A note I sent to the Teacher of my youngest after having been sent a note concerning too many trips to the restroom.....Sometimes Teachers and school administration pole vault over the things that dont amount to a hill of excrement.
29 November 06
Memorandum for Fifth Grade Supervisor of Lyndsay Fisher
Subject: Unauthorized restroom breaks
Maam;
Reference Subject above and the “Important Note” sent home in my daughters signed paper folder yesterday.
Let me preface first by stating that I love Heritage and I find the faculty and staff are exemplary in every way. All of you are overworked and underpaid in my opinion. However……..,
While I fully understand the two authorized and supervised restroom breaks during the school day, It occurs to me that Lyndsays (and most other folks) kidneys work 24/7, and are subject to result in the URGE to go certainly more than twice in the time allotted for a routine school day.
Having asked Lyndsay how far she had to travel to the latrine, I was told approximately 20 steps. Having asked her how long it took to do her “business”, I was told possibly three minutes. If I add correctly, that means she has been unsupervised this past week for a grand total of nine minutes. It is important to note that in our house she has been having unsupervised restroom visits for the last 8 years or so, and I do not recall an issue.
On a side note--If I am to understand my daughter correctly, seems that a lot of the kids are allowed water bottles in class to alleviate the need for stops at the water fountain? Thinking out loud, couldn’t this possibly cause the unauthorized restroom break?
Help me help you save the time and energy , not to mention waste of paper, by saying that I can assume the risk of Lyndsay going unsupervised to the bathroom up to but not to exceed ten (10) visit’s a day, if that is what she needs to do. If she does go to the restroom more than that, then I very well may have an issue on my hands.
If her grade point average has suffered or ever does due to her unauthorized restroom stops, please advise.
Thanks for the fine job you do in educating and caring for my child.
George L. Fisher
Wednesday, November 29, 2006
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
PIG N' SWIM
Having almost completed my transition from my recent deployment, Wifey and I decided that since we had digs big enough to accommodate some guests that perhaps a cookout was in order.
Discussion ensued with the neighbors.
“Why not cook a Pig?” sayeth neighbor and Jack of all Trades Mike Wyrick.
“Why not, indeed”, sayeth I, as I reached for another Michelob light.
Intrigued, I ask my first and only question-
“How do you cook a whole pig do you cut him up and stuff him in the little grill I got or do you dig a pit in the backyard and where will we find this bovine to be named Jerome and will he (or she) cost a lot of money and how late do I have to stay up cause I really gave up the night years ago and I like to sleep 6 to 8 uninterrupted hours unless I get up to pee and will you be helping me cook it?”
Mike explained to me he used to cook pigs “When I was farming” and they did it several times a year---he then went into a dissertation ---a kind of a Hog Cooking 101.
I had hung out with enough backyard grilling experts and seen enough of the Food Channel to realize that this wasn’t rocket science—I had also consumed enough beer to commit to “Project Pigs Feet” right then and there—
The decision to do it was the easy part.
Fast forward a few days.
Wifey calls on the phone and tells me “I bought one of those pools at Wal-Mart”….her reasoning to me is so the kids can have somewhere to go cool off---Lord knows we wouldn’t want our little angels to have heat prostitution---or prostration, I forget which word…
She and I had this conversation a few days prior. “We need to buy one of those inflatable Wal-Mart Pools”, says she.
“Nope”, says I.
“I don’t want our little babies having heat prostitution, or prostration”, says she.
“They can use their young legs and double time it to the end of the street and damn well jump in the lake if they are hot”, says I, glancing in their direction as they were stretched out across the furniture in front of the television like a bunch of cats.
End of conversation.
I ate Frosted Cheerios for supper that night. Sue and the kids ate out.
Go figure.
The score after one inning, Man of the House 1, Family zilch.
More on the Pool later. Back to the Pig.
The reason for the cookout was quite simple. I wanted to see my family and friends, give them all a hug, tell ‘em I love ‘em and missed them, and also celebrate the birthday of the greatest country on Earth—its not everyday you turn 230 years old, you know.
Now, back to Jerome—I named the pig Jerome because the great Southern writer Lewis Grizzards’ heart valve came from a Pig---in his comedy routine he said the pigs name was Jerome—
Mike Wyrick, my friend and neighbor, and also a 200 pound equivalent of the Swiss Army knife (the man can do anything), tracked down the location to where we would buy Jerome, which was a 30 minute outside of Macon in Jeffersonville. Since the party was to be on the 1st of July, we arranged to pick up our little piece of porcine paradise (say that 5 times fast) the day prior—mainly because a 133 lb pig will not fit into the vegetable bin of my refrigerator. Yes Siree-bob, we were going whole hog.
Part 75 of the one and only question I asked Mike about was what to cook Jerome on—by this time we had decided that instead of just using an ample supply of cement blocks and fashioning a temporary cooker, that for a mere pittance Mike could gather the materials to make a permanent one from sheet metal. I am not ashamed to admit it, but while we were talking about building us a sho-nuff whole hog pork cooker, the smell of testosterone was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I got so darn excited about it I ran off to see brother Bubba and got his copy of “Willingham’s World Champion Barbeque” ---and started reading it at bedtime every night. I was psyched.
But back to my adventures as a pool owner….
I get home from work and Wifey has this huge pile of plastic and vinyl sprawled out in the center of the backyard. “There’s gonna be one hellacious dead spot here when we are done”, I tell her. “We might not ever be able to grow any grass here”…
“I ain't raising grass, I’m raising kids”…., as she pulls out a pile of white poles that would soon be a ladder. “Besides, I ain’t seen you cut the grass we do have!”
The score is now one all. I go inside, change into work clothes, and help Wifey put together the pool. I am crazy but not stupid.
Assembly is a snap, even for a mechanically deficient goob as myself. Mike the Knife shows up, and offers assistance in blowing the inflatable ring up with his trusty homemade air compressor complete with wheels and a handle to pull it along. We both go get it, and I take it back across the street with the promise of delivering it back myself when I am finished with it. The cord on the compressor is long, but not quite long enough, so I get an extension cord and with that I am able to roll the compressor down the steep bank into the backyard. In a matter of minutes, the inflatable ring is full of air, and so I gather up the compressor to take back across the street.
I hadn’t figured out how heavy the compressor would be coming back up the hill. It went down the hill just fine. I started to pull, it went a few feet, and stopped. I gathered my strength, planted my feet a little firmer, and heaved. Another couple of feet. It was obvious that I had been at a desk too long. And where on Earth is all the heat (or is it humidity?) coming from. I begin to sweat—profusely.
I will be damned if I let this thing whip me. I take a deep breath of stale, hot, not a breeze in sight unless there’s a tornado coming Macon Georgia air, and start giving it the old one two. I tug, pull, grunt, groan, moan, but am steadily gaining ground..I am going up the hill, up the hill, I think I can, I think I can….
I reach the Summit.
I am drenched. I am out of oxygen. Wifey hasn’t even turned around, and remains busy with the pool. I attempt to stand upright and pretend to breathe normally, but small bugs, grass clippings, and a neighborhood dog are all pulled in my direction as I inhale..
“Don’t let that thing whip you”, Mike the Knife says as he walks up, obviously impressed by my manly prowess.
“Too late”, I reply. While he chuckles, I adjust myself to make sure I didn’t lose a testicle or soil myself. At this moment I could have done both and wouldn’t be the wiser.
In less than 24 hours, the pool would be filled with 5000 gallons of water from the well, and my little angels would suffer from Heat procrastination no more. At the rate I was going, I may very well have jumped in with them……
But back to the Pork…..
We are a week or so away from the event, and Mike has now acquired the materials and begun assembling the cooker—Friends and neighbors, this thing is a work of art. Had there been Pig cooking or grilling around back in the days of Picasso or Rembrandt, maybe Mike would have had some competition. The cooker, about 4 feet wide and almost 8 feet long, is of a very simple design, but it is the simplicity that sets it apart from its peers. We hoisted the cooker into the bed of Mike’s pickup truck and carried it over to the backyard, placing it under a shady Oak tree. It stood there in all its glory, a manly structure if ever there was, and I contemplated posting signs near the cooker—WARNING: This is a high level Testosterone area. Act Accordingly.
