Jeepers Peepers

I understand and appreciate the religious aspects of Easter. My heart is turned toward Christ’s atonement which includes His resurrection. However, I have always enjoyed the secular events of this holiday. No, I don’t get a day off from work. But, it’s the only holiday devoted to consuming huge amounts of candy.

I don’t remember if I ever believed in the Easter Bunny. The thought of a huge, egg laying, home invading rabbit was scary. I also wondered how this Spring time monster who victimized young children got into the house. Santa came through the chimney. Did the Bunny come through the plumbing?

Santa always avoided harm by sailing his sleigh through the crisp winter skies. The Easter Bunny apparently hopped from house to house. Not a speedy way to go. And, how traumatic for a child to see dozens of rabbits converted to road kill on Nevada highways. I never saw Santa’s smashed and flattened body on the road. Come to think of it I guess I have seen a few Santa’s who were smashed.

As a child my mom made sure we had enough hard boiled eggs to dye and then hide. The best part was finding an egg in July that had been hidden so well it was never located during the initial egg hunt. That would be one ripe egg. No one dared to crack it open.

My favorite candies were Peeps. Some think they’re tasteless lumps of goo but I’ve always been a Peep fan. If you want the full taste that satisfies your pallet Peeps need to harden. I bought a couple of trays of grass green rabbits and flaming red chicks. As soon as I came home I opened them up and they’re now aging on the shelf. I’ll give it a week before they’re ripe enough to consume. Hopefully the ant scouts won’t find them.

As the kids were growing up we always celebrated the candy and egg finding day on the Saturday prior to Easter. This separated the worldly from the spiritual. And, instead of hiding those awful eggs we hid various confections. The children would be given a basket and they would roam the living room or kitchen gathering goodies.

This morning, as Jan was propped up in bed reading the paper I quietly opened her drawer and took every pair of her socks. I was so stealthy, stealing her huge collection of stockings right under her nose. I clutched the socks in my crossed arms, holding them close to my chest. Quietly I shut the drawer, dropping a few pairs on the floor. As I bent over to retrieve the runaways all of the socks spilled to the floor. I quickly gathered them back into my arms, one eye watching to see if Jan were looking, the other eye locating the fleeing stockings. Yes, I am cross eyed and can do that.

I had learned from an old western movie, Indians, when stalking unsuspecting cowboys, didn’t walk on their tiptoes. Instead they placed their moccasined feet heel first. I used this technique to sneak out of the bedroom. Dumping the socks on the couch I made sure to take a count. There were fifteen pairs. Then I hid each pair in various places, from the obvious to the class five secret spot. I stashed them behind wall mounted paintings, in the bowl and pitcher sitting on the antique sewing machine cabinet and on the DVD shelves. I concealed the wooly foot coverings on top of the ceiling fan, behind the front window blinds and on top of the lamp. Feeling satisfied that this would be an adventure lasting hours I sat back, waiting for her to get dressed.

As I waited in anticipation I made some Saturday morning pancakes, put the dishes away from the dish washer, swept the floor. Nothing yet. I crept down the hall and peered into the bedroom. She was dressed but, as expected, bare foot. I snuck back down to the living room, snickering to myself and waited. I expected any minute to hear the drawer open and the shout of “Gregory!” vibrating through the roof of our home.

After a few minutes had passed there were still no yelps of sock despair coming from the bedroom. A second time I stole down the hall. I was startled to meet Jan coming out of the bedroom. I raised my eyebrows with a quizzical look expecting her to at least ask where her socks had disappeared to. Instead she looked back at me suspiciously and questioned, “What?”
I pointed at her bare feet, thinking that would clue her that something was missing from her wardrobe.
But, my eyes widened in horror! She had socks on!
I asked where she had gotten them. She replied she had taken them out of her drawer. I told her that was impossible.
“Why, did you take the rest?”
“Here, open your drawer again,” I begged.
Opening the drawer she saw the socks were gone.
I gave her a hug and yelled, “Happy Easter!”

Leading her to the living room I gave her a plastic bag from Target that substituted for the Easter basket. Jan went around the room, collecting her socks like she were picking daises from a field, and placing them in her improvised Easter treat carrier.
Oh yeah, there were a few she had to look hard for but I played the hot/cold game with her until I think she had found them all.

