Trapped in the Women's Department

I try to avoid embarrassment as often as possible. I doubt that any of us thrive on feeling our faces turn various spectrums of red, our heads slinking toward our shoulders in the classic turtle maneuver. Occasionally our hands spontaneously cover our faces. When we face embarrassment, well, we don’t face it.

I’ve had several encounters with this mortifying experience.

Jan likes to take me shopping. She asks my opinion on how she looks in a multitude of blouses, pants and shoes. Not wanting to get trapped in a female scheme I tell her that it doesn’t matter, anything looks great on her.

Jan likes to wander when shopping. Often I’ll turn my back and she vanishes. Adding to the disappearing problem is that Jan’s stature is about the same height as the clothes racks. I’ve come to recognize the extreme top of her head.

As Jan plucks clothing like ripe peaches from a tree I know the inevitable is coming. This is planned humiliation. Naturally, any piece of clothing she gathers needs to be tried on. It doesn’t matter if everything is the exact size she’s already wearing, each item needs to be experimented for proper fit, length, color or pattern.

Of course, the only place to scrutinize the experimental frocks is in the dressing room.

“I’ll be just a minute” she tells me while pointing to a metal folding chair and non-verbally telling me to sit.

That minute turns into ten, fifteen then twenty. I shift constantly on the chair, sitting straight, bending over, crossing my legs, and stretching. The longer I sit, the more stares I receive from the sales clerk who apparently just started her shift.

I stand, shouting plea fully into the dressing room, “Hey honey, are you still in there?

Three yeses from different voices answer.

I start to pace, constantly scanning for a way out. In my impatience I didn’t notice how far I’d wandered from the women’s clothing laboratory. My eyes darted to the right, then to the left. I started to sweat. There I was, right in the middle of lingerie.

I closed my eyes tight, wishing I could teleport to somewhere safe, like the men’s restroom.

I stood motionless like a captive in a game of freeze tag.

Someone grabbed my arm and a husky voice whispered, “Sir, you’re coming with me.”

As I was escorted from the department I stammered, “MyMMMy wife’s in the dressing room. I’m jus-jus just waiting.”

“Jan, help me!” I screamed.

“Hey, he’s with me” Jan shouted from the dressing room door.

The security guard let go of my arm and I ran back to my heroine, hugging her tightly.

Jan’s eyes squinted and began to twitch. “I asked you to sit on that chair. I was only a few minutes.”

“But I…”

“Never mind, let’s go.”

“What clothes are you buying?”

“I didn’t like any of them, let’s go to a different store.”

As Jan grabbed my hand I looked for anyone with a gram of compassion, “Help me!” I pleaded with the women still in the department, “Help me!”

One woman we passed shook her head and muttered, “Husbands.”

Exit Strategies

It’s an unavoidable fact: whenever you enter, one way or another, you will exit.

During a rare pensive moment I asked Jan about the ultimate exit.

“What would you do if you knew you would die tomorrow?”

I could tell the question concerned her by the furrowed brow and sharp stare.

I tried to ease her anxiety, “Oh, no, I’m not going to do anything to you. I mean, I don’t know what could happen tomorrow. It’s just a question, not a plan.”

She thought for a moment then responded, “I would spend time with family, probably go to the temple.”

“Well, now I feel bad.”

“Why?’

I shrugged my shoulders and replied, “Well, I was thinking more about Red Robin and eating all the burgers and fries I could stuff in.”

As you can tell- we think a little differently.

I guess I’m a little paranoid. Wherever I go I think about how to exit if something were to go horribly wrong. If I was at work and a crazed ex-employee burst through the door and started to shout obscenities while making threatening gestures I know exactly how to handle the situation. I’m no hero. I wouldn’t tackle and subdue the intruder. My plan is to crouch low and sneak out the back door.

Even when I go to a restaurant I like to face the entrance door so I have a clear view if something goes horribly wrong. I also look for the exits so I can make an escape. It may be dashing through the kitchen and out the service door. Or, breaking a window and climbing through the glass shards.