We were almost set. The pool was being filled, the cooker was finished. We were approaching zero week, and it would be asses and elbows in getting the house I could ill afford cleaned up, going to get the rest of the food, etc….things were looking pretty good, and then it happened.
Disaster.
Two days later, Wifey calls me in quite the tizzy. Actually, Apoplexy is the right word, since I am trying to clean up my mouth and not say s--- hemorrhage anymore.
Mans best friend, Joe Fisher, the 14 yr old son who I want to grow up to be just like, was out on the mower cutting the backyard when a rock flew into the side of the pool, putting a gash in the side near the bottom.
Wifey, already under duress in cleaning the house and preparing for the first real shin-dig we ever had, calls with apoplexy and was in process of sharpening a kitchen knife and fixing it to where Joe would be unable to provide us any grandchildren ----BUT, I was able to talk her “off the ledge”, so to speak, and we could and would fix it.
OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!...............
The gash in the pool was minor, and it took nearly as long for the 5000 gallons of water to empty as it did to fill up---a full day and half the night—once empty, Sue put a patch on it and let it dry, and on Friday afternoon (party was Saturday at 1300) we started filling up the pool with another 5000 gallons—we have a well, so my water bill is ok…and as far as I can tell, the well has at least 10,000 available gallons of water….
The one disadvantage of cooking an entire pig is you have to stay up with him (or her)----I ain’t good at staying up at night. People are supposed to sleep at night, that’s why they made night dark. But, being the troopers we are, Mike the Knife, me, Mans best Friend, and even Winnie stayed up with the pig—Winnie lasted until 0300, Joe 0330, and Mike and I took a nap while no one was looking—possibly as long as 30 minutes.
Instead of the 10 hours we thought the pig would require, it took only 7. We kept him warm until about 1230 pm—by that time our first guests had arrived….
The pool was full and ready for action at 0600 Saturday morning. At one time during the event I looked in and counted a dozen little heads churning the water as if by a school of piranha. At any moment I suspected the patch would fail and in an instant 5000 gallons of water and a dozen young’uns would be swept away…it didn’t happen.
The patch is still in place. The Pig was dee-lish. There were no fights, and the cops didn’t have to show up. Someone counted about 80 folks not including the kids. Clean up was a snap, my testosterone level is back to normal, and I don’t think there was a single reported case of heat castration.
Jerome may have been a Jemima instead. But it is too late to find out now—the freezer is full of leftovers.
Life continues to be good. Did I mention how good it is to be home?
Discussion ensued with the neighbors.
“Why not cook a Pig?” sayeth neighbor and Jack of all Trades Mike Wyrick.
“Why not, indeed”, sayeth I, as I reached for another Michelob light.
Intrigued, I ask my first and only question-
“How do you cook a whole pig do you cut him up and stuff him in the little grill I got or do you dig a pit in the backyard and where will we find this bovine to be named Jerome and will he (or she) cost a lot of money and how late do I have to stay up cause I really gave up the night years ago and I like to sleep 6 to 8 uninterrupted hours unless I get up to pee and will you be helping me cook it?”
Mike explained to me he used to cook pigs “When I was farming” and they did it several times a year---he then went into a dissertation ---a kind of a Hog Cooking 101.
I had hung out with enough backyard grilling experts and seen enough of the Food Channel to realize that this wasn’t rocket science—I had also consumed enough beer to commit to “Project Pigs Feet” right then and there—
The decision to do it was the easy part.
Fast forward a few days.
Wifey calls on the phone and tells me “I bought one of those pools at Wal-Mart”….her reasoning to me is so the kids can have somewhere to go cool off---Lord knows we wouldn’t want our little angels to have heat prostitution---or prostration, I forget which word…
She and I had this conversation a few days prior. “We need to buy one of those inflatable Wal-Mart Pools”, says she.
“Nope”, says I.
“I don’t want our little babies having heat prostitution, or prostration”, says she.
“They can use their young legs and double time it to the end of the street and damn well jump in the lake if they are hot”, says I, glancing in their direction as they were stretched out across the furniture in front of the television like a bunch of cats.
End of conversation.
I ate Frosted Cheerios for supper that night. Sue and the kids ate out.
Go figure.
The score after one inning, Man of the House 1, Family zilch.
More on the Pool later. Back to the Pig.
The reason for the cookout was quite simple. I wanted to see my family and friends, give them all a hug, tell ‘em I love ‘em and missed them, and also celebrate the birthday of the greatest country on Earth—its not everyday you turn 230 years old, you know.
Now, back to Jerome—I named the pig Jerome because the great Southern writer Lewis Grizzards’ heart valve came from a Pig---in his comedy routine he said the pigs name was Jerome—
Mike Wyrick, my friend and neighbor, and also a 200 pound equivalent of the Swiss Army knife (the man can do anything), tracked down the location to where we would buy Jerome, which was a 30 minute outside of Macon in Jeffersonville. Since the party was to be on the 1st of July, we arranged to pick up our little piece of porcine paradise (say that 5 times fast) the day prior—mainly because a 133 lb pig will not fit into the vegetable bin of my refrigerator. Yes Siree-bob, we were going whole hog.
Part 75 of the one and only question I asked Mike about was what to cook Jerome on—by this time we had decided that instead of just using an ample supply of cement blocks and fashioning a temporary cooker, that for a mere pittance Mike could gather the materials to make a permanent one from sheet metal. I am not ashamed to admit it, but while we were talking about building us a sho-nuff whole hog pork cooker, the smell of testosterone was so thick you could have cut it with a knife. I got so darn excited about it I ran off to see brother Bubba and got his copy of “Willingham’s World Champion Barbeque” ---and started reading it at bedtime every night. I was psyched.
But back to my adventures as a pool owner….
I get home from work and Wifey has this huge pile of plastic and vinyl sprawled out in the center of the backyard. “There’s gonna be one hellacious dead spot here when we are done”, I tell her. “We might not ever be able to grow any grass here”…
“I ain't raising grass, I’m raising kids”…., as she pulls out a pile of white poles that would soon be a ladder. “Besides, I ain’t seen you cut the grass we do have!”
The score is now one all. I go inside, change into work clothes, and help Wifey put together the pool. I am crazy but not stupid.
Assembly is a snap, even for a mechanically deficient goob as myself. Mike the Knife shows up, and offers assistance in blowing the inflatable ring up with his trusty homemade air compressor complete with wheels and a handle to pull it along. We both go get it, and I take it back across the street with the promise of delivering it back myself when I am finished with it. The cord on the compressor is long, but not quite long enough, so I get an extension cord and with that I am able to roll the compressor down the steep bank into the backyard. In a matter of minutes, the inflatable ring is full of air, and so I gather up the compressor to take back across the street.
I hadn’t figured out how heavy the compressor would be coming back up the hill. It went down the hill just fine. I started to pull, it went a few feet, and stopped. I gathered my strength, planted my feet a little firmer, and heaved. Another couple of feet. It was obvious that I had been at a desk too long. And where on Earth is all the heat (or is it humidity?) coming from. I begin to sweat—profusely.
I will be damned if I let this thing whip me. I take a deep breath of stale, hot, not a breeze in sight unless there’s a tornado coming Macon Georgia air, and start giving it the old one two. I tug, pull, grunt, groan, moan, but am steadily gaining ground..I am going up the hill, up the hill, I think I can, I think I can….
I reach the Summit.
I am drenched. I am out of oxygen. Wifey hasn’t even turned around, and remains busy with the pool. I attempt to stand upright and pretend to breathe normally, but small bugs, grass clippings, and a neighborhood dog are all pulled in my direction as I inhale..
“Don’t let that thing whip you”, Mike the Knife says as he walks up, obviously impressed by my manly prowess.
“Too late”, I reply. While he chuckles, I adjust myself to make sure I didn’t lose a testicle or soil myself. At this moment I could have done both and wouldn’t be the wiser.
In less than 24 hours, the pool would be filled with 5000 gallons of water from the well, and my little angels would suffer from Heat procrastination no more. At the rate I was going, I may very well have jumped in with them……
But back to the Pork…..
