I don’t wanna lose her

—“Now you're flirting with me,” my jogger-friend said the other day along Lehigh Valley RailTrail.
“I am not!” I blurted.
Trap alert!
How do I get her to not think I’m coming on to her, yet I still think she’s pretty?
I’d noted my silly dog, who I lost to canine cancer last August, made it possible for me to strike up a conversation with my jogger friend. He got me used to talking with (ahem) “pretty girls.”
I’d walk the dog in a park in Canandaigua, and he’d lean into a pretty girl wanting to be petted.
“Oh what a friendly dog! Can I pet him?”
Here I am talking with yet another pretty girl — the kind I used to be scared-to-death of.
It’s my childhood of course: “No pretty girl will ever talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
That’s the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, my sanctimonious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor, who convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM.
70+ years late, thanks to my four-legged chick magnet, I’m able to talk with pretty girls.
My jogger friend told me her name was A*****, same as my number-two lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
She’s also one “L,” same as my other A*****.
True, I inferred my jogger friend was pretty.
A similar indirect inference worked on my number-one YMCA lifeguard friend: “No pretty lady will ever talk to you,” and she said hello to me by name.
That was years ago, and she seemed to like it; she wasn’t suspicious.
(“She was cutting you slack!”)
I wasn’t coming on to her, but I inferred she’s “attractive.”
So how do I not lose this jogger friend? How do I tell her I like her, but I’m not coming on to her?
My number-two lifeguard friend is my go-to person for motherly advice. I don’t wanna lose her either.
Although I’ll probably run it past my number-one lifeguard friend too. I think I can, and I’ll probably encounter her first.
I been on-my-own since my wife died over nine years ago. I have no desire to remarry.
Although I enjoy talking with girls: girls-girls-girls-girls-girls-girls; oh how I love ‘em.
Every girl I befriend reverses my hoary childhood.
What I really enjoy is talking with them — they are so much fun to talk to.
“This conversation is turning into more fun than I ever expected,” a lady tells me.
“We could talk forever,” another lady tells me.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a woman laughs.
“I hope we meet again,” my jogger friend said months ago.
My number-one lifeguard friend suggested I keep my mouth shut — let it slide — pretend I never goofed up.
A stellar suggestion, since it’s the same thing I did with her perhaps three months ago.
I’d firmly inserted my foot in my mouth, but I got her back, much to my utter amazement.
Unlike my father, that lifeguard doesn’t keep score.
I’m hoping my jogger friend doesn’t keep score either — I don’t wanna lose her.

• Yes, she was cutting me slack. She knows I mean well, but have little experience dealing with women.

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.

Eye-contact

—“Our eyes met.” I noticed I always say that about meeting a female.
A while ago my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool mentioned my eye-contact seemed much stronger.
Years ago there wasn’t any.
Now I fish for it.
It’s a way of inadvertently telling that female she attracted me.
No lust; no evil intent.
I’ve yet to get smacked. 99% of the time our eyes meeting never bombs.
I’m telling that female I’d like to talk to her, although I ask first: “can I ask you a question?”
Never push yourself on a female. Asking first always get a positive response.
I put that female on notice: now she wants to hear what I say.
Things are much different since my wife died. Before I avoided people.
I also deduced a few tricks about talking with females.
For one thing, if a female starts talking to you, Let ‘er!
A lady is talking to you = she wants to.
Don’t interrupt; don’t even ask for clarification. I can usually get that later.
Most women aren’t assertive like men. If someone tries to take over a conversation, the lady will duck.
Interrupting is trying to take over the conversation.
Let her talk. Her talking to me is precious.
I get to hear her pretty voice, and she gets to interact with a dude not hitting on her.
“You are so compliant!” my lifeguard friend once told me.
“I’m a Liberal (“GASP!”), so I don’t push myself on you,” I thought to myself later.
If I did, that lifeguard and I wouldn’t be friends.
“I got a story if you wanna hear it.”
She wants to hear my story.
Eye-contact tells that female I wanna talk with her — and women love to talk.
Often it’s pointless yammering; the simple exchange of emotions back and forth.
DO IT!
“Can I say something to you?” and off we go.
I just told that female she attracted me.
She’ll wanna talk.

• My beloved wife died of cancer over nine years ago.

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.

Say goodbye to *****

—Pool-time finished, Yrs Trly glanced into the swimming-pool area of Canandaigua’s YMCA before leaving the adjacent locker room.
I look to see if I should say goodbye to any of my lady friends.
SCOTCH THAT! “Friends who happen to be female.” “Lady-friends” sounds too much like “girlfriends.” “Girlfriends” has sexual import. (All we do is talk.)
I admit I prefer females. Designed in I guess, plus long ago I was convinced no female would ever have anything to do with me.
So I am smitten by ladies, although ladies seem friendlier.
Men might start hitting me with that macho crap. Ladies wanna talk! The simple exchange of mindless chatter.
By doing so we denote we attract each other.
“Goodie!” I said to myself. “That looks like *****. She knows me, and I know her. Plus earlier she waved excitedly at me: the ‘happy to see ya’ wave.
Ergo, “we can talk.”
So I ambled slowly around the pool, fully dressed: “CALL SECURITY!”
But it’s *****, and she knows me.
Locker room to lifeguard-stand is probably at least 50 yards — I coulda just left, but I had a hunch ***** would like me saying goodbye to her.
I thought she might like knowing I like her.
“Hi Bob,” she cooed.
Our eyes met, and she smiled at me.
There you have it readers: “No pretty ***** will smile at you!” And ***** just did!
“Sorry I’m late,” I said to her; “but I had to make sure you were who I thought you might be.”
“I didn’t understand a word you said,” ***** said. We were wearing masks.
I repeated what I said, except “I had to make sure you weren’t ******. You two look so much alike.
I make ****** nervous. With her I’m a lonely hot-to-trot widower, eager to FLIRT with every pretty young girl that comes along.
I have a hunch ****** has been hit on, and I wouldn’t do such a thing!”
“I'll hafta talk to her,” ***** would say.
“Don't try too hard,” I’d say. “******’s feeling at ease with me has to be her doing. I ain’t pushin’ her!”
We talked a little, then “have a pleasant weekend!” as I walked away.
That was *****. We talk, and I love that we do.
I coulda just walked out without meeting her. But her pretty eyes flash, and she smiles at me. I can’t resist: this is so contrary to how I was raised.
No way am I leavin’ that pool without saying goodbye to “friends who happen to be ladies.”
And I bet ***** is happy a dude likes her as a person, and will make the effort to tell her so.