While others are talking or reading, relaxed and snuggling into their seats prior to the plane taking off, I listen intently to the stewardess’ emergency exit presentation. I follow along on the card while tracing my finger of the path to the nearest exit. I recently read that one former airline safety director said she counts the rows to the exit in case the cabin fills with smoke. I like that idea.

The greatest exit strategy I’ve ever seen came from an almost three year old. Due to my church assignments Kevin had missed the opportunity to attend nursery. When we finally moved into a family ward Jan and I gently took Kevin by the hand and led him to the nursery. We introduced him to the nursery leader who assured us he’d be just fine.

Kevin, obviously afraid he’d lose his jacket, asked if he could hang it on one of the knobs just outside the room. That seemed like a harmless request and walked with him out the door to the coat rack. He took off his coat, placed it on the hook; then he applied his exit strategy.

Kevin took off down the hall as fast as an almost three year old could run. Zig-zagging and dodging through adults and children he scurried like a munchkin fullback breaking through the defensive lines. Following through the crowded hallway I caught up with the escapee and applied a firm hand on his shoulder. Marching him back to the nursery we signed papers that the nursery leader was not responsible if he escaped again

I learned a little from Kevin’s abrupt exit attempt.

There have been several layoffs at the Mail Tribune. It seems no one’s job is secure and a call to the office could come at any moment. I’ve thought about how I’d feel about that final interview. I’ve also thought deeply about what I would do.

Here’s my scenario: My manager would ask if he could speak to me in his office. He would explain that times are hard and the company needs to lighten the staff. He’d explain how corporate is forcing a smaller workforce and I was to be the latest victim. Nodding my head with understanding I’d take my key card out of my pocket to humbly hand it over and prepare to be escorted out the building. It’s then I would apply my exit strategy.

Snatching my key card back I’d leap from the chair and burst out the manager’s office door. As I ran through the building, ducking and dodging through cubicle canyons, fellow employees would leap onto their desks, shouting with glee, cheering me on while waving their arms in excitement.

Their chant would start as a low rumble then peak in a supersonic crescendo,

“Run, Gregory! Run!”

The braces that restricted promotions and creativity would shatter and fall to the ground as I picked up speed.

Managers would stand stunned, jaws slack, eyes wide in unbelief. I’d bound up the stairs to the newsroom. By then texts and tweets would have alerted the journalists of my breakaway. Photographers would position themselves, cameras held steady, waiting to digitally catch the perfect moment of a newly laid off worker's dash.

Reporters would call out my name, firing off questions like Gatling guns as I sprinted by. Flying downstairs I’d break through the crowd who had gathered in amazement. I’d then dart out the side door, car brakes squealing and drivers cursing as I shot across the street to Distribution. Doing a jig around the press, I’d thrust my hands into a bucket of slimy ink, rubbing it beneath my eyes like war paint. Slapping my black stained palms against my white shirt and on the top of my bald head I’d run through the freight gate, circling back across the street and bowl through the front lobby door. Hurdling over the counter I’d continue my lap until I reached my desk. Quickly snapping up all my mementos, photos and history I’d throw my entry key card into the air and give a shout that would rock the white bastioned building. As the whine of sirens came closer, I’d strut out the back door, pausing to take a deep breath then exhale slowly. Straightening my tie, I’d calmly walk across the parking lot to my car.

I will never be escorted out of the building; because I have the ideal exit plan…

I Scream

As I opened the back door of the Mail Tribune’s advertising department the late afternoon summer heat walloped me like a shovel in the gut. The sun felt like high intensity heat lamps in an interrogation room, trying to sweat a confession from an accused criminal. I moved slowly across the parking lot, attempting to conserve the loss of body fluids that could cause instant mummification.