We are a week or so away from the event, and Mike has now acquired the materials and begun assembling the cooker—Friends and neighbors, this thing is a work of art. Had there been Pig cooking or grilling around back in the days of Picasso or Rembrandt, maybe Mike would have had some competition. The cooker, about 4 feet wide and almost 8 feet long, is of a very simple design, but it is the simplicity that sets it apart from its peers. We hoisted the cooker into the bed of Mike’s pickup truck and carried it over to the backyard, placing it under a shady Oak tree. It stood there in all its glory, a manly structure if ever there was, and I contemplated posting signs near the cooker—WARNING: This is a high level Testosterone area. Act Accordingly.
We were almost set. The pool was being filled, the cooker was finished. We were approaching zero week, and it would be asses and elbows in getting the house I could ill afford cleaned up, going to get the rest of the food, etc….things were looking pretty good, and then it happened.
Disaster.
Two days later, Wifey calls me in quite the tizzy. Actually, Apoplexy is the right word, since I am trying to clean up my mouth and not say s--- hemorrhage anymore.
Mans best friend, Joe Fisher, the 14 yr old son who I want to grow up to be just like, was out on the mower cutting the backyard when a rock flew into the side of the pool, putting a gash in the side near the bottom.
Wifey, already under duress in cleaning the house and preparing for the first real shin-dig we ever had, calls with apoplexy and was in process of sharpening a kitchen knife and fixing it to where Joe would be unable to provide us any grandchildren ----BUT, I was able to talk her “off the ledge”, so to speak, and we could and would fix it.
OH THE HUMANITY!!!!!...............
The gash in the pool was minor, and it took nearly as long for the 5000 gallons of water to empty as it did to fill up---a full day and half the night—once empty, Sue put a patch on it and let it dry, and on Friday afternoon (party was Saturday at 1300) we started filling up the pool with another 5000 gallons—we have a well, so my water bill is ok…and as far as I can tell, the well has at least 10,000 available gallons of water….
The one disadvantage of cooking an entire pig is you have to stay up with him (or her)----I ain’t good at staying up at night. People are supposed to sleep at night, that’s why they made night dark. But, being the troopers we are, Mike the Knife, me, Mans best Friend, and even Winnie stayed up with the pig—Winnie lasted until 0300, Joe 0330, and Mike and I took a nap while no one was looking—possibly as long as 30 minutes.
Instead of the 10 hours we thought the pig would require, it took only 7. We kept him warm until about 1230 pm—by that time our first guests had arrived….
The pool was full and ready for action at 0600 Saturday morning. At one time during the event I looked in and counted a dozen little heads churning the water as if by a school of piranha. At any moment I suspected the patch would fail and in an instant 5000 gallons of water and a dozen young’uns would be swept away…it didn’t happen.
The patch is still in place. The Pig was dee-lish. There were no fights, and the cops didn’t have to show up. Someone counted about 80 folks not including the kids. Clean up was a snap, my testosterone level is back to normal, and I don’t think there was a single reported case of heat castration.
Jerome may have been a Jemima instead. But it is too late to find out now—the freezer is full of leftovers.
Life continues to be good. Did I mention how good it is to be home?
Domestic Bliss in the Millenium
This past week Wifey had a job doing that graphic layout designing thing that she does, which relegated me into a life of having to look after things upstairs---mere child’s play, I think to myself..
The Week looked something like this:
MONDAY- Arrive home from work, psyched to the max—I would impress upon Wifey how simple planning, time management and a little enthusiasm could get er done, even if I had just completed an 8 hour day 80 miles away—
Change out of uniform, get into kitchen, take whole roasting chicken out of the fridge, preheat oven to 350 degrees, and prepare chicken for roasting with herbs and spices—garlic pepper, kosher salt, fresh ground black pepper, thyme and rosemary. Gently coat bird in extra virgin olive oil prior to the rubbing on of spices. Also, begin to thaw the vegetables—on this night it will be cream corn with extra can of whole kernel corn added, and the delectable ford hook lima beans cooked just so--- (Butterbeans for those of us who live in the South).
Prepare fresh pitcher of Sweet Tea, and make idle chit-chat with kids about school, their dreams and goals in life. Wisely elect to feed doggies so they will not end up begging for scraps at the table. Fresh water and dry food aplenty.
Once the bird is placed in the oven and vegetables begin their initial warm up, empty the dishwasher and assemble clean plates, silverware, and glasses.
Help 16 year old daughter child finish the laundry, and have everyone take their own clothes to their respective rooms. Do this with enthusiastic dispatch, and then read the Macon Telegraph in its entirety whilst dinner cooks itself.
After the sumptuous meal, quickly assign KP duties to the girls, with the trash disposal tasked to Mans best friend. Manage and supervise in exemplary fashion, even taking time to show the correct way to load the dishwasher and replace the garbage bag. Use roasted chicken carcass as basis for Chicken Soup—put carcass in pot, add water, boil to a fare thee well in conjunction with kitchen police. Take to sink, strain, and sort good chicken from the rest of the chicken carcass-- Place pot in refrigerator overnight.
Place emphasis on light and thermostat discipline, and take the rest of the evening off, only after having ensured that all offspring have lessons complete and clothing available for the next duty day.
Dismissal of all Troops to their respective areas approx 2030 hrs.
Retire to bedroom and read until drifting off to sleep, approx 2130 hrs. Last conscious thought was how easy this is….
TUESDAY—
After working a half hour late, arrive home and gather soaking wet newspaper from driveway. Go inside, notice only 1/3 of dependants around, and in an effort to save time, dispense with changing out of army clothes and get right to preparation of the evening meal. Tonight the menu calls for Chicken Soup and Sandwich medley. Remove chicken stock from fridge and place on stove. Use existing half used box of linguini noodles and almost empty bag of egg noodles from previous meals and add to pot—add dash of hot sauce, and whatever else located near the stove. Let odor waft thru the house and take pride in getting the most out of your $4.25. Grab loaf of Colonial Old Fashioned White Bread (Hallowed be its crust) –remove 8 slices from the bag, and prepare sammys made from PBJ, Ham w/ Mayo/mustard combo, and Bologna w/ mustard. Assemble sammys, and cut each into 4 adorable little triangles. Keep in mind that presentation is the key, so arrange soup in middle of plate, with cutesy cut sammys neatly around the bowl at 12, 3, 6, and 9 o’clock.
After meal is prepared, go out in search of dependents. Find two kids, and ask wife if she would like to eat at the table or be served at her workstation down in the basement. Get no answer, so ask again—louder. Inform her the meal isn’t getting any warmer. Answer phone call from oldest who plays 20 questions about what is for supper, only to elect to eat at neighbors across the street.
Serve meal to the kids and yourself. Give bites of PBJ sammy to each dog as it is amusing to watch them get the peanut butter down without licking a dozen times. Drink all but the last swallow of Tea from night before—the swallow that has more than its share of grounds in it—and save for working wife. Immediately after meal, put bowls in sink, paper plates and napkins in trash can. Add the bowls to the dirty dishes that have collected since Monday evening when they were all clean-- ask out loud and to no one in particular just how in the hell that happened, then serve the working wife her dinner after the kitchen is cleaned. Fill the water bowl with a little extra for the peanut butter breath dogs, and throw a handful of food in the bowl. Wipe the stove, turn out the lights, and notice the folded clothes on the couch. Resolve to get them tomorrow. Threaten to cut the legs off your son if he doesn’t get the trash can moved to the curb, and answer “BECAUSE I SAID SO” when he questions why he has to take a shower two nights in a row.
Announce to entire house, ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 39 Please take thine narrow asses to bed!”-- Then retire to your own room.
Finally take off uniform and remember to do what you intended on doing the very moment you got home—go to the bathroom and take a leak.
Tempis Fugit (Time Flies), you say to yourself as you hit the sack, lapsing into a coma as the room turns dark.
WEDNESDAY
Arrive home to another soaking wet newspaper and mailbox full of bills. Have apoplexy as you read the power bill as you walk to the front door. Ascending the steps, trip over one small razor two wheeled scooter –grunt, then use profanity. Go inside cussing the power company and Ben Franklin for the whole electricity thing and notice every light in the house on. Throw George Fisher style fit and threaten kids with not only their lives, but the lives of any kids they plan on having. Notice out of corner of your eye the dogs have ran up under the sofa to hide.
