The Rise and Fall of the Gregory “Rump”ire

“Hey, do you need some help?” I called out to the man who was backing up his stalled older Volvo by pushing against the driver’s side door frame with his right arm and attempting to steer the car with his left.

I was crossing the street between the Mail Tribune’s office building and distribution/press building. Since I don’t often see a man pushing his car backwards in the street I was quick to surmise that he probably needed a hand.

“I can’t get the car started, so if I can get it moving forward I can jump it,” he explained.

That made sense to me since I have seen toy trucks and cars that when revved backwards and then let go, zips across the floor. Same principle--

I walked over, dressed in shirt and tie, and pushed on the front grill. He backed the vehicle up several more yards, “That should be enough!”

Putting into practice my many years of Chinese fire drills, I ran to the back of the car and pushed on the rear door of the wagon while he pushed forward on the door frame.

Once the car started moving forward he jumped in the car and turned his key. Now, I’m not really sure how this works but I think it involves shifting and clutching. I was still pushing from the back when the car clunked and shuddered a few times, then fell silent.

“Hey, can we try it again?”he shouted.

‘Sure!” I answered confidently.

I’m sure he thought we were now best buddies. After all, I learned at a young age that “when you serve someone you add another friend.” (Mr. Brady; The Brady Bunch, episode 34, about half way through)

Again, I ran to the front of the car and helped push it backwards. We backed it up several more yards this time so we could really get it revved up.

He gave me a thumbs up and I ran to the back and again pushed the car forward.

As I pushed, I imagined hundreds of people staring in amazement out the windows of nearby office buildings and a restaurant across the street as they witnessed my magnanimous act of selfless service. Wearing a tie, while pushing a car, upped the sacrificial servitude points by the hundreds. I was thinking: this is such a great way to show the world how a true loving Christian serves the helpless and downtrodden.

I waved and nodded my head in acknowledgment to my fans who were now cheering me on behind the darkened windows of the buildings. I was their hero…their answer to all that is wrong in the world.

Believing I was the focus of everyone’s attention, I leaned even more into the car, digging into the pavement with feet made of steel and rippling muscles bulging through my smartly selected business attire.

My new found friend jumped into the car as it rattled and sputtered.

Like lightning, a thought briefly flashed through my mind: …if this car starts up, and I’m pushing mightily, I’m dea….

The car suddenly jerked to life, leaving me in mid air limbo as it pulled away.

I ran for several steps, leaning forward like a sprinter diving for the finish, arms flailing like windmills, hands grasping for anything solid, eyes closing, lips mouthing unintelligible misgivings. My right knee was first to make contact, then the hip, back and shoulder. I somersaulted, cart wheeled and threw in a few pirouettes through the gutter and onto the sidewalk.

I had hoped my supportive onlookers had turned their heads for a moment as their soldier tumbled. When my body stopped rolling like a hula hoop down a hill, I sprang to my feet and ran to the passenger side of the car. The driver thought I was dead.

“Are you OK?!”he shouted with concern. “Did you hit your head?!”

I started feeling my head to make sure it was still there. Then I grinned, told him I was fine, wasn’t hurt and sent him on his way.

Then…I started to laugh. I laughed loud. Out loud. With great gusto.

I wondered how that must have looked. Either no one was watching or they just didn’t care but no one came running to my aid. I heard no gasps as I went down. No screams of horror in seeing an old man rolling down the street.

I went into the restroom to check for damage. I had no scrapes, no rips, no visible sign of the catastrophe. I started to shake as adrenaline coursed through my body. I was relieved that no one had seen me.

Later, one of the van drivers called me over to his rolled down window.

“Hey, Greg!” he teased. “My van won’t start and I wondered if you could give me a push!”

He tossed his head back in laughter as I walked away, assaulted for a second time that day.

Things I Learned From 33 years of Marriage

Friday, April 23^rd was our 33^rd anniversary. The 33^rd year is rather odd. Sort of right in the middle and doesn’t sound as impressive as 30 or 35 years. So, I thought this would be a good time to share my multi years of experience with fellow husbands. If these suggestions are followed you will have a happy wife and a happy life. I realize this could be suicidal but here’s what I’ve learned from being married for 33 years.

When your wife is in the middle of hard labor delivering one of your precious children, don’t tell her you are tired, hungry, or wish she’d hurry up.

If the impossible happens and you are right about something, never jump around the room shouting, “I am the man!” or “I just schooled you!”

When playing a neighborhood game of whiffle ball on the front lawn, if you are pitching, hold the ball until your wife passes. Realize that Whiffle balls are "radared" right to your wife’s head.

Never tell your wife the carpet needs vacuumed, the floor needs sweeping, the toilet needs scrubbing. Be prepared to be shown the vacuum, handed the broom and struck with the toilet brush.

When your wife is driving be sure to never offer any driving advice. Enough said…

Also regarding driving, always turn where she says to turn, stop when she says stop, and don’t complain no matter how far off course you might end up.

Always change the baby’s diapers, feed and bathe them. Your wife might need to do the same for you when you are older. That’s when you hope she remembers how gentle you were with your babies.

If the toilet seat is left up don’t blame the dog.

Always say “excuse me” after a burp. Better yet, don’t burp.

Always let your wife handle the money. But, take it back immediately after she’s done touching it.

Root for Mr. Darcy, cheer for Jacob the werewolf, and don’t tell her every good looking male movie star is gay.

Even if you didn’t hear her, don’t make up answers to your wife’s questions.

You will never need to make another decision when buying clothes. She will buy them all for you. After all, you are dressing for her.

Don’t leave your shoes in the middle of the living room. Her feet will trip over them.

When watching a movie, dab your eyes occasionally with a tissue during the tender parts. Yeah, you’ve got her then.

Finally, always love her, treat her like royalty and realize she really is the boss.

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.