Flirt 101

I usually take off to work a little earlier than Jan. I get up earlier than Jan. I eat breakfast earlier than Jan. I even go to bed earlier than Jan. Jan does beat me home from work since she gets off around noon.

I had taken my time getting ready the other day. I perused through our email. I browsed through a few news websites to verify I and the world were still alive, looked through some scores in the sports section of the morning’s paper.

I was enjoying a leisurely breakfast when Jan races out of the bedroom, “I gotta get going!”

Whoa, I guess I needed to get out the door too since it was a quarter to eight. Jan squirted by me through the doorway just before I locked the dead bolt. We jumped into our individual cars, revved the high octane motors up and squealed out of the driveway like street racers.

Even if I’m following Jan just a few feet she ends up hundreds of yards ahead of me. I eat her dust, road rubber, engine fumes or whatever. I don’t think she’s fast, just nimble.

This one morning I caught up with her at the light. I drove slowly up next to our little Toyota. People claim I drive with blinders on because I don’t notice when people I know wave at me as they zip by. But I think Jan drives with platters. Even next to her I had to put the glare stare on her to win her attention. Of course, it could be that she doesn’t want the other drivers to know she knows me.

At the light I wave vigorously at her like I was trying to stop a train speeding toward a car stuck on the tracks. She turns, smiles and raises her hand in a dainty wave. The light turned and we speed off again until we hit the next red light.

This time she turns my way and I pretend that I’m tipping my hat towards me. She flashes a smile as the light changes and off we go again.

At the next light I caught her again. She tries to ignore me so I roll down the window and wildly wave at her. Now she’s looking a little perturbed. Yeah, I learned how to flirt years ago. I got all the text book moves plus a few of my own.

At the next light I pull up next to the white Corolla and blew kisses as rapidly as machine gun fire. She wasn’t buying it. So, I doubled my efforts and began using two hands. Finally she turned and held up her cell phone to show me she was dialing 911. It was then I realized…it wasn’t Jan.

I whipped the sun visor to the side, and covered my face with my hands in peek-a-boo position and waited for the light to change. Mercy arrived as the light switched green and I banked hard right around the nearest street corner.

Pulling into a church parking lot I cowered as I waited to make sure I wasn’t being followed.

Like I said, I wrote the book on flirt.

St. Patrick’s Green Zone

St. Patrick's Day was better before. When kids woke up and rubbed their eyes in disbelief as green pancakes were stacked on their plates. Irish music played throughout the day. The tricolor Republic of Ireland flag draped across the dining room wall along with several linens. Dinner included roasted potatoes and trifle for dessert. The day often ended with the family following Dad around the living room with arms straight by our sides and doing our best imitation of Lord of the Dance. Those were good days.
Last week I didn’t want to dig the flags and linens out of the box. I remembered at dinner we hadn’t heard any Irish music so I put a CD in with traditional fiddle and pipes. The fiddles seemed to screech and each number sounded the same so I pushed the reject button. Jan and I settled down to spaghetti and a green salad. For dessert I found a chocolate fudge cookie hiding in the cupboard.
The only thing close to an Irish jig was when I caught my foot on the side of the couch and jumped around on one foot yelping in a non-Irish brogue.
I did dye the pancake batter green. At least I hope it was the batter I’d put the food coloring in and not the container that’s been in the back of the fridge since Christmas.
Speaking of green…when Jan and I visit Dad at Baywood Court he often introduces us to a few of his neighbors. Sometimes he’ll share a little about the person then do the introduction. An example:
“This is Marge Curtis. She taught school for 50 years in Oakland. Marge, this is my favorite child Greg and his beautiful wife Jan” (I may have included the word “favorite”…or I may not have)
Then there were some he didn’t really want us to meet. We were walking toward the elevator after breakfast when a short white haired man pushing a walker pulled up along side.
“I saw this movie, “The Green Zone" last night. It was awful what Bush did to this country, getting us involved in a stupid (my word, this is a clean language blog) war without any evidence.”
“Greg and Jan, this is Dr. White.” Dad said as he tried to steer us away. “He’s been here for several years””
“I think Bush should be impeached for what he’s done to this country!” Dr White defiantly yelled as our elevator door closed.
“He used to be the head of Eden Hospital,” Dad explained. “Nobody likes him.
“Dad?” I asked. “Does he realize Bush isn’t the President anymore? And, did he know “The Green Zone” is a fictional movie starring Matt Damon?”
Ah… Another day at Baywood.

Are you a "Walking Billboard?"