Go into Kitchen, wonder just how in the world the sink got so full of dishes, and marvel at the collection of drinking glasses you have acquired in 17 years of marriage, all on display in sink number two. Beer Glasses, Jelly Jar glasses, and even a holiday glass from Arbys, circa 1987. Look around and notice no one anywhere near you in the house.
Prepare dinner by going to the fridge and grabbing a pack of Hot Dogs and Brats. Cut some potatoes into wedges and throw some olive oil and salt on them and toss them into a 400 degree oven. Light grill with grill lighter you just recently purchased in a multipack of three from Wal-Mart, but only after have looked downstairs, upstairs, the bedrooms, back deck, the workshop, and the backseat of my car. On way to light grill grab handful of paper towels and wipe forehead of sweat—cuss because it has become increasingly hot in the house due to thermostats being adjusted to save money.
Open a can of Baked beans and put in saucepan on stove. Search high and low for the tongs you got for Fathers day. Find them right before the hot dogs and Brats spontaneously combust. Forget about the potatoes in the oven, but rescue them when they are the shade of the bark commonly found on a Georgia pine. Make pitcher of Sweet tea, using too much water and not enough sugar. Listen to the 10 year old wax eloquently on how the tea is “not like Mommas and boy is she not going to like this at all.”
As the dinner hour approaches, send out rescue party to see where 14 yr old son is. Receive “visit” from 16 yr old daughter who grabs a hot dog “to go” since she is helping the neighbor lady with her kids.. Discover when Joe, aka Mans best friend, comes home an hour later that he was playing pool at Johns, and inform him he has broken General Order number 1, and that he is confined to quarters for the next 24 hours. On his way to his room he can “damn well take out the trash young man”--- Take pride in yourself for exercising some “tough love” as you leave a hot dog and baked beans on the stove in case anyone wanders down in the middle of the night hungry. Feed each dog half a bratwurst apiece, and take the glasses and pile in the sink. Pray that the dish fairy comes in during the night and cleans them. Plop down on couch, exhausted. Pull folded clothes out from under your butt in order to make some room and get comfortable. By doing some quick planning in your head, you figure out the rest of the week’s dinner menu:
THURSDAY- Cereal with or with out milk. With or without bowls. Ala Carte.
FRIDAY- Papa Johns Pizza
Life is good—but it’s been a tough week.
The Week looked something like this:
MONDAY- Arrive home from work, psyched to the max—I would impress upon Wifey how simple planning, time management and a little enthusiasm could get er done, even if I had just completed an 8 hour day 80 miles away—
Change out of uniform, get into kitchen, take whole roasting chicken out of the fridge, preheat oven to 350 degrees, and prepare chicken for roasting with herbs and spices—garlic pepper, kosher salt, fresh ground black pepper, thyme and rosemary. Gently coat bird in extra virgin olive oil prior to the rubbing on of spices. Also, begin to thaw the vegetables—on this night it will be cream corn with extra can of whole kernel corn added, and the delectable ford hook lima beans cooked just so--- (Butterbeans for those of us who live in the South).
Prepare fresh pitcher of Sweet Tea, and make idle chit-chat with kids about school, their dreams and goals in life. Wisely elect to feed doggies so they will not end up begging for scraps at the table. Fresh water and dry food aplenty.
Once the bird is placed in the oven and vegetables begin their initial warm up, empty the dishwasher and assemble clean plates, silverware, and glasses.
Help 16 year old daughter child finish the laundry, and have everyone take their own clothes to their respective rooms. Do this with enthusiastic dispatch, and then read the Macon Telegraph in its entirety whilst dinner cooks itself.
After the sumptuous meal, quickly assign KP duties to the girls, with the trash disposal tasked to Mans best friend. Manage and supervise in exemplary fashion, even taking time to show the correct way to load the dishwasher and replace the garbage bag. Use roasted chicken carcass as basis for Chicken Soup—put carcass in pot, add water, boil to a fare thee well in conjunction with kitchen police. Take to sink, strain, and sort good chicken from the rest of the chicken carcass-- Place pot in refrigerator overnight.
Place emphasis on light and thermostat discipline, and take the rest of the evening off, only after having ensured that all offspring have lessons complete and clothing available for the next duty day.
Dismissal of all Troops to their respective areas approx 2030 hrs.
Retire to bedroom and read until drifting off to sleep, approx 2130 hrs. Last conscious thought was how easy this is….
TUESDAY—
After working a half hour late, arrive home and gather soaking wet newspaper from driveway. Go inside, notice only 1/3 of dependants around, and in an effort to save time, dispense with changing out of army clothes and get right to preparation of the evening meal. Tonight the menu calls for Chicken Soup and Sandwich medley. Remove chicken stock from fridge and place on stove. Use existing half used box of linguini noodles and almost empty bag of egg noodles from previous meals and add to pot—add dash of hot sauce, and whatever else located near the stove. Let odor waft thru the house and take pride in getting the most out of your $4.25. Grab loaf of Colonial Old Fashioned White Bread (Hallowed be its crust) –remove 8 slices from the bag, and prepare sammys made from PBJ, Ham w/ Mayo/mustard combo, and Bologna w/ mustard. Assemble sammys, and cut each into 4 adorable little triangles. Keep in mind that presentation is the key, so arrange soup in middle of plate, with cutesy cut sammys neatly around the bowl at 12, 3, 6, and 9 o’clock.
After meal is prepared, go out in search of dependents. Find two kids, and ask wife if she would like to eat at the table or be served at her workstation down in the basement. Get no answer, so ask again—louder. Inform her the meal isn’t getting any warmer. Answer phone call from oldest who plays 20 questions about what is for supper, only to elect to eat at neighbors across the street.
Serve meal to the kids and yourself. Give bites of PBJ sammy to each dog as it is amusing to watch them get the peanut butter down without licking a dozen times. Drink all but the last swallow of Tea from night before—the swallow that has more than its share of grounds in it—and save for working wife. Immediately after meal, put bowls in sink, paper plates and napkins in trash can. Add the bowls to the dirty dishes that have collected since Monday evening when they were all clean-- ask out loud and to no one in particular just how in the hell that happened, then serve the working wife her dinner after the kitchen is cleaned. Fill the water bowl with a little extra for the peanut butter breath dogs, and throw a handful of food in the bowl. Wipe the stove, turn out the lights, and notice the folded clothes on the couch. Resolve to get them tomorrow. Threaten to cut the legs off your son if he doesn’t get the trash can moved to the curb, and answer “BECAUSE I SAID SO” when he questions why he has to take a shower two nights in a row.
Announce to entire house, ANYONE UNDER THE AGE OF 39 Please take thine narrow asses to bed!”-- Then retire to your own room.
Finally take off uniform and remember to do what you intended on doing the very moment you got home—go to the bathroom and take a leak.
Tempis Fugit (Time Flies), you say to yourself as you hit the sack, lapsing into a coma as the room turns dark.
WEDNESDAY
Arrive home to another soaking wet newspaper and mailbox full of bills. Have apoplexy as you read the power bill as you walk to the front door. Ascending the steps, trip over one small razor two wheeled scooter –grunt, then use profanity. Go inside cussing the power company and Ben Franklin for the whole electricity thing and notice every light in the house on. Throw George Fisher style fit and threaten kids with not only their lives, but the lives of any kids they plan on having. Notice out of corner of your eye the dogs have ran up under the sofa to hide.
Go into Kitchen, wonder just how in the world the sink got so full of dishes, and marvel at the collection of drinking glasses you have acquired in 17 years of marriage, all on display in sink number two. Beer Glasses, Jelly Jar glasses, and even a holiday glass from Arbys, circa 1987. Look around and notice no one anywhere near you in the house.
Prepare dinner by going to the fridge and grabbing a pack of Hot Dogs and Brats. Cut some potatoes into wedges and throw some olive oil and salt on them and toss them into a 400 degree oven. Light grill with grill lighter you just recently purchased in a multipack of three from Wal-Mart, but only after have looked downstairs, upstairs, the bedrooms, back deck, the workshop, and the backseat of my car. On way to light grill grab handful of paper towels and wipe forehead of sweat—cuss because it has become increasingly hot in the house due to thermostats being adjusted to save money.