Reaching the sidewalk a faint tune surfing on the waves of heat tickled my ears, causing me to stop in mid-step. I turned my head toward the direction of the sound in an effort to distinguish the source and nearness of the playful organ circus chords. For a few moments I didn’t recognize the music the plinking calliope played. However, as the strain drew closer, the jingle became familiar and I discovered the source of the cheerful ditty. “Old McDonald’s Farm” blared from speakers on the roof of a red and white ice cream truck, echoing off downtown cement and stucco buildings, creating a feedback harmony that beckoned all to come relieve their summer fevers with cold frozen goodness. Closing my eyes I was carried through time by the hypnotic musical pulse.

My mother had just carried the last plate from dinner to the sink when I detected through the open kitchen window a faint tune that seemed to creep closer and closer. I began to shake with excitement and struggled to unlock the screen door. I stumbled onto the porch and leaned over the metal ornamental railing. The breeze from the nearby bay ruffled my wavy hair as I swiveled my head and aligned my radar like ears toward the sound. The jingle announcing the truck's arrival drew children out their front doors like a magnet in a pile of iron shavings. “Pop Goes the Weasel” blared from the two roof top megaphones fastened to the top of the ice cream truck clunking through its daily rounds. I ran back inside to plead for spare change from Mom.

Children ran from their homes and followed the truck with nickels, dimes and quarters in their clenched fists. No torture or trauma could be worse than to drop and lose ice cream money into storm drains, sidewalk cracks or tall grass. Waving arms and jumping children brought the truck to a stop. The line would form and each child scanned the life-like pictures of the frosty treats posted on the side of this wonderful vehicle from the Arctic.

The choices seemed endless to salivating, panting youngsters. There were multi-flavored Popsicles and Ice Cream Sandwiches where the layer of soft chocolate wafer stuck to little fingers. There were chocolate and peanut crusted Drumsticks in sugar cones, and sherbet flavored Push-ups. Coins changed hands and smiling children did victory jigs on their way back to their homes while smacking lips and licking tongues lapped up the icy treasures.

I was aroused from my time traveling trance when "Old McDonald" stopped in mid chorus. Instinctively, I frantically searched for loose coins and started to wave down the treat filled truck as it turned a corner and drove away. I felt like a kid who had just lost his ice cream money through a hole in his pocket. Wistfully, I put the dimes and quarters away as the music faded from ear shot.

I had previously wished for a tune from a mournful bagpipe at the end of my graveside gathering to help carry me home. But now, when loved ones gather around my place of rest, they may hear a distant familiar tune that once drew little ones with clenched coins running toward the truck that brought smiles and life to children of the neighborhood. After all, Ice Cream Truck music is happy music.

Blow Hard

Warning: This experience has been re-imagined..

Last week I participated with thousands of fellow members of the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter day Saints in celebrating Pioneer Day and Oregon’s Sesquicentennial by doing service in our communities. The Central Point and Medford Stakes worked with county administrators in being able to beautify the pathway known as the Bear Creek Greenway. The Greenway spans miles along Bear Creek. Locals know not to swim, wade or splash in the creek, due to health warnings of bacteria caused by runoff from storm drains.

Thankfully our work was not in the toxic water but consisted of pulling weeds, fighting back blackberry bushes and sweeping dirt and leaves from the path.

This sounds like dull work. However, sometimes you just never know when the stars line up in your favor, the traffic lights are all green and you find a chocolate iced cake donut on the ground without a bite taken. Yes, this was my lucky day. I had the chance to do something I’ve never done. No, it wasn’t work. I got my hands on a leaf blower! And, I just didn’t touch it with admiration, I actually used it!

As the long nosed machine was placed in my grasp, cold steely fingers wrapped around the handle, fitting into the grooves like it had been customized just for me. I carried the power tool down to the pathway with determination and courage, my chest muscles taut with rippling sinews, biceps bursting with power and my gut wiggling with each strutting step.

I finally arrived at the dirt and leaf strewn battlefield. The world would cower as I held the blood red air scepter. Raising the blower with one hand, the other hand clutched the starter cord, ready to let rip the most furious tsunami earth has seen. In one smooth but mighty motion I pulled the cord, waiting for the sound of whooshing wind. Nothing happened. Again I pulled to unleash the terror. Silence. I was sure the backyard hurricane maker was set on stealth mode.