Tricks-of-the-trade

—“I hope someday I can tell you why I always say hello to you.”
I would say that to pretty ******* at my supermarket, who I no longer call “pigtail-girl.”
We decided that’s demeaning.
******* is a supermarket employee; she stocks produce.
Notice what I’m doing here readers: I asked her permission instead of suddenly talking to her.
By doing that, she’s more likely to wanna hear my story; plus I set her up.
Do that with my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, and suddenly it’s drop everything! She wants to hear my story, and she wants to hear it right now.
“When I first said anything to you a couple weeks ago, it was sheer impulse.
I was walking right by you, and no pigtails.
So I said something — blurted it out — fully expecting you might take my head off, or tell me to get lost!
But no, you turned and smiled at me.
WOW!
I gotta try that again; and I did.
You turned around and smiled at me again.
So again: WOW! I gotta try that again.
Third time: you smiled at me again.
How many times so far? Probably at least ten.
Every time I say hello you smile at me!
You’re doing the exact same thing my friend **** does up at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department.
She’s a receptionist, and she checked me in at first.
That stopped, and check-in became earlier with someone else.
So I started waving at **** as I walked into Physical-Therapy.
I quickly noticed that every time I waved at her, she’d smile at me.
So it became law: wave at **** without fail.
I don't want her thinking I’m avoiding her.
So there you have it *******: the reason why I always say hello to you without fail. I don’t want you thinking I’m avoiding you!
And if you want me to stop, just tell me.”
(I bet she won’t.)
(She’ll want you to stop.)

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.

I prefer women

—“You should be as eager to strike up conversations with men as you are with women!”
So said my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
She’s the cute little pixie with whom I made so many mistakes, worst being to think she was interested in me.
“I try,” I said; “and usually my attempts bomb.”
I got a look of utter befuddlement, like my response wasn’t what she expected.
—I hiked Lehigh Valley RailTrail a few weeks ago, and a couple approached.
I struck up a conversation with both, but the one who responded was the wife. (HELLO!)
With hubby I got “the look,” which says “what’s she talking to him for?”
—A few weeks ago I told a joke to a girl and her boss at Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department. The girl was my therapist.
She laughed up a storm.
Her boss got upset. I, instead of him, had made the girl laugh, and that’s not allowed.
—A while ago I struck up a conversation with an older gentleman in my supermarket parking lot.
He took my head off!
WOMEN DON’T DO THAT!
—A long time ago I checked out a restored 440 Six Pack Plymouth Roadrunner after it rumbled into my gas-station.
“I thought it might be a Hemi,” I said; “but I see it’s not!”
“575 horsepower!” the male driver bellowed.
Macho posturing alert! I walked away.
So I prefer striking up conversations with women.
“DO IT!” the little voice says in the back of my head.
“It always works!”
(The Bible-beaters in my childhood insisted that voice was Satan.)
So yesterday (Saturday, May 1st) Lehigh Valley RailTrail again.
Here comes another couple, so “I see your dog is taking you for a walk.”
“Yes,” the wife responded per usual; “and he’s been such a good boy.”
Both stopped, but then the husband continued ahead.
But not the wife. She wanted to talk.
After a slight pause: “I come here to visit my dog’s ashes,” I said. “They’re up by that mile-marker.
We hiked this trail hundreds of times,” I said.
“Back-and-forth, back-and-forth, nose to the ground. Frenzied barking into the woods: ‘critters beware!’
Always hunting!” I said.
“What kind of dog was he?” she asked.
“Irish-Setter,” I said. “Wildest craziest monkey I ever had.”
“What was his name?”
“‘Killian,’ as in Killian Irish-red.” (Say it twice!)
By now hubby was well over 100 yards ahead — the length of a football field.
He called his wife, but she wanted to keep talking.
“You’re probably too old for a puppy,” she said to me. “We’re both in our 70s.”
“Well I’m 77,” I said.
“I’m 74,” she smiled.
On-and-on we went.
Here we go readers: WOMEN LOVE TALKING! Especially with a guy not hot to procreate the species.
Her husband gave up and continued walking.
I hope I didn’t muck up their marriage.
“This guy is really interesting!” I could see it in her eyes.
And it was only talking to each other.
And apparently, unlike most men, I encourage women to talk with me.
The one who ends conversations with women is usually me. “We could talk forever, but errands await!”
The fact I wanna talk to a woman tells her she attracted me — which makes her feel good about herself.

• Hemi.

All to myself

—“How do I tell you this without being perceived a ‘lonely hot-to-trot widower;’ a ‘loathsome lothario’?”
I said that to my aquacise-instructor at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I still think highly of her; she leads my aquatic balance-training class.
She was the first pretty lady to smile at me in my entire life — my wife is another story.
I took her smiling at me ALL WRONG; a product of my early childhood.
“No pretty lady will smile at you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Then “just because a lady smiles at you, doesn’t mean she’s interested in you.”
(That last quote is another lady friend.)
That aquacise-instructor, married like most of my lady friends, finally gave me her borders.
Most of my other lady friends gave me their borders early. “I like you liking me; it makes me feel attractive; but be careful!”
For years I never knew what was going on with my aquacise-instructor. Incidents occurred, misread per my childhood, that egged me on.
My childhood leads me into misreading any contact I have with women — the misperception being the lady is interested in me.
I got past that, but well after that aquacise-instructor first smiled at me.
Unfortunately she was an early female contact, which makes her my first mistake. (Thank you Hilda!)
Which regrettably means I learn all this at that aquacise-instructor’s expense.
So how do I say anything to her without being misperceived?
Fortunately, she still seems to want me to like her. She’s not leaving me behind.
And this was especially fortunate considering what I wanted to tell her was I really enjoyed having her all to myself the other day.
Previous to the pandemic we were averaging 20-25 for the aquatic balance-training class.
Now we’re down to 3-5, and only one class per week instead of two.
And last week no one showed up except me, which meant I could have that aquacise-instructor all to myself.
“Hooray-hooray! At long last you get to see up close and personal what I been fighting the past couple years. Neuropathy which just gets worse and worse and worse and worse.”
What I didn’t say was how much I enjoyed going face-to-face with a cutie I still like. (Taste and decorum readers; I didn’t wanna get misperceived, i.e. I didn’t wanna lose her.)
Probably half of what I said didn’t even get comprehended, but it looked like I didn’t lose her.
When I left later she waved frantically at me from a distance.
Under my previous way of thinking, that would indicate her being interested in me.
Not any more! What a shame I had to get here at her expense.
Never again am I gonna think some lady is interested in me.