Open a can of Baked beans and put in saucepan on stove. Search high and low for the tongs you got for Fathers day. Find them right before the hot dogs and Brats spontaneously combust. Forget about the potatoes in the oven, but rescue them when they are the shade of the bark commonly found on a Georgia pine. Make pitcher of Sweet tea, using too much water and not enough sugar. Listen to the 10 year old wax eloquently on how the tea is “not like Mommas and boy is she not going to like this at all.”
As the dinner hour approaches, send out rescue party to see where 14 yr old son is. Receive “visit” from 16 yr old daughter who grabs a hot dog “to go” since she is helping the neighbor lady with her kids.. Discover when Joe, aka Mans best friend, comes home an hour later that he was playing pool at Johns, and inform him he has broken General Order number 1, and that he is confined to quarters for the next 24 hours. On his way to his room he can “damn well take out the trash young man”--- Take pride in yourself for exercising some “tough love” as you leave a hot dog and baked beans on the stove in case anyone wanders down in the middle of the night hungry. Feed each dog half a bratwurst apiece, and take the glasses and pile in the sink. Pray that the dish fairy comes in during the night and cleans them. Plop down on couch, exhausted. Pull folded clothes out from under your butt in order to make some room and get comfortable. By doing some quick planning in your head, you figure out the rest of the week’s dinner menu:
THURSDAY- Cereal with or with out milk. With or without bowls. Ala Carte.
FRIDAY- Papa Johns Pizza
Life is good—but it’s been a tough week.
AQUAMARINE!!
Mckibben Lane Elementary school...2nd Grade --fall of 1969..snot nosed kids abound. Teachers with those funky glasses like they wore back then (the good looking teachers all got knocked up and left the program)...we are talking RETRO...
It is coloring time..Construction paper handed out, and kids break out the Binney Smith Crayolas from our desk bags--yall remember Desk Bags? The canvas deal that tied t the side of the desk--pouch opened up for your notebooks, the pockets on the front for rulers, watercolors, etc. at the end of the school year you could take them home and have your mom wash them for next year---
if you were in the 4th grade, you could take the deskbag home and explain to your mom why it was that you wrote the word F--- on their --but that's yet another story) --
-anyhow..the Binney Smith Crayolas--they are next to the PASTE. How bout that PASTE? Who the heck invented that mess? It was in the plastic white jug that is supposed to look like a barrel and it is all but dried up...
Later, like in the 5th grade, the Ol man came into some money and purchased the Fisher kids rubber cement---Rubber cement is what made the hottest girl in school, Wanda Beck (hallowed be thy name) come up to me and ask to borrow my rubber cement. She was wearing hot pants--it was 1972---but that's yet ANOTHER story----anyway, back to PASTE.
Some of these kids live off this stuff as opposed to the school lunch. In fact, if it weren't for boogers and paste, some of these kids would have scurvy.... Crayolas in hand, and we go to work in earnest--coloring pictures of our pets, perhaps flowers and trees-- the normal 5-6 yr old stuff.. Guerry Bruner, my boyhood Friend and idol, readies himself in his typical fashion--goes for the ruler, lays out what he needs, and sharpens crayons accordingly (he has the 64 count deluxe box w/built in sharpener as I recall)-- Guerry Bruner, if you need me to paint a picture, is the little boy in class with the slicked back black hair, and not a one out of place, thankyouverymuch. Neat as a pin, while the rest of us were unkempt and probably infested with lice. This little second grader
looked just like he stepped out of a Sears & Roebuck Sunday ad.
A little while into our artistic endeavor, and I notice that while the rest of us are doing normal kid stuff with our crayons, and another few have resorted to picking noses or eating whats left of the paste (the scurvy kids), Guerry has been in ARCHITECT mode and drawn a Crane...with tracks, a boom, winch, to include the metal work that supports same..so, next thing you know there is a crowd of booger eaters around his desk pointing, whispering, and asking WHATS THAT, WHATS THAT.... Finally, It may have been ME who asked, as my 42 year old memory fails me now, but SOMEONE asked what color crayon he was using--the color most magnificent and the contrast and hue unequaled by anything I had seen in my entire 6 years or even in his deluxe 64 count box with built in sharpener....
With little to no hesistation, he replied "AQUAMARINE"---it resonated across the room as if a battle cry--an alert to duty, like "THE INJUNS ARE COMING!", or DAMN THE TORPEDOES.... "AQUAMARINE", Indeed. Never had a color shone so bright, so crisp, or so....so....BLUE-GREEN... Needless to say, the rest of us rifled thru our worn down, nubbed, chewed on Crayolas desperately searching for AQUAMARINE...actually, my search would be a futile one, for it wasn't until that Christmas that I got a box of DELUXE 64 count w/Sharpener Crayolas, and had AQUAMARINE of my own to wear down to nothing. It was always the most used crayon in my box.
In my office I currently look at a framed photo I have of Guerry and I--resting on the frame is a Binney Smith Color Crayon--AQUAMARINE.
The Crayola AQUAMARINE color crayon. My buddy Guerry. Life is better for having known them both.
It is coloring time..Construction paper handed out, and kids break out the Binney Smith Crayolas from our desk bags--yall remember Desk Bags? The canvas deal that tied t the side of the desk--pouch opened up for your notebooks, the pockets on the front for rulers, watercolors, etc. at the end of the school year you could take them home and have your mom wash them for next year---
if you were in the 4th grade, you could take the deskbag home and explain to your mom why it was that you wrote the word F--- on their --but that's yet another story) --
-anyhow..the Binney Smith Crayolas--they are next to the PASTE. How bout that PASTE? Who the heck invented that mess? It was in the plastic white jug that is supposed to look like a barrel and it is all but dried up...
Later, like in the 5th grade, the Ol man came into some money and purchased the Fisher kids rubber cement---Rubber cement is what made the hottest girl in school, Wanda Beck (hallowed be thy name) come up to me and ask to borrow my rubber cement. She was wearing hot pants--it was 1972---but that's yet ANOTHER story----anyway, back to PASTE.
Some of these kids live off this stuff as opposed to the school lunch. In fact, if it weren't for boogers and paste, some of these kids would have scurvy.... Crayolas in hand, and we go to work in earnest--coloring pictures of our pets, perhaps flowers and trees-- the normal 5-6 yr old stuff.. Guerry Bruner, my boyhood Friend and idol, readies himself in his typical fashion--goes for the ruler, lays out what he needs, and sharpens crayons accordingly (he has the 64 count deluxe box w/built in sharpener as I recall)-- Guerry Bruner, if you need me to paint a picture, is the little boy in class with the slicked back black hair, and not a one out of place, thankyouverymuch. Neat as a pin, while the rest of us were unkempt and probably infested with lice. This little second grader
looked just like he stepped out of a Sears & Roebuck Sunday ad.
A little while into our artistic endeavor, and I notice that while the rest of us are doing normal kid stuff with our crayons, and another few have resorted to picking noses or eating whats left of the paste (the scurvy kids), Guerry has been in ARCHITECT mode and drawn a Crane...with tracks, a boom, winch, to include the metal work that supports same..so, next thing you know there is a crowd of booger eaters around his desk pointing, whispering, and asking WHATS THAT, WHATS THAT.... Finally, It may have been ME who asked, as my 42 year old memory fails me now, but SOMEONE asked what color crayon he was using--the color most magnificent and the contrast and hue unequaled by anything I had seen in my entire 6 years or even in his deluxe 64 count box with built in sharpener....
With little to no hesistation, he replied "AQUAMARINE"---it resonated across the room as if a battle cry--an alert to duty, like "THE INJUNS ARE COMING!", or DAMN THE TORPEDOES.... "AQUAMARINE", Indeed. Never had a color shone so bright, so crisp, or so....so....BLUE-GREEN... Needless to say, the rest of us rifled thru our worn down, nubbed, chewed on Crayolas desperately searching for AQUAMARINE...actually, my search would be a futile one, for it wasn't until that Christmas that I got a box of DELUXE 64 count w/Sharpener Crayolas, and had AQUAMARINE of my own to wear down to nothing. It was always the most used crayon in my box.