Jan bought a blue fleece Columbia jacket for me shortly before my birthday. It’s nice and snuggly. As I tried on the jacket I noticed small silver letters spelling out Columbia on the upper left breast.. At first I thought, “Well Columbia is a well known brand name. I can wear this fleece with pride. “

Then I started thinking. (This only happens sporadically). Why should I advertise Columbia when I wear this jacket? This marketing freeloading company should pay me to walk around exposing their logo to potential fleece buying customers.

Old Navy is notorious for this. The store sells t-shirts with “Old Navy’ emblazoned across the chest. People buy these because they believe Old Navy is cool.

These walking billboards don’t realize they are being used.

Not that I’ve done this but, I wonder if I walked to the cashier, with one of these tees in hand, and told her that I want this shirt free for walking the stores logo around town. In fact, the store should pay me to wear this.

I don’t know what the response would be but I’d be in the right.

I saw a news clip about a guy who puts on a different t-shirt with various logos each day and walks the streets of New York. He gets paid handsomely to do this.

Take a look at NASCAR drivers. (If anyone can tell me what NASCAR stands for please let me know) Sponsor logos cover the cars and jump suits of these drivers When drivers give interviews or make promotional appearances they wear the logo ensemble. I wonder what logos their houses, children, dogs or cats wear.

Why can’t I do the same? I traditionally wear slacks, dress shirt and tie to work. If I were to sell my personal space these are some of the sponsors I would hope to secure for various clothing parts:

Collar-Whisk

On the pocket-Hot Pockets

Down the left side of the shirt: Right Guard Deodorant

Down the right side: Applebee’s Ribs

Tie- Prego Spaghetti sauce since there’s usually tomato stains there already.

On my shirt sleeve I’d have Gold’s Gym on the right arm. Whenever I’d flex my mountainous bicep the logo would go 3D.

On the left sleeve would be a Robitussin imprint because when the nose runs and there’s no tissue…

Across my portly belly area: Firestone tires- when ever I sat down, the bulging spare tire, would make the logo go 3D

On the back of the shirt, Tyson Chicken would be imprinted vertically in yellow down my spine.

The seat of my pants: (this would be the largest logo) Depends

The bottom of my shoes would have a Wrigglies Gum logo, complete with squashed samples.

This leaves the pant legs open for suggestions.

So, the next time you put on those running shoes with the swoosh showing prominently, email the Nike marketing department and demand payment. All they can say is no, or get lost, or our lawyers are knocking at your door…

Lifeline

Many years ago Jan and I gathered the young family and made a visit to Fred Meyers, our local “find it all in one stop” store. Heather was maybe three and a strayer. If we didn’t keep watch she would wander off the grid.

On this trip Jan and I were hustling the boys around when we realized Heather was MIA. When your child goes missing your heart plummets to your knees and your head whips back and forth trying to catch a glimpse of the offspring. We began to dash down the aisles when an announcement from a store employee came over the speaker system.

“We have a little lost girl. She has curly brown hair and wearing a white shirt with pink flowers and red shorts.” We turned and saw Heather only a few aisles away being held by the clerk describing our daughter. She was waving at us with a wide grin on her face. Funny Heather. From then on we leashed her. Some thought that was cruel but we felt it was more cruel to let her wander away from us and get snatched by overly aggressive store clerks looking for an excuse to use the PA system.

Whenever Jan and I go shopping she complains that I wander off but, it’s actually Jan who does the wandering. As soon as we enter stores she takes off like a kid busting through the gates of Disneyland. I’d like to put a leash on her but it would not be looked upon favorably by the public. Sometimes I grab her arm to hold her back but then people think Jan’s leading a blind man. If she wiggles away from my grasp she takes off, usually not telling me where she’s going. We spend more time looking for each other than the amount of time spent shopping.

However, I now have an electronic leash that keeps us attached. I’m grateful for cell phones. When we separate I can always call her to find out where she’s at; as long as she has it on, it’s not on silent mode, or stuffed in the sound proof pockets of her purse.

During one holiday shopping excursion at Wal Mart I stopped to look at something for a grandchild when I realized Jan was missing. I looked down several aisles without success. I thought about contacting a clerk to make an announcement that someone was looking for a lost wife. I’d have the clerk describe what she was wearing and her age. That would get her.

But, I remembered we had cell phones.

“Hey Jan. I lost you. Where are you?

“I’m at the aisle with the dolls.”

“OK don’t move. I’ll be right there.
I went to the doll aisle. No one there.

“Hey-I went to the doll aisle and no Jan. Where’d you go?”

“I’m looking at the books.”

“Don’t move.

Again, no wife.

“Hey! Are we playing hide n’ seek here? Stay on the phone until I find you.”