Lowering the blower from over my head I flipped it over and back, looking for the cause of the malfunction. It was then I had to confess I had no clue how to turn on or operate the thing.

I glanced around to see if anyone were watching then popped behind a cement block to read the instructions on the side of the blower. After several minutes of cerebral intake I again yanked the cord. The blower snorted and sputtered but then, pulling the throttle, the blower purred to life. I thrust the blower into the air in an act of defiance. I soon realized I needed to stop the thrusting because this piece of hardware was heavy.

I lowered the beast and began to wreak havoc beneath the roads overpass. I grinned with glee as dirt and leaves instantly scattered like mice on hot tin, revealing the cleansed cement pathway beneath.

Blowing the refuse wherever I pointed gave me a sense of power. I controlled the elements.

I moved to some steps that had collected debris from falling leaves and sifting dirt. Pointing the blower toward the steps, refuse disappeared into oblivion. Shifting the throttle to rabbit run fast, the debris flew into the air causing an updraft that sent the rubbish flying toward the sky, twirling like a whirlwind, engulfing me in a dirt storm that settled on my perspiring arms, face, and eyes.

Temporarily blinded I staggered in a circle, rubbing the dust from my eyes not knowing I had pointed the blower directly at a passing bicyclist, swooshing him off his bike, sending him and his bike tumbling to the pathway.

Through blurry eyes I quickly turned the blower away from the now angry cyclist. Blowing dirt in every direction walkers and joggers gasped for breath, coughing and wheezing through the polluted air.

Through all the commotion I felt a harsh tap on my shoulder. I’d now lost control. Whirling around I inadvertently aimed the powerful stream of air directly into the face of an irate jogger. His cheeks filled with air like balloons and his lips flapped like paper in a cyclone. The jogger’s eyelids receded, causing eyes to look like marbles glued in his sockets while his hair blew straight like porcupine quills.

The jogger quickly dived to the ground, rolling away as if he’d been set on fire.

Pointing the blower into the sky I fumbled to find the throttle. More loosened leaves fell from the trees and birds tried to hold on with all their strength, digging their clawed feet deep into the branches.

Struggling in my state of panic I was tackled from behind and the blower was wrestled from my strangle hold. The owner quickly shut down the revving engine and shook his head as he hovered over my weakened body that was lying in the middle of the pathway. As he started to walk away I slowly reached out toward the machine that had caused so much havoc, hoping to stroke its scarlet side one more time.

For a few brief minutes I had been an all powerful mighty man who could move mountains, dispatch trees from their roots and cause ocean waters to recede.

Whatta Site

Recently Forbes listed the top 25 sites most visited annually in the United States.

Here is the list:

1. Times Square, 37.6 million
2. Las Vegas Strip, Nevada, 30 million
3. National Mall and Memorial Parks, Washington, 25 million
4. Faneuil Hall Marketplace, Boston, 20 million
5. Disney World's Magic Kingdom, Lake Buena Vista, Fla., 17.1 million
6. Disneyland Park, Anaheim, Calif., 14.9 million
7. Fisherman's wharf, Golden Gate National Park, San Francisco, 14.1 million
8. Niagara Falls, N.Y. 12 million
9. Great Smoky Mountains National Park, Tenn., N.C., 9.04 million
10. Navy Pier, Chicago, 8.6 million
11. Lake Mead National Recreation Area, Ariz.-., 7.6 million
12. Universal Studios -- Islands of Adventure, Orlando, 6.2 million
13. Sea World Florida, Orlando, 5.8 million
14. Delaware Water Gap National, Penn. N.J., 5.13
15. San Antonio Riverwalk, Texas, 5.1 million
16.Temple Square, Salt Lake City, 5 million

17. Universal Studios, Hollywood 4.7 milion

18. Metropolitain Mueseum NY 4.7 million

19. Cape Cod National Seashore, Mass 4 million

20. Grand Canyon, AZ 4.43 million

21. Busch Gardens/Africa USA Tampa Bay 4.4 million

22. Seaworld, San Diego CA 4.26 million

23. Independence National Historical Park, Philadelphia Penn. 4 million

24. American Museum of National History, NY 4 million

25. Waikiki Beach, Oahu Hawaii,

I was impressed with this list because Jan and I have actually been to nine of these sites, or ten, if you count crossing over the Delaware Water Gap on our way to New York City.

