Gone with the Wind

—“Another Scarlett” I said to a girl with hair dyed so red it normally woulda turned me off.
I was entering my Honeoye Falls supermarket and there she was checking out the lost-dog notices, etc. That supermarket has a community bulletin-board.
What did I just do readers? Just by saying something I told that girl I liked what I saw.
Our eyes met, and hers twinkled.
(“LUKE!”)
She liked that I liked her smile.
Her over-dyed hair went background, and we began talking.
“GOODIE; he likes talking with me.”
Her smile was fantastic.
“Scarlett O’Hara,” I said. “But I can’t remember the name of the movie.”
She took out her SmartPhone and Googled Scarlett O’Hara. She wasn’t turning me off.
“Gone with the Wind,” she said.
“That’s it!” I cried. “Scarlett with two ‘T’s’.
I had a dog named Scarlett; and one of the lifeguards at Canandaigua’s YMCA swimming-pool is named Scarlett,” I said.
“Her red hair is real, and my dog was an Irish Setter.
I always wonder why I never get smacked.
The other day it was an overly exposed teenager whose father never appeared to send me packing.
I’d made it a point to look only at her eyes instead of down her top.
That girl in my supermarket wanted to talk.
These extraordinary female encounters pile up.
I still can visualize all the sparkling eyes.

• I coulda gone behind that bare-skinned teenager, but there wasn't enough room.

Back to the reality I prefer

—“You smile at me, and I hafta say hello to you.”
She giggled; she liked that I liked what I saw.
She was probably 16 or 17, and had rode bicycle along Lehigh Valley RailTrail, probably with her parents.
We were in the parking-lot next to the youth baseball fields. Many games were going on, and she was watching.
I’d hiked the rail-trail, and was headed for the porta-johns.
Cutie-pie — she wasn’t that cute — was wearing a bare-shouldered open tank-top that displayed a lotta cleavage.
What attracted me were her eyes. She looked right at me as I passed.
“Houston, we have eye-contact!”
Would that all male/female relationships worked that way. What matters is eye-contact, not sexual attributes.
I hafta hope what made her giggle was that I liked the eye-contact a lot more than what I coulda seen.
I’d made it a point to look only into her eyes, and not down the front of her top.
Amazingly there was no fatherly input; I thought later I mighta got slugged.
Although her father might weigh in later regarding what she wears.
I coulda gone behind her, but there wasn’t room.
“I hafta say something,” I said to another lady as I continued across the parking-lot.
“Normally I don’t say anything to anyone; normally I keep to myself. But I think I see real gray hair.”
She smiled gigantically: the gigantic “this guy noticed, and he likes what he sees.”
“My baby sister in VA is letting her hair go gray,” I said. “She brags ‘it’s the coming thing’.”
“Well, we ladies have to keep ourselves gorgeous,” she said.
“Gray is gorgeous,” I said, pointing to my head.
BAM! Another gigantic smile.
“I have it too,” I said as I walked away.
“Have a nice day!” she smiled again.
“Glad I said something,” I thought to myself.
Welcome home dude! Back to a reality much more pleasant than years ago.
Back from Altoony chasing trains with my brother.
I like doing it; I’m a railfan.
But he repeats the same sorry litany I endured all my life.
And now 70 years late I leave it behind.
I’ve made so many successful eye-contacts, I no longer avoid people, especially females. (“GASP!”)
“This guy actually likes women, and for the right reasons: talk, talk, talk, talkity, talk!”
I’ll not let some nattering-nabob-of-negativism dissuade me from striking up conversations with females = enjoying females.
Too many successes.

• “Houston, we have eye-contact” repeats “Houston, Tranquility Base here, the Eagle has landed:” July 20, 1969, first time humans were on the Moon.
• Both of these incidents are repeats of things I’ve done before. What matters is now I am much more inclined to strike up conversations, especially with females. This is the reality I’ve finally begun to enjoy 70 years late = a reality not distorted by Bible-beaters. (“GASP AGAIN!”)

It keeps happening

—“I’m guessing the reason you just waved at me was because I said hello to you the other day down at Wegmans.”
I said that to a cute mother rescuing her children from Canandaigua’s YMCA “child-watch.”
“Yep!” she smiled.
I recognized her bare-shouldered top even under her sweater. (“GASP!”)
Like most mothers her age she was a little heavy in her hips and legs.
But she was cute and her smile was ravishing.
I get to notice such things; it’s one of the perks of geezerdom.
Outside she told me she was headed for the bank. We spoke a little more about that.
Readers, I woulda never said anything to her five years ago. I woulda walked DIRECTLY outta that YMCA, then down the steps. The mere fact I noticed her woulda been DISGUSTING.
Things are so different since my wife died.
I strike up conversations with women willy-nilly.
By so doing I tell that lady she attracted me.
Which — perish-the-thought — she likes.
I pretty much kept to myself before my wife died. I didn’t wanna hurt her feelings; she’d feel threatened.
Beyond that I had no confidence.
A female strike sparks with a lifelong scum-bag? “No female will have anything to do with you Bobby!”
Now I’m headed straight for Hell, merrily striking sparks with all my “friends who happen to be female.”
She turns toward me, our eyes meet, and she smiles at me.
“Do not pass Go, do not collect $200. Fiery furnace for you Bobby!”
My childhood is being flip-flopped.
It keeps happening and happening and happening.

Loose as a goose

—“This is turning into a really fun conversation,” my female contact said. She was laughing and smiling profusely!
“Of course it is,” I thought to myself. “I start talking with a female and we strike sparks.
“You are so much fun to talk to,” a lady once told me.
“We could talk forever!” another said.
“I hope we meet again,” another once told me.
(“Baloney!”)
I was at my supermarket self check-out. A lady was talking to the male self check-out aide, and she was wearing a Finger Lakes Dentistry uniform.
Our eyes met, and “Tell me everything,” I said to her. “I’m looking for a dentist here in town. I gotta drive a half-hour just to go to the dentist. That’s a pain in the neck!”
I did it again readers. The mere fact I said something to her told her she attracted me. (“Toss me that remote Luke!”)
“We’re right on Main Street,” she said. “Do you know where the old Pizza Hut was?”
“Are you kidding?” I shouted. “My wife and I never ate out. We made our pizza ourselves!”
“Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada-Yada!”
I’d finished self check-out, but we were talking — and laughing.
A pretty lady once told me what women love most is laughing.
“You guys got a website?” I asked.
“I’ll give you my card,” the lady said. Her name was *******.
“You call this number, and those ladies will tell you if your insurance qualifies.
And they better be friendly, because I’m the Human-Resources manager.”
“Can I talk dirty to ‘em?” I asked.
We laughed.
“Don’t worry,” I said. “I drove city bus in Rochester so I know all the lingo.
Regional Transit,” I said; “where every paragraph, every sentence, every phrase, and every word was modified with the F-bomb.”
She laughed; she wasn’t offended.
I had a guy take umbrage at mere mention of “F-bomb.” I didn’t actually use the word.
“I am so glad I said something to you,” I said to her. “I usually don’t.
And I made ya laugh — nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk-nyuk!”
She then helped this old geezer pack his groceries.

• 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.