• Hilda Walton (“Hilda”) was my hyper-religious Sunday-School Superintendent neighbor when I was a child. She convinced me all males, including me at age-5, were SCUM. My Bible-thumping parents heartily agreed, since I was already rebellious for not being able to worship my holier-than-thou father.

Pretty please

—“Um it was very very sweet of you…
…..just very very kind of you….”
“*****,” please, “puh-leeze, pretty-please; don’t lead me into another one of them crazy boy-girl relationships where I make the mistake of thinking the female is interested in me.
Your words could lead me astray; befallen by the ghost of Hilda Q. Walton, wherein ‘No pretty lady will ever be interested in you, Bobby!’”
(Are you?)
Or should I say “befallen by the fact Hilda’s hot-shot RCA-engineer husband was fooling around with the secretaries and receptionists in his office……
Driving Faire Hilda into a jealous rage, such that she noisily declared all males, including me at age 5, were SCUM.”
***** is my pharmacist — she’s head-honcho of my pharmacy.
Her son apparently is a serious railfan. I gave ***** one of my annual train-calendars, and she passed it along to her son.
I’ve given her my train calendar the past couple years.
Now her son’s bedroom is plastered with many of my train pictures; and he takes my calendar to bed with him.
He’s only six.
Mrs. Walton was my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor when I was a child.
Holier than holy! Worthy of the right hand of Jesus — a Bible-Beater; sanctimoniously full of righteousness and superiority.
That lede quote is from a voicemail ***** left me while I was at my urologist with my phone on “do not disturb.”
I play it over and over, and it’s probably a voicemail I’ll never delete.
Guilty as sin: I’m always a sucker for thinking some pretty lady might like me. That’s countering Faire Hilda with her noisy blustering that no pretty lady would ever like me!
So what’s next?
I could have e-mailed a response to *****, but I decided against it.
Careful dude: don’t get too involved!
Supposing she were interested in me?
The safest thing for me to do is to assume she’s not.
She’s a married lady, and her husband, who I’ve met, is a really nice guy.
But not too long ago she badmouthed him a little, or so it seemed; which has me worried.
My wife and I made 44&1/2 years, but not all marriages are made in Heaven.
If ***** is attracted to me in any way at all, it’s because we can talk.
***** seems to love talking, which was surprising to me, since she didn’t seem the type.
“We could talk forever,” she once said to me.
“Yeah, we probably could,” I thought to myself later.
Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk! I could do that; but beyond that I’m leery.
With Faire Hilda mere talking between members of the opposite sex was EVIL and Of-the-Devil.
***** hits me pretty hard, and Hilda spins in her grave.
Yrs Trly doesn’t wanna make the many mistakes I made with a previous lady friend.
My response to her was clearly messy.
Never before had a pretty lady seemed interested in me; so tact and reason got tossed aside.
Then she wanted to walk dogs with me. Me, the lifelong scumbag? “I think she’s interested in me!”
Off-we-went! Me completely devoid of sense. She also did a few things which increased my thinking she was interested in me.
I’m not making those mistakes with *****.
Hilda’s noisy insistence no pretty lady would ever associate with me is what got tossed aside.
I have too many lady friends, and I attract ever more. Let ‘em talk or make ‘em laugh, and I attract ladies.
Perhaps my best first move was to not respond to *****’s voicemail. That first lady-friend I woulda. (Text, e-mail, FB message, etc.)
I decided face-to-face is a lot better than the written word.
The written word gets easily misinterpreted, plus with face-to-face I get immediate reaction.
So it will be face-to-face with *****.
I’ll try to not think ***** is interested in me. If she wants to talk, and that’s all I can do, she’ll let me know.
I think her voicemail indicates she likes talking.

• “RCA” is Radio Corporation of America; 1919-1986, based in Camden NJ.
• 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

“Get over it!”