We continued in frustration trying to find each other. She’d tell me where she was but it was like we were in alternate realities.

“All right- where are you?” I was getting frustrated.

“I’m in the main aisle.”

“I’m in the main aisle!” I exclaimed. “What main aisle are you talking about?”

“The one that separates girl from boy toys.”

“Stop it! You are not here!”

I looked to my left then to the right. At the same time Jan glanced to her left.

“Oh, I see you now.”

We were only a few feet apart.

“Can we go home now?” I asked over the phone.

“Yes.”

We hung up and laughed.

The leash would be easier.

Expiration Dates

As we opened the tomb of the ancient Pharaoh, aged dust swirled in the beams of our flashlights. Digging through the dark crypt we noticed jars of food placed in orderly rows around the sarcophagus. Gingerly picking up the containers we analyzed the packaging.

“Hey, look at this,” I shouted to Jan from the back of the bottom cupboard.

Wow, this is ancient!”

Crawling from the tight, dark confines I handed Jan the can.

“Oh, no.” She was disappointed this can could have been in the cupboard for so long.

“This has an expiration date of March 2004.”

Curious, I asked,” “I wonder what’s really growing in that can of peaches?”

We continued the excavation, finding cans of fruit, beans, tomato sauce and salsa all with expiration dates long passed. Some were so old the date had disappeared.

We also extracted boxes of brownie, cake and banana bread mixes. These dates weren’t any newer. Shaking one of the boxes I remarked to Jan, “Just think of the history these things have seen” Our kids were just babies when we bought these.”

Luckily, we didn’t eat anything hiding in the dusty cans and boxes. When grocery shopping I learned a long time ago to check expiration dates, particularly on items that are on sale. For example, last week our favorite bread was half price. I looked at the front row of bread and saw the expiration date was just a few days away. So, I pawed to the back of the rack and found a loaf with a much later expire date.

Brittany still maintains that when Jordan and Christina invited her over as a young BYU freshman for dinner they made a big batch of stroganoff. She wondered why they intensely watched her take the first few bites. It wasn’t until later Jordan confessed they used an expired container of sour cream and were watching the young coed to see if she’d double over before they ate along with her.

Sometimes expiration dates don’t tell the whole story. A few weeks ago we had spaghetti for dinner. I had been saving some of the unused sauce to spread on a homemade pizza crust. I showed Jan my find in the back of the refrigerator. She questioned how long it had been around. Yes, it had been sitting in the fridge for awhile but I proved to her it was still good by dipping my finger several times and licking off the savory sauce. Jan wasn’t convinced, threw out the old sauce and made her own blend instead.

The pizza was just great. I leaned back in my chair, feeling fat and happy. Suddenly my stomach began twisting and cramping. I barely made it to the bathroom in time. It wasn’t the pizza that made me sick. It was the saucy appetizer. Naturally, Jan didn’t let me live that down, or up as the case might be.

Instead of an expiration date I like the phrase on some perishable items that says “Best if Used by_______” That leaves it open ended and gives me hope that even though the date has passed, that maybe, just maybe it’s still OK.

Why aren’t expiration dates placed on other consumer goods? Nothing lasts forever. We were told that an LCD TV lasts up to 25,000 hours. If you watched TV 24 hours a day that equates to 1,041 days or nearly 3 years. Shouldn’t that information be disclosed with “TV expires on….”

Or, what about expiration disclaimers on clothes, appliances, furniture or even cars? Scientific studies are done that pull, push, squish and twist products to determine how sturdy and durable they are.

Lastly, how about people? There have been some scary science fiction stories written about that. I wonder when my” best if used “ date would be. I like to think I haven’t reached that yet. However if I’m past that expiration date I don’t want to know, certainly I don’t want that information disclosed to others. I don’t want to be discarded at some recycle plant or poked down the garbage disposal with a wooden spoon. Oh, that’s grizzly.

New Year Notes

It’s New Year’s morning, 2010. Last night we watched “Angels and Demons”. This was a sequel to the movie “The DaVinci Code” ……. not a term used in conjunction with babysitting the grandchildren.

Sacrificing additional sleep I turned on the TV at 7am and watched the Rose parade to pay homage to my mother. Mom always loved this parade. In fact, it was the main reason given why we eventually bought a color TV. It’s hard to believe Mom enjoyed watching this parade even though all the floats she was so excited with were in black and white.She always wanted to go to Pasadena to see if the flowers were really in various shades of grey or if they were, as NBC promised, “In Living Color.” I watch to perhaps catch a glimpse of Mom standing street side, cradling a huge bouquet of ruby red roses in her arms, eyes large with wonder as the spectacle of colors pass.