Hopefully, on some warm mid-summer day, I won’t hear, “Gregory!” as Jan discovers a pair of ripe socks that had been hidden so well they weren’t discovered on the initial sock hunt.

The Route

Brittany and Clay are typical struggling, financially challenged students. When we visited them last week our goal was to hold Maeli and leave imprints of grandparent lips all over her head. However, every morning the bleeping of the alarm sounded like a truck backing up at a construction site. At 4 am I felt like that truck had backed up over me. A light came on down the hall and my eye lids began to flicker as the pupils adjusted to the brightness.

Like a bear waking up after hibernation I stretched and growled as I rolled off the air mattress Jan and I had been sleeping on. In doing so I upset the balance of air in the cosmic mattress universe causing Jan to suddenly sink lower into the mattress. The sudden decompression beneath caused her to let out a gasp.

Patting the floor to find my jeans and a shirt I drearily slipped into them only to discover my shirt was inside out and my feet had led my legs into the same pant hole. I thought the pants were awfully tight as I hopped around like a drunken Easter bunny with an arthritic knee joint.

After correcting the wardrobe malfunctions a surprised Brittany stumbling out of the bathroom asked what I was doing. I proudly announced that I was going to help them on the paper route they had started several weeks ago. She yawned and told me I was nuts. She also pointed out my shoes were on the wrong feet.

As Clay, Brittany and I approached the Jeep, Brittany made a confession. “I have to warn you, Dad, I drive fast and crazy doing this paper route.” I told her I wasn’t worried. After all I had ridden with her mother for many years.(1)

Brittany took her place behind the wheel while I was assigned the front passenger seat. Clay took the backseat I learned so he could sleep while we drove to the newspaper pick up and folding warehouse several miles away.

As we entered the warehouse I noticed several of the other carriers still wore their pajama bottoms and slippers. (No, they weren’t topless. They also had a sweatshirt or jacket on. I didn’t want you to think this was a risqué sort of a newspaper place.). I was waiting to see if any came in wearing a robe and eye mask. (2)
I don’t think I would trust a paper carrier driving around in an eye mask. It would be sort of like placing a blindfold on a sharpshooter aiming his rifle at his assistant with a red balloon clenched tightly between her front teeth. But in this case the shooter would be a newspaper flinger trying to hit the target of the porch, roof, car or cat.

Since the weather was gamey all the papers were bagged. I took a stack and began to zip through them, folding, bagging and stacking them into a cart. I still had the newspaper tri-fold touch. Then Brittany pointed out I had just folded the newspapers of the guy next to us. I’m sure he was appreciative when he came in and saw his papers neatly bagged and stacked. I love to give unexpected service.

Brittany and Clay have over 200 papers to deliver and the route is spread throughout Orem. I soon learned what Brittany meant by driving fast and crazy. Blue bagged newspapers filled the back of the Jeep and cascaded into the back seat with every sharp turn. Clay rode shotgun, literally. With the back left window down as they approached a house he would lean as far out as he could then hurl the paper Frisbee style toward the desired target.

Often this was the driveway but some customers preferred their papers porched. One would think he’d get out of the car to get a better shot, but no, Clay would extend his body even further out the window then chuck the paper toward the porch. He had varied results. Often he would have to leave the car to correct his errant throw.
Now, for the driver, Brittany. She would hurtle through the dark neighborhoods NASCAR style, barely slowing down for Clay to launch the newspapers. I kept Brittany alert with my snappy conversation. Here’s a sampling of our Father-Daughter dialogue as I sort of remember:

Brittany: “I told you this was fast and crazy.”
Dad: “You need to slow down when you take those corners. You’re going to flip this thing over when you’re only on two wheels.”
Brittany: “I’m not going that fast.”
Dad: “Just because its 4 am doesn’t mean you can buzz through stop signs!”
Brittany: “You’re’ sounding like when I had my permit and you were teaching me how to drive.”
Dad: “I never taught you to drive like this!”
Brittany: “We need to go fast so we can get done in time.”
Dad: “You need to be safer. I doubt you’re covered by insurance because you’re using your vehicle for business.”
Brittany: “We’re covered. Now hold on…”
Dad: “Yikes, there’s no need to make those joggers scatter like pins in a bowling alley!”
Brittany: “I didn’t hit anyone…”
Dad: “Maybe not, but that old lady walking her dog is lying on the sidewalk clutching her chest… I think she had a heart attack.”
Brittany: “That wasn’t my fault. I can’t help it if her dog pulled her into my path.”
Dad: “Yeah, path of destruction. Who’s that person curled up in pain in the middle of the street behind us?”
Brittany: “Oh great, Clay’s fallen out the window again.”
Dad: “Don’t back up so fast!”
Brittany: “Don’t worry he’ll roll out of the way.”
Dad: “I’m feeling car sick.”
Brittany: “Here, use this blue bag if you’re going to throw up.”
Dad: “But there’s a paper in there.”
Brittany: “That’s OK. I know just the person to give that paper to.”