—“I have one tiny story if you wanna hear it.”
I would say that to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
She’ll probably wanna hear my story.
“We could talk forever!” says my pretty pharmacist friend.
Two years ago she gave me a flu shot, but she hung around afterward.
“Don’t you wanna leave?” I kept thinking.
Nope! We had started talking, and she wanted to continue.
A friend of mine, a retired transit bus-driver like me, commented about how all my recent blogs seem to be girl-oriented.
Continuously celebratin’ my joyously newfound relationships with women.
(This is the guy whose writing advice I’ve taken before — mainly about not explaining everything.)
My newfound lady-friends counteract my hoary childhood, which left me thinking no girl would ever have anything to do with me, especially not pretty girls.
So now, 70 years late, I find those overly judgmental zealots were WRONG!
They marked-me-for-life: totally scared of and unable to relate to women.
How I even managed to attract a wife is another story. Some day readers.
Girl-oriented, but not sexually. I’m continually amazed I can even talk with women, and they wanna talk with me.
Over the past few months I have gotten much better at striking up conversations, including with pretty ladies.
I keep doing it, and thereby gain confidence.
So I mentioned to this friend I was sorry I kept being so amazed at these pretty-girl interactions.
I think he got it = that my continual girl-oriented blogging was not sexual bragging. Just that I was continually amazed I could even talk with a girl at all, and they seem to wanna talk with me. (Gasp!)
“Only a slut would talk to you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
Interacting with women is entirely new and unimaginable to someone like me, a scumbag ever since age 5.
“No attractive lady will ever associate with you! Don’t even think about it!”
This was my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton.
Had my Bible-thumping parents come to my defense, Faire Hilda woulda crashed mightily in flames.
But I already was “rebellious” because I couldn’t worship my holier-than-thou father.
My retired bus-driver friend was not the first to decry my “girly” blogs.
Years ago another friend decried my continual mention of the “Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations.”
“Hilda is dead and gone, as are your Bible-thumping parents. So get over it, Hughes!”
Many others have complained, and the number of my blog-readers has declined over the past few months.
I find myself blogging every fabulous female encounter.
Every day something!
My friend suggested I blog other topics beside my female encounters, and I have a few ideas in mind — mainly regarding my bus-driving, and my auto-styling and music preferences.
Plus various insanities regarding my iPhone, technology, and my computering.
But after the childhood I had, and suddenly free of the albatross I carried 70+ years, these extraordinary female encounters are what get my attention first.

• 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. My friend was also an RTS bus-driver.

She melted

—“Don’t go yet!” I keep saying to myself. “I wanna say goodbye to you.”
I said that to *****, a new lifeguard at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool.
I was leaving, and she, shift finished, was turning into the women’s locker room.
She melted, and turned back toward me.
“DREAMIN’” my critics would scream. “She was faking it.”
If indeed she was faking it, she’s really good at it.
I had this sorta thing happen before.
I told a girl she was very pretty, and she blushed.
“I’m 76 years old (this was last fall — now I’m 77) and you’re a pretty girl.”
I was amazed I did that.
Maybe a year and a half ago I met a stunningly beautiful “looker,” probably in her early 30s, at a party. We talked some; she wondered why I was sitting alone.
As I left the party I tapped her on the shoulder and told her I really enjoyed meeting her.
I did that? I cried driving home.
Me, a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, terrified and unworthy of pretty girls?
“No pretty lady will ever say anything to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
Now I have lady friends galore, and many of them are smashingly pretty.
It seems I attract ‘em, probably because I encourage ‘em to talk, also because I don’t seem crazy with lust.
There is astonishingly pretty ****** of Thompson Hospital’s “temperature-ladies.” She always says hello to me when I walk in. (“Goodie! That Hughes guy. He always makes me laugh and feel attractive.”)
And *****, the lady who runs my pharmacy. “We could talk forever,” she tells me, smiling.
“Yeah, we probably could,” I think to myself later.
***** is a talker, much to my pleasant surprise. She didn’t seem the type.
Then there is my older lifeguard friend at that same swimming-pool.
We been friends for years, and she’s impressive for age 65. She looks late 40s on her lifeguard stand.
Her lifeguarding is a retirement gig.
And I goofed up every one of these ladies at least once. Twice for my older lifeguard friend.
Yet that lifeguard keeps hanging with me.
After my first flub I thought I lost her forever, but she seemed happy to see me on return.
My second flub wasn’t as serious as my first, although I also thought I lost her with that flub.
I tried “happy to see ya” on her myself. And amazingly that worked.
I guess normal people don’t hold grudges like my father did.
***** was another “happy to see ya,” after I came on too strong with her once.
I also came on too strong with ****** at Thompson at first, and thought I lost her too.
I kept my distance a couple weeks, then “Hey, where ya goin’? You can’t go anywhere. Who’m I supposed to talk to?”
“Don't worry,” she smiled. “I’ll be back!”
Suddenly “all is forgiven if we can talk and laugh!”
This is not the world I grew up in, where I was guilty even if proven innocent. —Overly-judgmental Bible-beaters, eager to declare me rebellious because I couldn’t worship them.
So now maybe I have a new friend at that YMCA swimming-pool: *****, who I apparently hit really well.
“A guy who likes me as a person instead of a sex object.”
She’s fairly cute and attractive, a girl who would attract the lust-crazed little boys hot to score her.
They probably say things hoping to attract her.
But apparently “Don’t go yet! I still wanna say goodbye to you” really hit the mark.
Think about this readers: (“hand me that remote, Luke”) I coulda just walked out of that YMCA totally avoiding *****, etc.
Instead “I wanna talk to ***** one more time.”
No wonder she melted; she deduced I cared about her, and not just to procreate the species.
Admitted, the fact she’s a girl, and I’m a guy, indicates a small amount of perversity on my part.
But by being friends with *****, hopefully saying the right things, we counter “No pretty girl will have anything to do you!”
And together. I like it! (GASP!)
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt learns this.

• “Talking” defined: “I like that you wanna talk to me” (the girl), and “I like your talking to me = I wanna hear your pretty voice” (me: the guy). Pointless yammering about nothing; but enjoying our shared company.
• Tell her point-blank. Don’t hold back or be evasive. Tell her DIRECTLY! I’ve yet to get smacked; and the lady will probably like your having told her.
• The “temperature-ladies” are in the lobby of Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department per COVID-19. Pretty ****** takes your temperature with one of them infrared temperature guns.

No woman will ever be attracted to you!

