I sure am glad I saw ***** today,” I thought to myself as I motored home.
I needed a pretty-lady fix, and ***** was perfect.
We talked and talked and talked some more. As follows:

“You said something about the DEC.”
(Department of Environmental Conservation, a state-of-NY bureaucracy).
“Is that along 5&20 west of I-390?”
“Left side.”
“Right side for me; I was driving bus in from the White Horse. It was a nice ride; a country bus-route. I passed that DEC coming in.
I have another question if you have time.”
(She stood there waiting — she didn’t walk away.)
(“DREAMIN’!”)
“You also said something about owning a farm. Does that make you a farm-girl?”
“Nope!”
“So is ***** (her husband) a farm boy?”
“Through and through! Lotsa soy-beans.”
“Corn?”
“Yep!”
“Any animals?”
“No animals; no horses, no cows, no goats, nothing. I'm not a horse-person.”
“How many acres?”
She rolled her pretty eyes skyward, trying to figger the math. “About 1,500,” she said.
“Holy mackerel!” I exclaimed.

Pointless yammering, but it sure is fun.
It disproves “No pretty ***** will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”

• “5&20” is the main east-west road (a two-lane highway) through my area; State Route 5 and U.S. Route 20, both on the same road. 5&20 is just south of where I live. It used to be the main road across Western New York before the Thruway.
• Interstate-390.
• 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. 5&20 was part of a Park-and-Ride route in from Avon, NY.
• The “White Horse” was where I turned my bus around to come back in. That is the intersection of 5&20 and Route 15. I didn’t go as far west as Avon. A full-scale statue of a white horse is at that intersection.

Talking with women is such fun!

—I think my lifeguard-friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool liked hearing I always look for her car when I pull into the parking lot.
If her car is there, as it has been for weeks: “YIPPEE, she’s here!”
That means “YIPPEE, we can talk!”
That means I’m talking with a female, a girl. (“Gasp!”)
And I think she enjoys talking with me. (“Impossible!”)
I probably enjoy talking with her more than I should.
Together we counter “No pretty lady will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
A legacy of my childhood; 70+ years marked-for-life.
If my parents had come to my defense, that angry Bible-beater woulda crashed in flames.
But my parents were Bible-beaters too. I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father, so I was “rebellious.”
So my experience with women is nil.
I think my lifeguard friend may be cutting me slack. I had a long-ago deal with another lifeguard friend that she not give up on me. She hasn’t.
On the other hand I noticed if I strike up a conversation, add respect and decorum, ladies like it. (“Never in a million years!”)
And I like that they like that.
My lifeguard friend isn’t the only one.
If I patronize my pharmacy, my lady friend there, head-honcho of that pharmacy, hops from her workstation so we can talk.
“We could talk forever,” she tells me. She loves talking with me, and I love talking with her.
The other day my lifeguard friend’s Subaru wasn’t in the parking lot.
“I got a new car,” she told me.
She didn’t walk away, or tell me to get lost. She showed me her new car so I could look for it next time.
Little-by-little The Keed learns how to engage and please women, casting off the albatross I carried 70+ years.
Talking with women is such fun!

• Lotta red text here. Most is my critics a-bellowing.

It’s just talking

—Critics complain about my so-called “girly” blogs.
That I shouldn’t be so blown away by my incredible success with women.
“They’re faking it!” my critics say. “They’re just being sociable.”
To which I say (“awful temerity, unmitigated gall, and horrific audacity”) if they’re “just faking it,” they’re really good at it.
“We could talk forever,” says my lady-friend at my pharmacy.
She’s head-honcho of that pharmacy, and she’s fairly pretty — pretty enough to intimidate me just a few months ago.
As soon as I appear, she jumps up from her workstation so we can talk.
Her quickness is hardly sexual. I seriously doubt I could sexually attract a girl when I’m age-77, overweight, outta shape, and hardly can walk.
Enter my cousin **** in NC: “none of that matters! What women want most is a guy who will talk with them.”
Add respect, and treat ‘em like real persons.
Plus let ‘em talk to you. I.e: don’t butt in, and don’t cut ‘em off!
A lady-friend tells me how she hates talking with men because they try to take over a conversation.
This Kid doesn’t; I let ‘em talk, and thereby attract lady friends galore.
Over the past six or seven months, Yrs Trly discovered ways to get ladies to start talking with me — like striking up a conversation.
WOMEN WANNA TALK!
The one who ends a conversation with a lady is usually me. Let ‘em start talking with me and they won’t stop.
“We could talk forever, and it sure would be fun, but I gotta buy groceries.”
Apparently striking up a conversation is fairly rare.
This Kid does it a lot: “Here she comes, now say something to her!”
With men I may get shut down, but with women it always works!
If the man is with a woman, I get lunched.
I’m hiking Lehigh Valley RailTrail, and here comes a cute young jogger.
“DO IT DO IT! DO IT! Say something to her!”
She was thrilled: “Yippee, a guy who wants to talk with me, and he’s not hitting on me!”
“I hope we meet again,” she says. —Three times so far.
My so-called “girly” blogs are not about sexual triumph.
They celebrate the fact I can even interact with women at all.
I have this horrible childhood, whereby no female would ever have anything to do with me.
By encouraging them to talk with me I attract lady-friends like crazy.
I have my doubts about “HUMOR HIM; he’s just an old geezer.”
Not when I attract so many lady friends.
And it’s only because I encourage ‘em to talk with me.