Finally arriving back to their apartment I staggered out of the Jeep like a sailor on a wobbling ship. Brittany thanked me for helping out.
As we entered the apartment Jan was still stirring on the mattress. “Are you done already?”
“Oh yeah, I’m done.”

(1) Marriage saving disclaimer: Jan, you are actually a very safe driver. Now please, let me back in the house.
(2) See prior blog entry titled “Sleep Deprivation.”

Travel Tip$

A week or so ago Jan informed me that we were going to be attending a “free” (I’ll explain the quote marks later) seminar at the AAA office featuring an international guru specializing in packing. This is not about packing supplies on mules for a trip down the walls of the Grand Canyon. This packer helps travelers pack more economically and lighter so extra baggage isn’t needed or luggage is not over weight, thus causing additional excessive charges to fly.

I don’t know why Jan felt the need to attend this seminar. We’ve only flown a few times since we’ve been married. If we go anywhere it’s by car. Maybe she has anxiety that I will begin charging her for each bag she checks into the trunk and enforce a new policy that all carry on items must be able to fit underneath the seat.

The packer’s name is Anne McAlpin. She actually lives in Jacksonville and travels the world giving these seminars. Her claim to fame is that she’s appeared on the Today Show, CNN and Oprah.

Now, don’t think for a moment that I didn’t protest going to this seminar. Protesting with Jan is always futile but I need to put up a little fight so she thinks I’m making a huge sacrifice on her behalf. That’s just part of our relationship. Make her think she owes me. Jan also invited her sister Jeanne who is very supportive in her sister’s anxieties.

Reservations were required to insure a seat. As we drove to the early morning meeting I wondered if we would be the only ones attending. We were surprised to see that the parking lot was quickly filling up. We announced our arrival at the front desk and were given some literature along with a raffle ticket because there would be a few prizes given out at the end of the seminar.

We found seats in the back and listened to the excited chatter of the attendees. Anne then walked from the back of the room to check out her audience. She walked aisle by aisle like a stewardess, making sure our seats were comfortable and that we had everything we needed. I expected to see her pushing the airline drink cart down the aisle or that she would begin giving instructions on how to use the oxygen masks while pointing out the emergency exit doors.

I would have been very interested in those exit doors.

The oxygen masks would have been very appropriate given the age of most of the attendees. I think we were the youngest attending. Retired people must have more time and disposable income than we who support them with our monthly Social Security extractions from our pay checks.

To begin her presentation Anne asked the audience where people were going to be traveling. Many mentioned exotic, exciting places like the Pacific Islands, Italy, Greece, France and the Orient. After each person’s comment Anne repeated it with excitement in her voice. I just couldn’t resist and my hand shot up automatically. As Anne pointed in my direction I blurted out, “Lincoln, Nebraska!” Right in cadence she repeated. “Lincoln, Nebraska.”

I’m sure she wondered what kind of jerk was sitting in the back row. As people turned and gave me stares of disbelief I pointed at Jan as if she somehow had changed her voice and shouted that ridiculous reply. However there were actually a few chuckles and even some claps. They must have thought I’d said Yukon, Alaska because one woman in front of us turned and said, “I’ve been on that cruise before.”
I wondered how you book a cruise to Nebraska.

Anne then went into her pitch with all the flurry of a salesman standing on the steps of his medicine wagon selling his ‘magic’ elixir that cures everything from cancer to gout. She showed us luggage with the nooks and compartments that you could hide things in for years and not know they were there. She showed us how to roll clothes up to prevent wrinkling, stowing shoes and heavy items at the bottom of the suitcase and how to get through security without having personal care products confiscated.