Times Square in New York ranks first with 37.6 million. Times Square is not really square and it covers a much smaller area than I’d thought. That’s a lot of people to visit one area. I question this statistic though. How do they count and what to they consider being visitors? When we visited Times Square I saw no counters, no interviewers to ask where people came from. I’m guessing most of those visitors are included on December 31^st , who come to the square to watch the ball drop. I always wondered what the big deal about that was.

Now, a place like Disney World/Land can count accurately because admission is paid and you actually pass through a gate. National Parks can count the number of people in each car as they collect fees. But places like Fisherman’s Warf, Las Vegas strip, National Mall, or the San Antonio Riverwalk, their counts are suspect.

You’ll notice that Temple Square is listed as the 16^th most visited place in the United States. That’s pretty amazing considering there’s no parking around there. I’ve got a little marketing background and I have a few suggestions on how Temple Square can work its way up the list. Of course, the square needs to add a few things that draw vacationers from these other places.

In a flash of brilliance I’ve devised a plan that will achieve this goal:

Rides. Lots of rides.

Thrill rides like the Expire by Spire where riders are hauled on scaffolding up to the top of the highest spire on the temple. Then, in a moment of absolute screaming terror the ropes give way and the riders plummet to within feet of the ground. What makes it scarier is that there are no hand rails or seat belts.

Other rides to consider is to add a couple of rollercoaster’s that whip and whoosh over and around the flowered plaza. The Choir Flyer would be a trembling wooden roller coaster with cars resembling hand carts. I can also picture The Tabernacle Twister, a modern coaster that swoops from the top of the Hotel Utah, then down through the doors of the tabernacle, and spiraling cork screw turns that screams past the podium and over the organ pipes.

Conference Center to the Earth would take awe struck visitors on a mythical journey to the earth’s center to see where the lost ten tribes are located. A few flying saucers filled with lost tribe members would fill the sky as the tribes wait to make their triumphant return.

The Book of Mormon Cruise would load travelers on a Jaredite barge. The ship would take travelers through the desert with Lehi and his family. The animatronics would make these characters come to life as Lehi picks up the Liahona and as Lamuel and Laman pick on Nephi. Witness the beheading of Laban, then drift by savage Lamanites who jump up from the bushes brandishing their clubs and spears, terrorizing the startled passengers.

Temple Square needs to throw in some stunts, too. How about skate boarders dressed like pioneers rolling off the copper topped tabernacle?! Square guests would be struck with wonder as they witness covered wagons zipping off ramps and flying over campfires fueled by torched “meadow muffins."

Finally, the annual event that will attract more visitors than any other venue- July 23^rd. As the clock closes in on midnight ushering in Pioneer day, a gargantuan multi-lighted colored beehive would descend from the top of the Church Office Building, the crowd below cheering and shouting for a new day to remember who made all this possible. A forward thinking creative marketing genius that launched Temple Square to number 15 on the most visited attractions in the USA. Yeah, that’s right-me.