With the New Year comes renewed energy devoted to setting goals. Seems to me those who want us to set goals don’t issue this invitation because they really care. They want the goal flounderers to help them achieve their corporate objective of getting as much money as they can guilt out of us this year. We need to lose weight, become wealthier, be more organized, be happier or in more control with our lives, enhance relationships and take the pill that will ease our lives despite most of the ad is filled with disclaimers describing harm the pill will do if taken.

I’ve heard the phrase, “A goal not written is only a wish” so many times that I’ve set a goal to promote a law that if this repetitive cliché is mentioned again the offender will be tied to a pole and forced to listen to that Mexican soccer broadcaster yell “Gooooooaaaaallll! 24/7. I’ll begin movement on that resolution as soon as I can find some time to write that down.

Frankly, 2009 was a tough year. But there were some great things that happened: another grand daughter, Dad’s 90^th birthday that again reunited the family for a few hours. Trips to Lincoln, Nebraska, Las Vegas, San Diego and Utah, camping and jet boating with daughters and their spouses, all culminating in a grand crescendo of chaos with having all children and their families home for Christmas.

I wondered why I thought of “A Space Odyssey” connected with this year but realized that movie was “2001, A Space Odyssey.” However, I dug a little deeper and found another movie, “2010, The year we make contact.” This was the sequel to 2001 the movie where monkey-men throw bones at a huge domino embedded in earths prehistoric soil. 2001 also introduced us to the mutinied computer HAL that took control of the ship. I don’t remember a thing about the sequel other than it was “2010” According to movie review website IMDb the theatrical trailers catch line was, “Something wonderful is about to happen”.

Here’s hoping that the trailer is right, “2010, Something wonderful is about to happen.”

Make that a goal. You don’t need to write it down. I did it for you.

Holiday giving or holiday robbery?

As I swiped my debit card at the grocery store the cashier asked, “Do you want to help feed a hungry family?”

I didn’t know if he was just trying to make conversation or if he was expecting a dinner invitation.

“What was that?” I responded.

He clarified and asked again more loudly so others in the check out line could hear, “Would you like to donate a few dollars to help a needy family?”

I bowed my head and quietly replied, “Not at this time.”

“What was that?” the checker was getting more forceful.

“I can’t at this time,” I said sheepishly.

“I can’t believe you don’t want to give a few dollars to those who’ll have no dinner tonight because of you!”

“I’m sorry.”

He shook his head in disdain as he picked up the microphone and boomed throughout the store, “Cheap cad on aisle 8.”

I felt doomed and humiliated, my pride ripped to shreds as I slunk out the store.

“Tis the season” the saying goes… “tis the season” to be harassed by those who want my money. We get phone calls, post cards in the mail, plastic bags put on our doorstep by Boy Scouts, bags in our mail box from post men asking us to fill them with canned food. We even get a paper bag inserted into our newspaper that we’re asked to fill and return to a food bank. I am ashamed to admit I've thought (actually, this a a great idea) to go around the neighborhood with my wheel barrow and take a few items from each bag waiting for pick up, and fill my own bag that I’d proudly sit out, my chest swelling with emotion because of my generous, charitable heart.

These requests seem to come earlier each year. I won’t be surprised if next Labor Day I see a guy with a Santa hat ringing a bell and collecting change that’s dropped into his red painted barbeque.

Sometimes circumstances force giving. The most extreme act of asking for donations occurs during the summer, usually in small towns. As I pull up to a stop light, sometimes the only one in town, I see firemen “passing the boot” to each car. The idea is to put your money in the boot for a good cause. As you sit captive by the stop light the firemen ask for contributions.

A few summers ago I was stuck in one of these donation traps. I rolled up the windows even though the air conditioning was out, turned up the radio and tried to look invisible.

I heard some sharp raps to my window and turned to see a bearded fireman. I tried to look surprised to see him there.

“Hey, do you want to donate to Jerry’s kids?”

He shoved the boot through the window. I caught a whiff of something dead.

I thought it was a little strange that this boot looked more like a worn tennis shoe. The fireman’s clothes also looked ragged.

Feeling guilty, I deposit a few coins into the shoe. Thanking me, the fireman heads to another car.

Finally, the light turns green and as I pull through the intersection I see the “fireman” I’d donated to running down the sidewalk, jump over a cement barrier and disappear into dense trees.

If I don’t tighten the charity strings, I’ll soon be standing on a corner holding a cardboard sign with these words scrawled in charcoal: “Please help, I’ve helped the helpless and now I am one…”