She also showed various products that were compact, and would fill emergency needs. There was the solar/crank powered flashlight that I wondered when would that be needed. OK, a radio was also part of the device but still, to the best of my knowledge solar power doesn’t work in the dark.

Noting the age of her audience Anne also showed a nifty pill organizer. This was obviously very important because it was listed three times on the brochure that reviewed some of the products. However, my favorites were the compression bags. Simply place your clothes in the bag then roll out the air and the clothing is compressed flat and airless. I wondered about other applications for these bags such as when moving just place your boxes and furniture in the compression bag and you can move entire households in a wheel barrow. Or, for a quieter ride on the way to vacation put the kids in one of these bags to save space and whining. I haven’t figured out the bone crushing air breathing thing yet for the kids but it’s worth a try.

When the hour long seminar was over Anne invited some of the AAA office staff to talk. They wanted to make sure we reviewed the brochures. Originally we thought they were just check lists for packing but in reality they were checklists for buying. The staff explained that most of the items in Anne’s presentation were available in the AAA travel store. That’s when I knew we’d been set up.

When the staff was through with their instructions those in attendance rushed toward the travel store. Older people can be very aggressive when they think there’s a deal out there. Chairs went flying as bodies pushed against bodies, gray hair flew (I think it was actually someone’s wig). People attacked these travel items like flocks of hungry seagulls fighting over French fries spilled in a parking lot.

Even Jan was caught up in the excitement, slowly moving from shelf to shelf filling her arms with various gizmos. As an extra incentive if you spent a minimum of $75 consumers would receive a free copy of Anne’s book and DVD. Anne would then autograph the books and the frenzied travel fans would walk out the door pushing their new luggage with happy grins. Using anti-hypnosis techniques I learned in Scranton, Pennsylvania, I was able to snap Jan out of her catatonic shopping state and convinced her to put several of the items back, explaining that we could just borrow Jeanne’s book.

So, the “free” seminar was actually a conniving sales pitch that cost me tens of dollars. After the last autograph I’m sure Anne sat comfortably in a chair in the back room, clasped her hands together behind her head with her feet propped up on a piece of luggage and said with a devilish grin, “Suckers.”

The Hacking

The morning frost was just beginning to settle on the housetops and lawns on Michael Park Drive as the hooded figure slowly walked down the middle of the street. All the houses were dark as their occupants snatched the last few moments of Saturday morning slumber. So no one noticed this figure also carried a set of crude tools of violence to be unleashed on unsuspecting innocent victims. His choice this time was a rusted saw and long handled pruning shears; "weapons of crass destruction."

Turning the corner he lashed into his first victim with pent up anger and frustration. The pruning shears cut off needled fingers and the saw sliced through limbs with precise extraction. The sun was barely rising to be the only witness to this horrid act of annihilation. Body parts were piled along the sidewalk as a warning to others to stay back and not interfere.

OK, this really happened. The figure with the hoodie was me. I had become frustrated with the pine trees along the sidewalk that obstructed my view as I tried to cross traffic in my car. In our neighborhood maintaining the trees and shrubbery behind homes are the individual homeowner’s responsibility. The back of these homes faced the highly trafficked street and the owners had planted these trees in an effort to block the noise. I guess I could have knocked on each door and asked politely if the owners would kindly trim these trees back. But, as usual, I took matters in my own hands.

After my morning walk I went into my garage and fetched the small hand saw and pruning shears. Then I went to work on these trees. Once you start pruning it triggers some sort of hacking cells in the brain and it’s very hard to stop. Every branch is under scrutiny for the cut. I worked quietly so the home owners wouldn’t react to this carnage. The branches began to pile up as I slashed and cut. Finally I came to my senses and looked at the heap of small and large branches on the sidewalk. I began to feel a little nervous about someone seeing these so I began to hide the debris under the juniper bushes, kicking the sawed off limbs under the pokey shrubs like one hides dirt swept from the floor under the rug. ( uhh, no Jan, I don’t really do that.)