In my office I currently look at a framed photo I have of Guerry and I--resting on the frame is a Binney Smith Color Crayon--AQUAMARINE.
The Crayola AQUAMARINE color crayon. My buddy Guerry. Life is better for having known them both.
BLEND IT AND THEY WILL COME
"BLEND IT AND THEY WILL COME"
It was older than my kids. My almost 16 year old Oster blender, a wedding gift affectionately known as "Excalibur", sustained major injuries this week as a result of being mishandled by obviously disgruntled employees of the ever dysfunctional Delta airlines. Excalibur made milkshakes from time to time, but its true calling was the perfect mixing of Frozen margaritas-the "frozen concoction that helps us hang on", as the song goes.
I have been traveling with Excalibur for some time, now, having discovered that when away from home that not only would a frozen margaritas would be cheaper if one made them themselves, but it was a great way to "make some friends", as Stu Drake, one of Excalibur's best customers, always said.
Indeed.
It made Margaritas for all my rowdy and not so rowdy friends, but most times for my National Guard buddies-in most of the 13 original colonies, and most recently Nebraska, who mourn with me in my recent loss. It has blended from Memphis to San Diego, and even entertained international guests from the Republic of Georgia. Excalibur had no enemies, and left happiness in its wake. The FRAPPE button on Excalibur was the key that made our margaritas just a little bit better than the competition---FRAPPE is a French word that, when roughly translated, means "MIX THE EVERLIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF..."
To Frappe with Excalibur was like getting a chance to run the bases at Fenway Park. Excalibur made quite a sound when frappaying-once the margarita was halfway complete, the motor would shift gears, go into climbing gear and the sound would go from a high pitch climbing gear into a deep throated, 8 cylinder 455 cubic inch positive tractioned roar that would make an F-16 in full afterburner pale in comparison. And the result? A perfect Margarita, a room full of friends, and good times to the max. No Limes? No Salt? No Problem.
So one can imagine my shock when, as I unpacked from my flight into Barstow from Atlanta this week, I discovered that the plastic pitcher had been cracked.
"BASTARDS", I screamed out loud, followed by a string of profanity as only me, my Father, and Grandfather would be capable of spewing. I cussed the overpaid baggage handlers. I cussed Delta airlines, and wished them bankruptcy. I cussed the Atlanta airport with all its trappings, a place that I have grown to detest. I then did what anyone else would have done who faced the prospect of having a roomful of buddies expecting FROZEN FRAPPAYED Margaritas available in less than 2 hours-I tried to put it back together.
The crack was a long one, so I tried to align in such a way as to possibly just allow for a small leak -I could get by with that-I filled the blender up with water from the sink and it continued to pour out. GODAMNSIEVE!, I screamed again-- The tequila would surely do the same, and since tequila is not the cheapest stuff in the store, I decided this wouldn't work.
Not knowing what to do next, I called Stu. Thomas S. Drake. The Stubester. Stu is beyond being the bomb. He is righteous. He is coveted, and hallowed is his name.
"STU!" I said, all the while trying to keep my composure, "the Bastards broke my blender!".
"WHAT?!?", Stu asked incredulously.
I then explained to him my tale of woe, and as he knew that I had a better chance of peeing on somebody's head and tell them it was raining than try to give our buds margaritas on the rocks. That wasn't, or isn't, in my humble opinion, the way to run a railroad. It surely wasn't the way to conduct Happy Hour in room 143 of the Holiday Inn Express, Barstow. It's the FROZEN CONCOCTION, like the song says. I had to be true to myself. To do anything less would be just as bad as smoking crack with the devil while dancing around the bible fire.
"We can go to Wal-Mart and get another one", Stu suggested. In my state of shock, I had not thought of buying another blender. For god sakes, I hadn't even had a chance to mourn for Excalibur, and now here it was being suggested to replace it. Didn't Excalibur deserve a little more reverence? It was all happening too fast. My shock intensified. Stu said, "Get ready, I am on the way", and hung up. In less time than you could say "salt on the rim" he was at the door. He put his arm on my shoulder and told me it was going to be alright. When Stu says that, you can take it to the bank. Since I trust him with my life, we departed out the door, headed to Wal-Mart.
By this time some of the other folks had found out somehow that Excalibur had bought the farm, and so they too came along with us, offering support.
In my haste, I had forgotten to call my wife and tell her the tragic news. While Stu and the others were working feverishly to get us to Wal- Mart, I called Sue and told her about Excalibur. She took the news like a man, and said we would just have to get another one. She didn't seem too concerned that I was trying to deal with my grief. "Just don't get some wussy froo froo smoothie making blender-no REAL MAN would be seen with one!"
Damn, I think to myself. Tough Crowd. I agreed with her, but only for the reason that the smoothie maker was more at risk during travel than the standard blender. I was still thinking of some kind of closure for Excalibur and I while Stu drove hell-bent for Wal Mart. Stu was driving at least 10 miles over the statutory speed limits, and for Stu to drive like this surely was a sign of this being a serious situation. But I was in good hands, and by now I had reconciled to the fact that desperate times call for us to SUCK IT UP AND DRIVE ON, and that's what we were doing.
We arrived at Wal Mart in what I am sure is record time, and promptly went to House wares. As I looked on the new blenders, my mind flashed back of Excalibur. The good times. The Frappe button. And all of my friends that may have winded up hugging the porcelain queen because of all the fun we shared. Excalibur, broken pitcher or not, had seen its duty and done it. Remember the Alamo. Pearl Harbor. 9-11. And Excalibur.
Stu busied himself by getting right to the heart of the situation and looking at the technical specifications of the 5 or 6 blenders that were available, including the wussy froo froo smoothie maker that my wife had threatened to cut off my boy parts had I purchased it. We decided on another OSTER. A 450 watt 10 speed two gear ratio Sherman tank of a blender with a thick glass pitcher. 450 watts of bone crushing power at my fingertips. Surely the lack of having a "FRAPPE" setting would be of little consequence.
Five minutes and twenty eight dollars later, and we are speeding back to the Hotel. Margaritaville Barstow would be opening its door in room 149 in less than an hour. We divvied up assignments on the car going back. Wayne would get the ice, I would unpack the new blender yet to be given a name and Stu would grab the chips and dips from his room.
In less than ten minutes, we were up and running. I had a moment or two alone, and decided to blend the first batch before the rest of the crew got there. "If you are half as good a blender as Excalibur, then you will do fine", I said to no one in particular, particularly because there was no one in the room but me, and hit the liquefy setting, high speed. The blenderjumped to life like the space Shuttle on the launch pad. I could tell right away this was a thoroughbred. Its throaty roar blended the first batch of ice and Margarita mix with little effort. This was childs play. About this time Stu showed up ant the door, grinning from ear to ear. "I could hear it all the way down by front desk", he said. "The clerk thought we were having an earthquake!" I knew we were back in business.
Fast forward a few days and several batches and newly made friends---
I have discovered that the Glass pitcher from the new blender fits perfectly on the old chasis of EXCALIBER. After all, wasn't Excalibur's Heart and soul in the motor, anyway? So now I will keep the new Blender at home, and still travel with the new and improved EXCALIBER II.
It is a match made in heaven. And now me and my friends will be able to "HANG ON" for years to come.
It was older than my kids. My almost 16 year old Oster blender, a wedding gift affectionately known as "Excalibur", sustained major injuries this week as a result of being mishandled by obviously disgruntled employees of the ever dysfunctional Delta airlines. Excalibur made milkshakes from time to time, but its true calling was the perfect mixing of Frozen margaritas-the "frozen concoction that helps us hang on", as the song goes.
I have been traveling with Excalibur for some time, now, having discovered that when away from home that not only would a frozen margaritas would be cheaper if one made them themselves, but it was a great way to "make some friends", as Stu Drake, one of Excalibur's best customers, always said.
Indeed.
It made Margaritas for all my rowdy and not so rowdy friends, but most times for my National Guard buddies-in most of the 13 original colonies, and most recently Nebraska, who mourn with me in my recent loss. It has blended from Memphis to San Diego, and even entertained international guests from the Republic of Georgia. Excalibur had no enemies, and left happiness in its wake. The FRAPPE button on Excalibur was the key that made our margaritas just a little bit better than the competition---FRAPPE is a French word that, when roughly translated, means "MIX THE EVERLIVING DAYLIGHTS OUT OF..."