—“With any luck sometime I’ll get to tell you my ***** story.”
I’d say that to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
If things go anything like usual, I’ll get the sudden ***** “drop-everything” look.
This happened before.
“You go swim your laps!” I told her. (She swims laps to stay in shape, and looks pretty good despite her age.)
“No, I wanna hear your story first,” she said.
To someone with the childhood I had, the fact a pretty lady would wanna hear my story is beyond comprehension.
“No pretty lady will wanna hear your story, Bobby! You are EVIL and disgusting!”
I think ***** joined with another of my lifeguard friends to coach me in my ongoing endeavor to successfully interact with women.
70+ years avoiding women. “No female will ever have anything to do with you! All males, including you at age-5, are EVIL — hearts sullied by lust!”
I long ago made a deal with that other lifeguard, that she not give up on me, inexperienced and clumsy as I am.
She hasn’t. And I think ***** and I may have a similar deal. Not ironclad or specific, but a deal mayhap.
A while ago she said she would show up on the same day I showed up for my aquatic therapy class.
“Well in that case,” I said to myself; “I guess I better show up. I do like meeting *****.”
15–16 consecutive times so far.
She counteracts my hoary childhood just by wanting to hang with me.
“While you were in Florida,” I would say; “I struck up conversations with two of your new cohorts, ****** and *****.
With ****** I bombed. That poor girl may have been hit-on sometime. With her I’m a loathsome lothario, eager to FLIRT with every pretty young thing that comes along, to make myself feel desirable.
***** is a different story.
A week later she was lifeguarding, and she kept glancing at me. Not making eyes or flirtatious; just tiny nanosecond glances every time we passed each other.
‘I think she wants me to speak to her,’ I thought to myself. Just let her know she still attracts me. I spoke to her a week ago, so I should wanna speak to her again. (I finally did, and successfully.)
Our relationship continued. She lifeguarded again a week later, and seemed hurt I didn’t say hello. I didn’t want her to think I was chasing her.
Finally I said something to her, then ‘don’t walk away; I wanna say goodbye!’”
Readers, Yr Fthfl Srvnt has come a long way since his wife died.
(Two months ago I woulda walked out without saying anything. Say hello to a pretty young girl? Impossible!)
“BAM! She smiled at me; I’d made her feel attractive. I could see it in her eyes.
And *****, I am better at interacting with women, I guess.
She wanted me to like her, I still do, and it’s not EVIL or lust-crazed. (GASP!)
All we do is talk, and women love talking.
And much to my pleasant surprise, women seem to gravitate toward me, probably because I encourage ‘em to talk.”
“No woman will ever be attracted to you!”

“Get thee behind me, Satan!”

—Having completed my aquatic therapy class at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool……
And having entertained my various lady friends there……
Yrs Trly would drive home and then return to Canandaigua for shot number-two of the Pfizer COVID-19 vaccine.
The vaccination clinic was in conference rooms adjacent to Thompson Hospital’s Physical-Therapy department. So it would use the same entrance lobby as Physical-Therapy.
I shuffle in and “hi Bob.” It’s my beloved “Temperature-Ladies” I see every week.
“YIPPEE; it’s that Hughes-guy that makes us laugh and feel attractive.”
“(DREAMIN’)!”
The same sorry litany I been hearing all my life:
“No pretty lady will enjoy meeting you, Bobby!”
“Where’s ******?” I asked. Usually it’s pretty ****** and ***** with her gorgeous eyes. ****** is astonishingly pretty. ***** is heavier but has gorgeous eyes.
“You guys are the main reason I continue Physical-Therapy,” I thought to myself. “We talk and laugh and ****** says hello to me. We seem to enjoy each other. (“IMPOSSIBLE!”)
Think about it readers: (“CHANGE THE CHANNEL!”)
Being happily greeted by pretty girls improves my mood. When my physical-therapist asks how I am, I project happiness.
But it wasn’t ****** this time. It was someone I knew but not “looker” ******.
“Not this time,” I said, pointing to the vaccination clinic.
But I had to stop and entertain my lady friends.
“You’re hitting me with them eyes again!” I said to *****. “Your husband gets to see ‘em all the time, but me only occasionally, and only if I’m lucky.”
I shuffled into the vaccination clinic, there to fill out forms.
“I forgot my glasses,” I said. The girl filled out the forms for me.
Not far away was another lady with gorgeous eyes. She also had a gigantic rack. Something to entice my lecherous male friends.
“Do I say anything to her or not?” I’ve gotten good at it, but there’s that gigantic rack.
Her eyes were incredible.
I was led into another room. But she followed.
Perish-the-thought I get surmised a lonely hot-to-trot widower, attracted to that gigantic rack.
Thankfully nothing happened. She was led back into the first room, and I was led into a vaccination booth.
Too bad she had that rack. Her eyes were so gorgeous I woulda said something.
It’s also too bad she can’t enjoy the company of men just liking her as a person, instead of a sex-object.
“It’s your eyes,” I woulda told her. “You were blessed!”
“Get thee behind me, Satan!”

• “Get thee behind me, Satan!” is Jesus in various Bible passages (King James version) rebuking the tempter.
• Heard once by my wife: “if the King James version was good enough for Jesus it’s good enough for me!”