As I was bending over, concentrating on the clean up, a voice from a passing runner startled me.
“I’m just cleaning up this mess that someone left!” I blurted as the runner distanced herself.
The larger branches wouldn’t fit under the already crowded bushes so I carried them to the irrigation ditch and tried my best to hide them along the surrounding fences. I didn’t want to think I was dumping clippings along the canal's path so I reasoned I would come back later and pick them up. My cutting finished, I hurriedly hid the pruning shears in my sweat shirt and the saw inside my sweat pants. As I walked back home the saw began to slip down the leg of my pants, causing me to walk with a limp to prevent the teeth of the saw from performing an amputation. I thought this was the way the trees were trying to pay me back for my clipping barrage.

Later that day Jan and I began our trip to get groceries. As we pulled to the stop sign at the entrance to the street I pointed out to Jan how clear the view now was. However, now a speed sign with a steel post still blocked the view to oncoming traffic hurtling down the hill.

After our errands we returned home. Immediately, I entered the garage and began to search for the metal slicing hacksaw while planning my next deed of dastardly early morning ventures.

Sleep Deprivation

A few days ago I heard a brief report on Paul Harvey ( it’s no longer really Paul Harvey, it’s his son trying to sound like his dad) that having too much light in a room when you are sleeping inhibits the production of melanoma. I thought, great, if that all it takes to prevent more skin cancer I’m going to Home Depot and get all the flood lights I can muster. I’d keep them on all night, thus reducing the chance for melanoma.

Then my wife informed me that Paul Harvey (not really him, I think he’s dead) didn’t say that light while sleeping reduces melanoma. What he said was that too much light in a room while sleeping inhibits the production of melatonin. Melanoma, melatonin, marshmallow, whatever…

According to the dictionary “melatonin is a hormone secreted by the pineal gland in the brain that helps regulate biological rhythms. It is best known for helping to regulate the body’s circadian sleep-wake cycle.” When I’ve been in Las Vegas I’ve heard those circadians and they can be pretty noisy. They make a noise that sounds like high voltage power lines. So if light affects melatonin levels in me and somehow it will help these insects quiet down, I can do my part to help tone down the bug induced noise pollution.

My wife just reminded me that those insects I’m talking about aren’t circadians, they are called cicadas. Good thing she’s around.

Back to the melatonin; the “not Paul Harvey” voice said that when we sleep our rooms need to be as dark as possible in order for this hormone to work its wonders in our systems. There should be no night-lights or light coming into our rooms from outside street lights, car lights, moonlight or delights. So, according to this we should all sleep in dungeons 12 feet underground with no windows or cracks in the mortar. Using a sleep mask was recommended.

When I was younger my room was illuminated by the street light outside. My innovative mother created a mask that I put over my eyes that blocked out the light and did help me sleep. The mask was a sock with the toe end connected to the opened end with a clothes pin. I’d then slip this over my head so it covered my eyes. The heel of the sock would sling down over the bridge of my nose for added light blocking protection. The only draw back was that I used the socks I had worn that day to create the mask. There were some unpleasant side effects such as catching athletes’ eye, stink eye, and sock fuzz ball eye. These ailments were all part of the danger. But, when I was a youngster I loved to live dangerously.

Actually, my thought for wearing the sleep mask was to ward off intruders. If a mask wearing burglar broke into my room I would sit up in bed with my mask on. The burglar would become confused because he thought he was the only one wearing a mask. In this dazed state he would stumble down the hall and out of the house. I never did see any burglars enter my room so this must have worked. Then again, I always kept the sock mask on.

Now, after the melatonin news flash, I looked around my room for offending light. I turned the overhead light off, figuring that to catch light it had to be dark. Yes, that does make sense.

When the light went off my room suddenly began to glow in green and red and it wasn’t Christmas. In fact the room began looking more like an airport runway at night. I was fearful that the midnight flight from San Francisco might be landing any minute. I counted 14 sources of light. There were several small green lights emitting from the computer modem, power strip and the cable box. Red lights blinked on and off on the charging telephone, answering machine and the caller ID system. Then there are the bright glowing lights from the digital clocks, one clock with red numbers, the other in blue numbers, all casting their eerie luminescence throughout the room.

There is no wonder I have trouble sleeping. If I want to keep the pineal gland producing melatonin so my rhythmic circadians can function I need to have a darker room. I think it’s time for a new sock mask.