Things I Learned in Lincoln, Nebraska

It was late Thursday afternoon, the day prior to the beginning of a needed vacation. The boss stops at my desk and tells me a project must be done before I leave. In a passive aggressive fit I complained outloud after he had walked away. As the day ended for everyone else I was still working, feeling stressed and angry. Christy, my cubicle neighbor, stopped by on her way out the door.
"What are you still doing here?"
"I'm trying to do as much as I can. Then I'm going to just leave."
Then in a thoughtful moment I posed, "When I return I may not have a job. But, at least I’ve been to Lincoln, Nebraska!"
Yup. Coming to Nebraska is worth losing everything for, except my marriage. OK, I don't want to lose a few other things either, like kids, house, or the multiple boxes of cereal stored in the spare bedroom.
There are many things related to the state of Nebraska. One is corn. During our Nebraska tour the only corn I saw were iced kernels in the freezer. The corn fields just hadn’t produced yet. The other thing relating to Nebraska is Mutual of Omaha. I have fond memories of Marlin Perkins “Wild Kingdom,” sponsored by the giant insurance company. I always thought Mutual of Omaha was a weekly activity for teens at church. Never did figure out why Omaha's mutual was so special.
The third thing belonging to Nebraska is tornadoes. Ever since Dorothy and her house were sucked up from the Kansas wheat fields and landing her in the Nebraska city of Ozmaha we've become keenly aware of the power of these dirt twirlers.
So, without extending the suspense longer, here is my list of things I learned in Nebraska:
1) Flying still scares me.
2) Noah is a funny kid. In trying to talk, if we didn’t understand him, he begins to sign. Sometimes it was like playing a game of charades with the little guy. He loves to jump: from the couch, off the ottoman, leap from his turned over rocking horse, off the bottom stair step, from the dining room chair, out of the car (non-moving of course). I told Kevin and Nicole I hope they have great insurance because they're going to need it to help heal their little daredevil.
3) Noah also loves hats, especially his red cowboy headgear, that came with his musical rocking horse. It’s rare to see a toddler enjoy wearing the fedora.

4) Lincoln, Nebraska is a city of nearly 250,000. Way larger than expected.
5) Runza’s must be an acquired taste. A runza tastes like chopped spicy meatloaf in a pita pocket. I believe it’s only found in Nebraska. There are many Runza fast food restaurants through out the state. They also serve hamburgers but I’m sure these are just Runza patties. And, apparently spell check doesn’t recognize the word Runza. It must have tasted one.

6) Cornhuskers rule!!! They do in Lincoln anyway. Scary name though. Envision troops of guys in overalls threatening their foes by pulling the husks off of corn cobs. I know if I saw this terrifying sight I’d turn and run.
7) The University of Nebraska is famous for football. At some point during this upcoming fall season the stadium will have sold out for 300 consecutive games. Not bad for there being seats for only 359 fans. Sorry, Nebraskans. Just kidding. It’s actually a huge stadium that dominates the Lincoln skyline. Not hard to do when the other major buildings are Runza restaurants.
8) The “Husker” paraphernalia dominates everything. From grill covers to shovels, all sport the blazing red “N”. They’ve also created several interesting sayings lettered across t-shirts, sweat shirts, and foreheads. Some of these read: “Children of the Corn:” another T shows a tornado with these words on either side, “Come for the weather, stay for the ride!”
9) In a place where athletes on the football field rule I found it funny to come across another t shirt that read, “Nebraska Bowling.” Oh yes, the dreaded Cornhusker bowling team. I can see a future job interview that goes like this:
Interviewer: “I see you played for the University of Nebraska.”
Alumni: “Yep, I played in several bowl games.”
10) Omaha Beef. I see this advertised in magazines, TV, etc.Their beef is the best. Only problem is I never saw any cattle. Either the beef is imported from Wyoming or the herbivores are hiding in the corn fields.
11) Lincoln has a heap lot of parks. They're all over the place.
12) Tornadoes. Enough can’t be said about these Tasmanian twisters. Comfort levels dive as you disembark from a plane and see signs in the airport directing you to underground tornado shelters.
13) Local TV stations know how to keep viewers. Every local station has what seems to be a continuous crawl across the bottom of the screen warning of impending severe weather. The information gives the name of counties that may experience thunder storms that could produce tornadoes. No one dares change the channel to cable because one of those dirty whirlwinds might creep up on you. I was a little suspicious though when the counties they began to mention were located in Hawaii. This supports the old TV adage, “if there’s no news, make something up.”
14) Ask to see my pet tornado. No, it’s not as scandalous as it sounds. Seems like a great Christmas present for Christina.
15) As usual, we picked record heat days to be there. The humidity was 80-90%. Many use the “feels like a sauna” or “just stepped out of the shower” phrases to describe what high humidity feels like. My description is “heavy sweat.” Enough said.
16) Never leave a debit card at Olive Garden as an accidental tip for the waiter. Ask Jan about that one. She’ll be glad to tell you.
17) Kevin and Nicole make great fries and hamburgers that are thicker than a thousand sheets of copy paper. I needed to dislocate my jaw like a boa constrictor eating an elephant to get my mouth around it. Jaw’s still flapping.
18) Kevin and Nicole are courageous, hard working, loving parents.
19) Noah does cry over spilt milk.