Forbidden fruit

—Sixty-plus years after first being attracted to women, Yr Fthfl Srvnt finds himself attracted to women for pretty much the same reasons as long ago.
The attraction is partly sexual of course, but mainly it’s because women are forbidden fruit.
Long ago my hyper-religious Sunday-School superintendent neighbor, the infamous Hilda Q. Walton, convinced me no female would ever have anything to do with me.
I shouldn’t even try; females were verboten! Any interest I had in women was EVIL and salacious!
Things are much different since my wife died. Suddenly “forbidden fruit” wants to associate with me.
It’s thanks to my dog, who I lost last August. He got me used to interacting with pretty girls: “oh what a pretty dog! Can I pet him?”
Also, by “thinking too much” (“hand me the remote, Luke….”) I ascertained what works to engage pretty girls, and what doesn’t.
“I know you!” the opening line I’ve used hundreds of times. That tells the girl I wanna interact with her; and just talk, not sexually.
“You look familiar!” She smiles, and off we go!
Pointless yammering. “I wanna hear your voice, and you want me to be attracted to you.”
“YIPPEE! He wants to talk to me!”
The first girls to attract me, sixty-plus years ago, were ******* ******* and **** *******. (I remember their names.)
******* was a cute little sexpot, the daughter of an Air Force man who never was home.
She lived in a large dingy apartment-complex, and would sun herself in the courtyard in a strapless bathing suit (GASP).
She was fully aware of her sexual attractiveness, and drove all the little boys crazy, including me.
I’d ride my clunky bicycle over to those apartments so I could ride around looking for her.
I’m sure she was aware I was doing that, as was her cohort, who wasn’t as attractive.
Too bad I wasn’t who I am now. I woulda struck up a conversation.
Women love to talk, and I’m no longer scared of sexpot cutie-pies.
If anything, that cutie-pie appreciates that some innocent dude like me just wants to talk. I experience it like crazy!
My other female desire was **** *******, not a cute little sexpot, but attractive enough.
She lived in a tract-house, part of a new development north of the main drag. (We lived south.)
She was Jewish; my mother woulda been appalled.
I’d ride bicycle up there so I could watch her house. I hoped I’d see her. (They had a mega-finned ’56 Packard.)
One time she followed me down a street, hoping to talk to me, mayhap.
I was terrified! The idea of an attractive girl wanting to talk with me was utterly beyond comprehension.
I ran away! “No pretty girl will talk to you, Bobby! You are EVIL and filled with lust!”
So girls have always been “forbidden;” frightening even.
UNTIL RECENTLY!
I think of an incident that occurred just the other day. An example of the many fabulous female encounters I experienced since my wife died.
A couple weeks ago I struck up a conversation with a fairly attractive new lifeguard at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
A week later she showed up again, and kept glancing at me.
She wasn’t making eyes, but I realized she wanted me to talk to her again.
Let her know she still attracted me; tell her by just wanting to talk to her a little.
Finally, “I know you!” She turned and smiled. I’d made her happy.
Every time I rethink these pleasant encounters I choke up.
“No female etc. etc.” But it keeps happening!
Would that 65 years ago I’d been who I am now.
******* woulda been worth a trial conversation, and I woulda let **** catch up.
The whole idea of an attractive girl wanting to associate with me was beyond imagining back then.
Not anymore! I strike up conversations with pretty girls willy-nilly!

• I do aquatic balance training in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, currently one class per week — 45 minutes — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• During the ‘30s, Packard marketed some of the greatest automobiles of all time. Sadly, Packard never got around to manufacturing an el-cheapo entry-level automobile like the Big Three. By the 1950s, Packard was failing. Merged with Studebaker in 1954, S-P failed in the ‘60s. It stopped manufacturing automobiles in America in 1962; and lasted in Canada through 1966. The final Packards we’re essentially rebodied Studebakers.

“We could talk forever”

—This here blog is becoming catharsis for Yr Fthfl Srvnt.
My reader-count declines. 20-25 a while ago, then maybe 15, then ten or so, now maybe six.
Readers tire of my continually celebratin’ my mind-blowing successes with women.
Which after my childhood I never considered.
“No female will ever have anything to do with you, Bobby! You are despicable!”
All my life I paid for Faire Hilda’s husband fooling around. She became a self-righteous prude. Eager to tell little Bobby next-door, who was already an overly weak pushover, that all males, including him at age 5, were evil scumbags.
Had my hyper-religious Bible-thumping parents come to my defense, Faire Hilda woulda crashed mightily in flames. But I was “rebellious” for being unable to worship my holier-than-thou father, worthy of the right hand of Jesus.
Tomorrow (Monday, April 12th), if it’s not pouring rain, I will hike my 2.8 miles on Lehigh Valley RailTrail, chancing a pleasant encounter with a pretty lady.
Strike up a conversation, and they wanna talk.
After that rail-trail I will visit my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls, where I chance meeting pretty *****, who I will probably discontinue calling “pretty *****.”
“Pretty *****” is flirtatious (EVIL; gasp)! ***** has become much more than someone I could “lust after.”
She became a girl I enjoy talking with, who also happens to be pretty.
This wasn’t what I expected. She seemed aloof and distant at first.
But that was when she worked at a big-box pharmacy across the street.
What a waste! Degreed as a pharmacist, but used as a clerk.
Now she’s head-honcho of her own pharmacy. She’s much happier, I see it, I like it, and I tell her!
I also discovered she’s not aloof and distant.
Two years ago she gave me a flu vaccination, and we began talking afterward.
“Don’t you wanna leave?” I kept thinking to myself. (That’s Hilda!)
“NOPE!” She wanted to talk.
Finally, “back to work; sigh……”
And of course it’s just pointless yammering; she likes that I want her to talk to me, and I like hearing her pretty voice.
I admit a perverse and pernicious factor in our relationship. She’s a girl, and she’s also pretty. She counters “No pretty lady will ever talk to you!”
Of course ***** is one of many. I’ve noticed (“CHANGE THE CHANNEL! He’s a-doin’ that there thinkin’ again!”) women love talking, especially the pretty girls.
“YIPPEE, a guy not hitting on me, nor trying to snag me as a trophy-girl.” Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk!
I will give ***** a pile of my old train-calendars I was going to toss.
“I can think of two railfans who’d want those old calendars, and one is only six years old.
“I favor the six-year-old!” I’d tell her. Her son is age-6, and takes my most recent train-calendar to bed with him.
“I was age-6 once, and I know what it means to have an adult other than your parents care about you.
In fact, I’m not sure even my own parents cared about me, but that’s another story,” I’d tell her.
“A long and sorry story; you don’t wanna hear it!
Let’s just talk,” I’d say to her.
She’d smile, and off we’d go.
“You know what woulda happened if you vaccinated me against COVID-19?” I’d say to her. “We woulda talked and talked and talked and talked while customers piled up.”
“We could talk forever,” she once told me.
“We probably could,” I thought to myself later.
Per my critics, if she’s faking it, she’s awfully good at it.

• For preverts among my readers, ***** is a tiny little thing. Not gorgeous, but pretty enough to have been intimidating. What I like is that she is such fun to talk with.