The Wave

The inside of my car was so hot I felt perspiration being sucked from every pore of my body as I drove back to work after a brief afternoon lunch stop at home. The only relief came from the rush of hot wind from the open windows that was created while the car was moving. There were no other vehicles around as I approached a traffic light that suddenly turned red. Reluctantly, I stopped and the sweltering became unbearable. I wondered how the light had been triggered, there were no other cars, or pedestrians that would have pushed the cross walk button.

Suddenly, from the bushes on the corner popped out two little girls like Jill-in-the-Boxes. They began to wave with a fervor reserved for stranded travelers seeking roadside assistance. I glanced back at the light, waiting for it to turn green. I realized it was the girls who must have pressed the cross walk button and stopped my “easy bake oven” on wheels. While concentrating on the light the sweat began dripping down my forehead, stinging my eyes, but I could still see the girl’s frantic waves to my left. Feeling they wouldn’t stop unless I acknowledged their inconvenient prank I raised my hand off the steering wheel and wiggled it in a slight salutation. The girls broke out in huge smiles as the light turned green and I proceeded through the intersection. Looking in my rear view mirror I saw these little pixies press the crosswalk button again then jump back into the bushes, waiting for their next victim.

This was not my first experience with “wavers” but perhaps these were the most sincere. Until then those who waved as I passed by were generally standing in front of a business, holding signs with various slogans that said unkind things about their boss or about the business. I’m not sure why they waved at the passing cars. Perhaps they kept a tally of those who waved back, thinking this would validate their cause. I waved back because I’m friendly. To this day I don’t know how many strikes or protests I personally lengthened because I waved back.

Lately though this waving business has become, well, business. It seems that nearly every corner has a “waver”, someone holding a sign for a business, trying to encourage drivers to swing in and buy or partake of the service rendered. Spending a good part of my life in the advertising and marketing business I have a difficult time understanding why a business would resort to using a “waver.” Most cities have sign ordinances regarding putting stationary, permanent signs on a public right of way, such as a sidewalk. Using a “waver” is one way to skirt around those regulations.

I guess the “waver” works cheap. I’m sure they are paid minimum wage. I can understand using this form of advertising if your business was using a different location for a sale somewhere else. Or, many times “wavers” are used for liquidation sales. However, I’ve always felt that advertising is a window to their business and some of these “wavers”, well, unless a business likes people to think their business is full of crusty looking people, those used to hold these signs are usually not great representatives. Why not at least have them dress nice, such as formal gowns and tuxedos. That would add class and create favorable impressions.

There are all kinds of wavers. Some are human posts, holding the sign with sour, bored faces. Some wave the signs back and forth, giving some animation to the advertising. But, because the sign is wobbling back and forth it can’t be read unless you are a bobble head and can synchronize your head with the back and forth motion of the sign. Some try to hold the sign steady and wave at the cars passing by. I never see anyone waving back.

My personal favorite was a guy who stood outside Midas Muffler for several weeks. As cars waited for the light to change he would start dancing by swaying back and forth like a pendulum. He at least had people honking and pointing when they drove by. However, I never saw anyone drive into the place because of his show.

Some businesses apparently want the focus to be on the sign, not the waver. The sign holder is supposed to blend into the environment. Using plain, ordinary people dressed in camouflage works the best. There is a danger in using people who are too attractive. Driving down Main Street the other day I noticed a very cute young lady holding a sign with an arrow pointing across the street. However, I bet most drivers couldn’t tell you anything about the business because they weren’t looking at the sign.

Now, in an effort to gain more attention, businesses are making their wavers dress up in ridiculous costumes. I’ve seen Spider-man with a sign for cheap haircuts and pizza people advertising a cheap dinner. I even saw a guy wearing a card board mattress. Then there are the annual patriotic wavers for a tax service dressed as Uncle Sam and the Statue of Liberty. I personally would be a little fearful of my taxes being done by someone dressed in red, white and blue pants and a stove pipe hat.

For the most part, I think drivers are uncomfortable having someone they don’t know wave at them. Most people don’t even seem to notice wavers, driving by with invisible blinders like race horses so they won’t get distracted. When there are wavers on every corner they become an annoyance and lose any effectiveness. However, I always feel a little guilty and unfriendly as I drive by a waver. Perhaps it’s from my earlier experience with those little girls.