20) Nicole and jars of applesauce repel each other.

And finally, Jan and I truly enjoyed our Nebraska vacation. Nicole was a great tour guide and we loved being around Noah. Since he’s communicating we get a feel of his personality. He’s going to be a charmer. So, “Nam” and “Gapa” love these kids and wish they were closer. But we understand, Lincoln is a great place to raise a family. So to all the overall clad cornhuskers we bid farewell with a famous Nebraskan slogan, “Grab your corn and get the heck outa here. A
tornado's comin’!”

We captured some fireflies on video.

Handcart treks were often difficult, and sometimes accidents occurred along the way.


(Actually, Noah got tired and tried to rest.)


For some must push, and some must pull...





And some just play around!

Dollar Daze

Hors d’oeuvres

Prior to climbing into my personal slumber zone Jan and I kneel and have prayer together. We feel that’s the glue to our marriage. I get tired in the evening. Past 8:00 pm and the brain, body and spirit have entered an alternate reality. My eyeballs begin to wobble in their sockets, my breathing becomes heavy, speech becomes slurred and, occasionally, a few of the words formed by my lips may trail off into a soulful mumble.
When I pray there are certain items that are always on the shopping list. One of those check-off items is health. I ask for the health for the two of us so we can accomplish what is needed. One evening I was particularly weary. We knelt beside the bed. Here’s what I said:
“…and please bless us with health.”
Jan was a little upset after the amen’s.
“You just asked Heavenly Father to bless us with hell?”
“I did not.” I replied defensively. “I asked for health.”
“You asked that we be blessed with hell. I heard it.”
“Why would I ask to be blessed with hell?” I queried.
“I don’t know, but you did.” Jan was getting a little feisty. “We have enough hell already. Why would we want more?”
I had no answer.