It’s so surprising

—“Ya dropped something!” I yelled to pretty ****** at my supermarket.
She’s a store employee, and was stocking something in produce.
She attempted to move an empty carton to the front of her cart, and it tumbled onto the floor.
“WING IT!” I thought to myself. I was only gonna say hello, but “ya dropped something” instead.
Even saying hello could be perceived a FLIRT = EVIL intent. (GASP!)
She smiled when she saw it was me. I could see it! We were wearing masks, but her pretty eyes told me.
And that’s despite those funky black mascara-chips she wears. Her eyes sparkled!
I don’t wanna be perceived a dirty old man, so WING IT!
The old waazoo: make her smile! Let her know I like her, and without evil intent.
Before ****** was ****** in self check-out. We always know each other so “happy to see ya!”
She called me “BobbaLew.”
“You remembered,” I said.
She began a long dissertation about “I love Lucy” and Ricky Ricardo, who used to “Babalu” with bongos.
GOODIE! She’s talking to me. Let her! Don’t interrupt!
“It was ‘I love Lucy’ in the ‘70s when I was growing up,” she said.
“Well I’m ‘50s,” I noted.
Something was going wrong. I could see it! It looked like I hurt her.
How can I put us back to enjoying each other?
I told her the e-mail signature in my iPhone was “nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk:” Curly of the Three Stooges.
(“This guy doesn’t want me to hurt.”)
“My husband is a Stooges freak,” she said.
“I can’t stand ‘em!” she continued.
Talk-talk-talk-talkity-talk! And women love talking. Let ‘em; encourage it!
“Them Stooges have been around since the ‘30s,” I said. “That’s 80 years ago. And they’re still extant!”
What a wonderful way to make lady friends.
“We could talk forever,” a lady-friend tells me.
“Yes, we probably could,” I thought to myself later.
The simple exchange of emotions back-and-forth.
Before the supermarket would be 45 minutes of “water-walk” in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool.
*****, my 65-year-old lifeguard friend at that pool — she doesn’t look 65 — would probably not be there. I’ve never seen ***** on Friday.
But pretty young ***** was lifeguarding. ***** is the one who last Friday kept glancing at me as if she wanted me to say something to her.
No procrastinatin’ this time; I’d talk with her as soon as I could.
“You I know,” I said to her as she walked past.
She turned and smiled at me. Our pointless yammering began. I don’t remember any of it, except I like talking with *****.
It’s the old “I like hearing her voice, and she likes my wanting to talk with her.”
Pool-time finished I walked over to her lifeguard-stand. She was on it.
It looked like she was pleased I had a little more to say to her.
She’s currently brunette, but said something earlier about once being blonde.
“So it sounds like you dye your hair,” I said to her; “which is okay with me, but please don’t dye it green!”
“I had it purple long ago,” she told me.
“Well you woulda lost me!” I exclaimed.
“There’s a lady up at Thompson-Hospital’s Physical-Therapy who dyes her hair fire-engine red.
I can’t talk with her. Her hair-color turns me off!”
“So what hair color do you prefer?” ***** asked.
“Natural,” I told her. “No tattoos either, or facial steel. No nose-rings. I told ***** once if she wanted me to stop talking to her, all she had to do was get a nose-ring.”
And talking about hair color is pointless yammering — it’s just talk.
But she isn’t telling me to get lost, or to stop talking to her. She wants me to talk to her. (It means I like her.)
All these fabulous female interactions reverse how I was brought up: “No female will ever associate with you, Bobby! You are disgusting!”
No hoary childhood for my many wonderful female friends. Just enjoy their company as much as I can.

Tuesday the “Temperature-Ladies”

—Except this week it was yesterday, Thursday April 8th; usually my physical-therapy appointment is Tuesday.
I was taken into the Physical-Therapy lobby to schedule additional appointments. My scheduler would be *****.
“I don’t know if I should tell you this,” I said to her. “I probably shouldn’t.
****** is very pretty, but you (*****) have the eyes.
Regrettably I’m an eye-man. Men tell me I have it all wrong, but eyes are what attract me.
Your husband gets to see them eyes all the time. Me only once a week, if I’m lucky.
’The eyes are the window to the soul’,” I said.
“I've heard that too,” ***** said.
I covered my eyes. “I can’t look your way,” I told her. “It’s your eyes — WOW!”
Telling her that was entirely off-the-wall, but somebody’s gotta do it.
I bet she goes home with that ringing in her pretty head. I hope so, although my critics would tell me otherwise.
“My husband says I have ‘evil eyes’,” she said.
“Show me!” I shouted. “I wanna see yer evil eyes.”
She couldn’t do it. Of course not; she wasn’t mad at me. Her eyes sparkled instead; again WOW!
And they were brown; usually it’s blue eyes that get my attention.
No matter, her eyes were gorgeous, and our eye-contact was phenomenal.
“No pretty lady will look at you, Bobby! You are EVIL!”
She's not that pretty; ****** is prettier.
But oh them eyes!

• The “Temperature-Ladies” are two Thompson-Hospital employees who sit in the Physical-Therapy lobby per COVID-19. ****** takes your temperature with one of them infrared sensor-guns. Sometimes the other “Temperature-Lady” is *****. She peppers you with questions.

Say it! Tell her!

—“I try to come here without bothering you,” I said to my lifeguard friend at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming pool…..
But it seems every week something bubbles up.
Yesterday I went to my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls. One of my lady friends runs that pharmacy.
When she saw it was me, she turned and smiled at me, then said ‘hello, how are you?’
True to form, I locked up, just like I do with you. I couldn’t say ‘fine, how are you?’
You even give me the words.
So later I thought why can I never say ‘fine, how are you?’
I began to think it dishonest. I hardly can walk, and my balance is dreadful. To say I’m ‘fine’ would be lying.
And I’m no good at lying.”
My friend laughed.
“It’s not lying,” she said. “Lying implies evil intent; and there isn’t any. You’re not being devious.”
“To me a more truthful answer would be ‘I ain’t dead yet!’”
My friend laughed again.
So what do I do to honestly tell someone I’m happy to see ‘em?
“There’s your answer,” I told my friend.” I can’t say ‘fine, how are you,’ but I can say ‘happy to see ya.’ And I am of course.”
Class finished, I walked through the pool to its edge. My lifeguard friend was going off-duty, but she was walking past poolside.
“Before you leave,” I interrupted; “15–16 consecutive weeks so far, and I like it!”
My friend smiled.
Go ahead! Say it! Make her smile!
70 years late Yr Fthfl Srvnt learns the absolute joy of interacting with women, even pretty ones.
My friend hasn’t smacked me yet, nor sent me packing.