A few weeks ago I was coming in earlier for work. It was seven A.M and 26 degrees. As I approached the location of this tax service I could see the spikes of the Stature of Liberty poking out of the freezing mist. She stood motionless, holding her sign with one hand and her other hand tucked into her costume for warmth. I saw her try to muster a smile as I drove closer. Looking in my mirror to verify there were no other vehicles behind me, I applied the brakes, and while passing her at the speed of a slow parade, brought my right hand to my forehead and smartly saluted Lady Liberty with the frozen blue lips. Suddenly, her hand popped out from the ruffles of her dress and she waved feverishly. I could still see her waving at me in the rear view mirror as I continued on my way to work. After all, “wavers” are people, too.

Home Alone

Have you ever had a thought and then what you thought actually happened? I don’t mean that when you’re sitting on the couch watching the season premier of “American Idol” and the thought comes to you, “Hey, I think I’ll get some ice cream,” and then you get some ice cream. That’s not the sort of thought I’m thinking about. The thoughts I’m referring to are the ones that come in a snap of time, usually accompanied by a sudden sense of foreboding. It’s just a tidbit of warning that’s easily ignored and explained away. If we have a lot of these feelings, warnings, or worries we’re called paranoid schizophrenics. I worry about a lot of things, but the other day one of these warning shots fired through my brain like light fire. At the moment I am living single. Jan is back in Utah taking care of Brittany, Clay and Maeli. I think she really just needed time away from me and used the grandbaby thing as an excuse. I knew I would miss her but I can fend pretty well on my own. I can shop, cook, clean, exist, as well as any man. I was actually looking forward to her being gone for a few days so I could eat the food I wanted; like spiced ham, aka spam, donuts, french fries and a cake, that’s right, a whole cake. The day after she left I came down with a horrendous cold that has sent waves of fluid through my respiratory system and caused my voice to resonate like Darth Vader. My head has felt like it’s been filled with floam and, although I’ve eaten the food I wanted, my taste buds, well, they don’t taste. On Tuesday I had this slingshot of an idea pulse through my brain that I referred to several paragraphs before. “Hey Greg, you’re all alone. What if you lock your keys in the car or lock yourself out of the house?” I just chuckled as I locked the front door and sped away in my little white Corolla. I mean, it’s been awhile since I’ve locked myself out of anywhere. Besides, only Megan Byers does that. I love Fridays. However, this Friday I debated calling in sick or just letting someone find me dead. But, being the loyal idiot that I am, I readied myself for work. Locking the front door I turned the engine of the Corolla on to warm it up while I scrapped the layers of ice that had formed like limestone during the night. Having cleared a few spots I pulled on the drivers side door handle and…it didn’t budge. I had somehow locked the door, keys in the ignition, car running, house also locked up with house key on the car keychain. My first thought was, “Wow, the inside of the car will be really warm by the time I get this figured out.” At least I had my cell phone. It didn’t work when I tried to use it to pry open the door so I decided to use it to phone a friend. I called Jan. Luckily, she answered even though she saw it was me that was calling. I explained my situation, she googled (has this word been officially adopted into the English dictionary yet?) towing companies and after trying to write phone numbers down on the side of the house (paint will cover it) I called for help. I waved to neighbors as I did jumping jacks on my porch trying to keep warm in the freezing fog. When Jimmy the tow truck guy came I threw my arms around his neck, grabbed his gloved hand in mine and rapidly pumped his arm in a gratuitous life saving handshake. I think I frightened him a bit. I watched intently as he pried the upper right corner of the door slightly open with a wedge then placed a rubber pad in the space. He then pumped this up a few times to make a little more space. Jimmy pulled out a long metal rod that he inserted through the crack in the door and pushed it against the door lock button on the door. Easy as that and the door was unlocked. When I opened the door a whoosh of warm air escaped from the car and mingled with the cold winter mist. I think the added warmth moved Spring up several weeks. I regretted I hadn’t given heed to the earlier warning. Besides the stress this situation created I think I set my cold recovery back a few days, I was 45 minutes late to work, and had to put up with the sly chuckles from fellow employees who knew but didn’t tell about my situation. It also cost me tens of dollars. On the bright side my neighbors know I am certified crazy so I can act however I want, and I have taken precautions to not have this ever happen to me again. I have found a set of spare keys and hidden them in case I ever need to use them. Now, if only I could remember where that was…