To Frappe with Excalibur was like getting a chance to run the bases at Fenway Park. Excalibur made quite a sound when frappaying-once the margarita was halfway complete, the motor would shift gears, go into climbing gear and the sound would go from a high pitch climbing gear into a deep throated, 8 cylinder 455 cubic inch positive tractioned roar that would make an F-16 in full afterburner pale in comparison. And the result? A perfect Margarita, a room full of friends, and good times to the max. No Limes? No Salt? No Problem.
So one can imagine my shock when, as I unpacked from my flight into Barstow from Atlanta this week, I discovered that the plastic pitcher had been cracked.
"BASTARDS", I screamed out loud, followed by a string of profanity as only me, my Father, and Grandfather would be capable of spewing. I cussed the overpaid baggage handlers. I cussed Delta airlines, and wished them bankruptcy. I cussed the Atlanta airport with all its trappings, a place that I have grown to detest. I then did what anyone else would have done who faced the prospect of having a roomful of buddies expecting FROZEN FRAPPAYED Margaritas available in less than 2 hours-I tried to put it back together.
The crack was a long one, so I tried to align in such a way as to possibly just allow for a small leak -I could get by with that-I filled the blender up with water from the sink and it continued to pour out. GODAMNSIEVE!, I screamed again-- The tequila would surely do the same, and since tequila is not the cheapest stuff in the store, I decided this wouldn't work.
Not knowing what to do next, I called Stu. Thomas S. Drake. The Stubester. Stu is beyond being the bomb. He is righteous. He is coveted, and hallowed is his name.
"STU!" I said, all the while trying to keep my composure, "the Bastards broke my blender!".
"WHAT?!?", Stu asked incredulously.
I then explained to him my tale of woe, and as he knew that I had a better chance of peeing on somebody's head and tell them it was raining than try to give our buds margaritas on the rocks. That wasn't, or isn't, in my humble opinion, the way to run a railroad. It surely wasn't the way to conduct Happy Hour in room 143 of the Holiday Inn Express, Barstow. It's the FROZEN CONCOCTION, like the song says. I had to be true to myself. To do anything less would be just as bad as smoking crack with the devil while dancing around the bible fire.
"We can go to Wal-Mart and get another one", Stu suggested. In my state of shock, I had not thought of buying another blender. For god sakes, I hadn't even had a chance to mourn for Excalibur, and now here it was being suggested to replace it. Didn't Excalibur deserve a little more reverence? It was all happening too fast. My shock intensified. Stu said, "Get ready, I am on the way", and hung up. In less time than you could say "salt on the rim" he was at the door. He put his arm on my shoulder and told me it was going to be alright. When Stu says that, you can take it to the bank. Since I trust him with my life, we departed out the door, headed to Wal-Mart.
By this time some of the other folks had found out somehow that Excalibur had bought the farm, and so they too came along with us, offering support.
In my haste, I had forgotten to call my wife and tell her the tragic news. While Stu and the others were working feverishly to get us to Wal- Mart, I called Sue and told her about Excalibur. She took the news like a man, and said we would just have to get another one. She didn't seem too concerned that I was trying to deal with my grief. "Just don't get some wussy froo froo smoothie making blender-no REAL MAN would be seen with one!"
Damn, I think to myself. Tough Crowd. I agreed with her, but only for the reason that the smoothie maker was more at risk during travel than the standard blender. I was still thinking of some kind of closure for Excalibur and I while Stu drove hell-bent for Wal Mart. Stu was driving at least 10 miles over the statutory speed limits, and for Stu to drive like this surely was a sign of this being a serious situation. But I was in good hands, and by now I had reconciled to the fact that desperate times call for us to SUCK IT UP AND DRIVE ON, and that's what we were doing.
We arrived at Wal Mart in what I am sure is record time, and promptly went to House wares. As I looked on the new blenders, my mind flashed back of Excalibur. The good times. The Frappe button. And all of my friends that may have winded up hugging the porcelain queen because of all the fun we shared. Excalibur, broken pitcher or not, had seen its duty and done it. Remember the Alamo. Pearl Harbor. 9-11. And Excalibur.
Stu busied himself by getting right to the heart of the situation and looking at the technical specifications of the 5 or 6 blenders that were available, including the wussy froo froo smoothie maker that my wife had threatened to cut off my boy parts had I purchased it. We decided on another OSTER. A 450 watt 10 speed two gear ratio Sherman tank of a blender with a thick glass pitcher. 450 watts of bone crushing power at my fingertips. Surely the lack of having a "FRAPPE" setting would be of little consequence.
Five minutes and twenty eight dollars later, and we are speeding back to the Hotel. Margaritaville Barstow would be opening its door in room 149 in less than an hour. We divvied up assignments on the car going back. Wayne would get the ice, I would unpack the new blender yet to be given a name and Stu would grab the chips and dips from his room.
In less than ten minutes, we were up and running. I had a moment or two alone, and decided to blend the first batch before the rest of the crew got there. "If you are half as good a blender as Excalibur, then you will do fine", I said to no one in particular, particularly because there was no one in the room but me, and hit the liquefy setting, high speed. The blenderjumped to life like the space Shuttle on the launch pad. I could tell right away this was a thoroughbred. Its throaty roar blended the first batch of ice and Margarita mix with little effort. This was childs play. About this time Stu showed up ant the door, grinning from ear to ear. "I could hear it all the way down by front desk", he said. "The clerk thought we were having an earthquake!" I knew we were back in business.
Fast forward a few days and several batches and newly made friends---
I have discovered that the Glass pitcher from the new blender fits perfectly on the old chasis of EXCALIBER. After all, wasn't Excalibur's Heart and soul in the motor, anyway? So now I will keep the new Blender at home, and still travel with the new and improved EXCALIBER II.
It is a match made in heaven. And now me and my friends will be able to "HANG ON" for years to come.
THE DAILY GRIND
Well, I believe its official. I am back in the daily grind.
HOW WAS YALLS WEEK? Here is a typical one—this from a week or so ago--
Monday- Get up to the sound of my cell phone alarm ringing the tune “Hallelujah”—at 0445 hrs on Monday it is annoying as anything one would imagine—everything is annoying at 0445 hrs. Drag my ass to work, make a lame attempt at physical exercise (imagine trying to learn to walk and that’s me) then make it to the coffee pot. The only thing that is going to sustain me on this day is the little black beans picked by the guy with the donkey and the sombrero, Exxon Valdez.
You make it until lunch, then prepare for possibly the highlight of your day—a PBJ on Colonial Old Fashioned white bread---two bites into this and you actually feel like you’re going to, as they said on Mary Tyler Moores TV show—make it after all.
8 hrs, 45 emails, two meetings, and 4 trips to the little boys room, you are headed home.
One down, four to go.
Tuesday- After playing it safe and going to bed about 9 pm, you awaken to Hallelujah once again, and make a mental note to change the alarm to something that won’t startle you as bad. You silently wonder if the Abbott and Costello TV theme show is available from Verizon. Quick shower, and out the door. You notice the fuel hand is just below half a tank, which means you will have to stop right down the street from the office and buy some Kroger gas—barely affordable, but with the Kroger plus customer card, you are entitled to the special privilege of receiving a discount of 3 cents per gallon. At this rate I will be selling plasma and cashing in the first borns’ life insurance policy. I almost dance around the car because the gas prices are less than two dollars a gallon---Rejoice! (This is where my alarm would come in handy!)
Arrive at the office awake and ready to seize the day, or as they say in Latin, “Carpe Tunnel”. Have the wind sucked from your lungs from meetings all day. Go home, hope the wife isn’t cooking the meat loaf, and lose yourself in the newspaper. Tomorrow will be a better day.
Wednesday- Hump day. (My hump my hump my humps)
They should call Wednesday “Kick me in the groin until I pour two dollar a gallon gas on myself and strike a match” day.
Combine Monday and Tuesday, throw in some terribly weak coffee complete with the grounds (the paper filter had a blowout), a headache, a pre- menstrual teenager, and you have the recipe for a perfect day.