• I do aquatic balance training in Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool, currently one class per week — 45 minutes — less than usual due to COVID-19.
• I am a graduate of the infamous Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby at age 5 I was convinced that “No pretty lady will ever associate with you!” My Bible-beating parents heartily agreed.

Saved by laughter, I hope

—If it’s Monday, there’s a pretty good chance I’m gonna hafta go to my pharmacy in Honeoye Falls.
There I might meet *****, head-honcho of that pharmacy. She also became one of my lady friends, much to my surprise.
Even a few months ago I woulda never thought ***** and I could become friends. Go back a couple years, and that woulda seemed utterly impossible.
I visited that pharmacy last week, and it looked like I was on-the-outs. Admitted, my experience with women is nil.
It looked like I had overdone it again: too smitten with pretty *****. It looked like ***** didn’t wanna talk to me.
Well okay; there was another girl there I needed to talk to, so hopefully that girl would be there.
More importantly, I was down to one pill on one prescription, so I needed it refilled. When I visited last week, it was to notify them regarding that prescription.
No notification yet!
And still no notification today (Monday, April 5th) either.
A third lady was serving me, but ***** was also there.
I wouldn’t bother her.
The third lady told ***** I needed that prescription refilled.
***** came over to tell me they needed to call the prescribing doctor.
YIPPEE! She’s talking to me. Maybe we can talk!
We talked a little about the prescription, but then “I have a tiny question if you can handle it.
My question is whether your little boy can read.”
“That’s your question?” she said. The poor girl was probably expecting one of my dreadfully long and boring dissertations on the meaning of life, etc.
Her son is six years old — I thought he was five — but he can read.
I’d give him the link to my April 2021 train-calendar blog, but I didn’t know if he could read it. I didn’t want ***** or her husband having to read it to him.
Her little boy is a railfan, but the blog only has one train picture.
“I have another tiny question if you can handle it.” It seemed like ***** wanted me to keep talking to her; she wasn’t walking away.
“I can't remember the name of your little girl.”
“That’s ‘Ellery’,” ***** said.
“As in ‘Ellery-celery’?” I asked.
“You are hilarious!” ***** shouted, laughing wildly — and I love seeing her laugh.
“At Transit we had a bus-washer named ‘Ellery.’ We used to call him ‘Ellery-celery’.”
Maybe two years ago a stunningly beautiful girl at a party told me what women like most is laughing.
By then I got so I could talk to a stunningly beautiful girl. I remember tapping her on the shoulder when I left to tell her I really enjoyed meeting her.
I also remember crying on my way home after the party, that I had so successfully engaged a stunningly beautiful girl.
It was probably my first attempt. She didn’t walk away. Direct eye-contact.
Go back to before my wife died, and I never coulda done that.
***** wasn’t walking away either: “I have another question if you can handle it. Who’s ‘Herman’?”
“That was my maiden-name,” ***** said.
“I did a Facebook search of you since I knew your full name,” I said. “Ya hafta know a person’s full name to do a Facebook search. Most of my lady friends I don’t know their last names.
I did one maybe eight years ago of a girl in my high-school class — same thing, I knew her full name.”
“You have a Facebook?” ***** exclaimed.
“Well sorta,” I said. “I put up with it — I don’t do much with it. The only reason I have one is because of a fast-one by SuckerBird and his cronies.”
“SuckerBird?” she shouted, laughing hysterically again. “How am I supposed to avoid this guy when he’s so funny?”
“I’m gonna Facebook search you!” ***** shouted. “We’re gonna be Facebook ‘friends’!”
“Really?” I thought to myself. “Me, the lifelong scumbag?”
I don’t know if I can handle this, readers. Yrs Trly is a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations, whereby “No pretty lady, etc. etc.”
And ***** is a pretty lady.
The fact ***** and I are friends scotches the infamous Hilda.
“No pretty ***** will ever associate with you, Bobby! You are EVIL!”
Saved by laughter, I hope.

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Addendum for today: Tuesday, April 6th.
I had to revisit my pharmacy this morning so I could pick up the prescription I was out of.
***** was there. She turned and smiled at me, and then asked how I was.
I wish I was any good at this. My lifeguard friend at that YMCA swimming-pool does the same thing, and I lock up.
My ability socializing is nothing.
My lifeguard friend tells me what to say, but I never can get the words out.
My thought was if ***** is faking it, as my critics claim, she’s really good at it. She sure looked happy to see me.
She started telling me something about train pictures, and e-mail, etc.
—Enter what little experience I have talking with women = LET ‘ER TALK; don’t interrupt; she’s talking to you, and women love talking, especially *****.
I didn’t say anything for at least a minute; I let her talk!
She said some things I couldn’t make sense of, but I am not butting in.
“What railroad was it anyway? Livonia, Avon & Lakeville?”
“Yep!”
“Them guys, eh?” I said.
Our frenzied yammering continued: “we could talk forever,” she said.
“Yes, we probably could,” I thought to myself. “I love your talking to me, and it seems like you love talking to me.
Ya got me fumbling every which way = I’m lost!
I’m way older than you, yet you seem to thoroughly enjoy talking to me.”
I don’t get it. I’m a graduate of the Hilda Q. Walton School of Gender Relations. “No pretty lady will talk to you!” And ***** is a pretty lady.
Again, if she’s faking it, she’s extremely convincing.

• “Transit” equals Regional Transit Service (RTS), the public transit-bus operator in Rochester, NY, where I drove bus 16&1/2 years (1977-1993). My stroke October 26th, 1993 ended that. I retired on medical-disability. I recovered well enough to return to work, but not driving bus.
• “SuckerBird” is Mark Zuckerberg, founder and head-honcho of Facebook.
• Livonia, Avon and Lakeville Railroad is a shortline that operates quite a bit of the old Erie Railroad Rochester branch. By pursuing rail business it became very successful. LA&L also operates quite a few other small railroads that were originally independent shortlines.