Dessert

I have been impressed with the creativity of the dates our children have gone on with their spouses. Actually, if you put me to it, I can’t remember any of them. But, I am impressed with the date that I took Jan on.
I created a little invitation or warning depending on how one feels about my “surprises.” The note was a little larger than a green back. The left side displayed an illustration of a hand holding dollar bills, fanned out like playing cards. Here’s how it read:
“Jan” (it’s not like there were anyone else around who would assume this note was for them.)
“Welcome to $One Dollar Friday!”
After that “wowzer” of a headline scanning eyes naturally drifted to the small type below; “Your husband will tell you what this is all about. Just be ready by 5:30 pm Friday for a really great time. Well, I think so anyway.”
I carefully carried my masterpiece and taped it to where I knew Jan would see it. No, not the screen on the computer monitor. But right smack, GPS guided, in the middle of the bathroom mirror. I stood back and admired my work. Snickering at my cunning design, I quietly left Jan sleeping as I left for work.
Throughout the morning I checked my watch every few minutes, waiting for the magical phone call acknowledging my cleverness. Returning from a meeting there was a call on my voice mail. It was from Jan. I grinned as I locked into the message.
“Greg, this is your wife. I’m going to Wal-Mart to look for some shirts. I’ll try to be back by the time you come home for lunch.”
Then silence…
There was no indication of excitement at finding my invitation. No gushing glee of a wife filled with anticipation. I thought she would at least acknowledge that there was a piece of paper taped to the mirror.
I called her cell.
“Did you see anything unusual taped to the mirror this morning?”
“Oh yes. The unusual thing is that you were actually asking me out on a date.”
“Well, did you want to go or do you need to wash your hair or something?”
“I’m not sure what this is.”
“This will be guaranteed fun!”
Date time came. I came home around 5:15, changed my clothes then escorted Jan out to the coach. I asked her if she had any idea what was going on.
“I see two envelopes, is one for me?”
“Ahh, you don’t really see this yet.”
Earlier that day I had gone to the bank to deposit the expense check I had received. I asked that the $20 cash back be all in ones. The clerk replied, “You must have something planned, like a One Dollar Friday”
Wait! I thought I originated the idea. I was crushed. I should have patented this imaginative icon of dating dynamics.
Before we left I placed ten dollar bills in each envelope, writing our name on each.
The idea for this romantic rendezvous was to first get dinner from fast food dollar menus. I reviewed menus on line. I knew Jan would not eat anything on the discounted menu except from KFC. I parked behind the fried chicken coop and brought out the envelopes. As I handed one to Jan I told her that the idea was to use a little as possible in buying dinner off the dollar menu. As I mentioned, she couldn’t find anything worthwhile on the cheap menu so she spent $6.00 on a chicken breast meal. That left her only $4. I sacrificed my life and bought two chicken snackers along with a pair of apple turnovers. I spent $3.
After downing the pieces of fried fowl I drove to our next destination, The Dollar Store. I instructed Jan that with the money left we were to go into the store and buy items for one another. It could be anything.
The problem she had created with her dinner was that she only had $4 to spend on me. Being more frugal and caring, along with knowing the plan, I had $7. Realizing I was going to be on the losing end of present receptivity I gave her one extra dollar to even things out. I realize the math doesn’t quite add up but that’s OK.
Entering the store I picked up a shopping basket and gave it to Jan. We parted company as we embarked on this mini spree.
I quickly went to the candy aisle and plucked a bag of chocolate turtles from the shelf. I next wandered to the cosmetics row and placed a roll of cotton pads in the basket. I then found a book light that I thought was really cool if it worked. Shuffling to another aisle I picked up a spring green colored tote bag.
Lurking around the store like a spy following a foreign secret agent I was cautious to stay out of Jan’s sight. Turning down one aisle Jan suddenly appeared. Hiding my basket behind my back I jokingly acted like I was trying to peek into her basket to see what treasures she had snooped out for me.
“Here it is.” She unabashedly said while showing me her cavernously empty basket. “I don’t have anything yet. I don’t know what to buy.”
I closed my eyes and grimaced.
“Just think of things I might like” I instructed. “I can’t give you any hints. That destroys the whole purpose of this exercise. “
We parted company again.
Earlier that day Jan became frustrated because she couldn’t find a pen by the phone that worked. Going on that hunch I strolled over to the stationary section of the store. There I found what I believed were the ideal pens, The Executive Series Ball Point retractable pen set. The added bargain bonus was that there were three pens in the package.
I raced to the cashier, forked over my five dollars, and then ran to the car to hide the bag in the trunk. I went back into the store to find Jan finally at the check out counter.
Following our Dollar Store splurge we stopped at Redbox for a one dollar movie. But, before the movie we gave each other our bags. I was as excited as a kid anticipating the contents of his Christmas stocking. Jan went first. She pulled out the chocolate,
“I’m trying to cut back on sweets”
She pulled out the tote bag- “Oh this is nice.”
Then came the book light. “This is nice too, if it works”
Reaching in again she grabbed the cotton pads, “I already have a lot of these.”
Finally out came the Executive Series Retractable Ball Point Pens. She smiled widely. I thought at least one of my purchases passed the test of acceptance.
My turn was next. I plunged into the bag and lifted a small first aid kit. The next item was a fuzzy golden towel that promised it could be used a thousand times without unraveling.
“I tried to get things that were practical,” Jan explained.
I simultaneously yanked out a seven day pill box and a canister of Barbasol shaving cream. However, it was the last item that was most surprising. Out of the thousands of one dollar novelties stocked in the store Jan and I had given each other … the exact same Executive Series Ball Point Retractable Pens.
And that is why we have been married for 32 years, or is it 33?