This day has no redeeming qualities—did I mention that it rained all day? Nothing left to do but get snarled in traffic on the commute home.
The green mile---all 80 of them. Its not exactly hell but you can see it from here.
I will laugh about it one day---when I am in the nursing home and they start passing out green apples… If only I can be served a hearty meal of liver and rutabagas …..then and only then will the day be complete.
Thursday- for some unexplained reason, things looking up— the traffic on the ride in was minimal, I get to catch up on some work in the office, no meetings, and I snuck in some Fried Rice in addition to the PBJ---weather has improved, and I get a decent ride home and as I open the car door I can smell supper cooking—parmesan encrusted chicken. It makes me hunch. A long day just the same, so lapse into a parmesan encrusted coma at about 830 pm and go to bed. If you go to bed at 830 pm you will get up to go to the bathroom at 1130 pm. Make mental note to read up on prostate health. Decide later it may have been the 5 glasses of tea I had with supper.
Friday-woke up a few minutes before the alarm, and offered my “services” to Wifey, who promptly told me “You’re Impossible”----well, you can’t blame a boy for trying. Had it not been for my persistence she wouldn’t be lying there for me to harass anyhow..what with the snoring and all, I didn’t think she was busy at the moment.
Get to work, and the coffee is already made. Cha-Ching! Bonus!
No meetings, get all the hot things off my desk and computer screen, and out to lunch for a Chicken Panini sandwich—it also makes me hunch—the weather is absolutely awesome, blue skies and puffy white clouds, a frigid 85 degrees---today is too easy!
Before you know it, I am southbound on I-75…normal Friday traffic is an absolute debacle, but the traffic gods have intervened on this day---the traffic is all in my rear view mirror—my windows are rolled down, I am doing 80 miles an hour and Waylon is blasting thru my speakers asking me If I’m ready for the country---I am 17 years old with the old mans car and a crisp 20 dollar bill in my pocket…….in an instant the last four days and an annoying morning alarm melt away— Euphoria takes over and the anticipation of the weekend and my Sunday ritual with the PARADE magazine await... All that minutia of the week is nothing. I am HOME, in the U.S. of “By God” Georgia. Not in Iraq. I am in the sweet by and by enjoying our way of life, As Allah intended.
And it suits me to a T.
A Large, Sweet one.
LIFE, dear hearts, is good. It is grand. It is large grande café machiatto frappucino good.
HOW WAS YALLS WEEK? Here is a typical one—this from a week or so ago--
Monday- Get up to the sound of my cell phone alarm ringing the tune “Hallelujah”—at 0445 hrs on Monday it is annoying as anything one would imagine—everything is annoying at 0445 hrs. Drag my ass to work, make a lame attempt at physical exercise (imagine trying to learn to walk and that’s me) then make it to the coffee pot. The only thing that is going to sustain me on this day is the little black beans picked by the guy with the donkey and the sombrero, Exxon Valdez.
You make it until lunch, then prepare for possibly the highlight of your day—a PBJ on Colonial Old Fashioned white bread---two bites into this and you actually feel like you’re going to, as they said on Mary Tyler Moores TV show—make it after all.
8 hrs, 45 emails, two meetings, and 4 trips to the little boys room, you are headed home.
One down, four to go.
Tuesday- After playing it safe and going to bed about 9 pm, you awaken to Hallelujah once again, and make a mental note to change the alarm to something that won’t startle you as bad. You silently wonder if the Abbott and Costello TV theme show is available from Verizon. Quick shower, and out the door. You notice the fuel hand is just below half a tank, which means you will have to stop right down the street from the office and buy some Kroger gas—barely affordable, but with the Kroger plus customer card, you are entitled to the special privilege of receiving a discount of 3 cents per gallon. At this rate I will be selling plasma and cashing in the first borns’ life insurance policy. I almost dance around the car because the gas prices are less than two dollars a gallon---Rejoice! (This is where my alarm would come in handy!)
Arrive at the office awake and ready to seize the day, or as they say in Latin, “Carpe Tunnel”. Have the wind sucked from your lungs from meetings all day. Go home, hope the wife isn’t cooking the meat loaf, and lose yourself in the newspaper. Tomorrow will be a better day.
Wednesday- Hump day. (My hump my hump my humps)
They should call Wednesday “Kick me in the groin until I pour two dollar a gallon gas on myself and strike a match” day.
Combine Monday and Tuesday, throw in some terribly weak coffee complete with the grounds (the paper filter had a blowout), a headache, a pre- menstrual teenager, and you have the recipe for a perfect day.
This day has no redeeming qualities—did I mention that it rained all day? Nothing left to do but get snarled in traffic on the commute home.
The green mile---all 80 of them. Its not exactly hell but you can see it from here.
I will laugh about it one day---when I am in the nursing home and they start passing out green apples… If only I can be served a hearty meal of liver and rutabagas …..then and only then will the day be complete.
Thursday- for some unexplained reason, things looking up— the traffic on the ride in was minimal, I get to catch up on some work in the office, no meetings, and I snuck in some Fried Rice in addition to the PBJ---weather has improved, and I get a decent ride home and as I open the car door I can smell supper cooking—parmesan encrusted chicken. It makes me hunch. A long day just the same, so lapse into a parmesan encrusted coma at about 830 pm and go to bed. If you go to bed at 830 pm you will get up to go to the bathroom at 1130 pm. Make mental note to read up on prostate health. Decide later it may have been the 5 glasses of tea I had with supper.
Friday-woke up a few minutes before the alarm, and offered my “services” to Wifey, who promptly told me “You’re Impossible”----well, you can’t blame a boy for trying. Had it not been for my persistence she wouldn’t be lying there for me to harass anyhow..what with the snoring and all, I didn’t think she was busy at the moment.
Get to work, and the coffee is already made. Cha-Ching! Bonus!
No meetings, get all the hot things off my desk and computer screen, and out to lunch for a Chicken Panini sandwich—it also makes me hunch—the weather is absolutely awesome, blue skies and puffy white clouds, a frigid 85 degrees---today is too easy!
Before you know it, I am southbound on I-75…normal Friday traffic is an absolute debacle, but the traffic gods have intervened on this day---the traffic is all in my rear view mirror—my windows are rolled down, I am doing 80 miles an hour and Waylon is blasting thru my speakers asking me If I’m ready for the country---I am 17 years old with the old mans car and a crisp 20 dollar bill in my pocket…….in an instant the last four days and an annoying morning alarm melt away— Euphoria takes over and the anticipation of the weekend and my Sunday ritual with the PARADE magazine await... All that minutia of the week is nothing. I am HOME, in the U.S. of “By God” Georgia. Not in Iraq. I am in the sweet by and by enjoying our way of life, As Allah intended.
And it suits me to a T.
A Large, Sweet one.
LIFE, dear hearts, is good. It is grand. It is large grande café machiatto frappucino good.
Monday, September 18, 2006
BRAGGIN’ RIGHTS
BRAGGIN’ RIGHTS
The Early Life and Times of Mans Best Friend
JOE FISHER
The Early Life and Times of Mans Best Friend
JOE FISHER
Authors note: While I certainly could write a million words on this young man, I would be remiss in my duty if I at the very least didn’t give a tip of the cap in the direction of the other forces that make Joe Fisher—His Mother, to which all of his goodness comes from, and his Sisters, whom help maintain his center of gravity. It is because of this that I have been able to observe Mans best friend and hopefully provide some insight into the kid whose pants can’t seem to stay up.
Joseph Ray Fisher came into the world on 11 April, 1992, two weeks late and after the initial shock of his Mother thinking she were to have beget another daughter, she decided he was a “keeper” and decided he would be called Joey. She is the only person currently on the planet that calls him Joey, as he was immediately called Joe by all that know him.
In the early years, everything round was called “ball” and his passion for baseball and the green of the grass summoned him from the start. Soon thereafter his Uncle took him fishing and not only did he take to that like a—fish to water—but his Uncle also taught him the manly rite of going number one outside, a task he mastered after only one try and immediately came home and impressed on all the neighbors on our street with his newfound skill. What we discovered in these early years is that our Joe picked up very quickly those things that captured his attention. His other hobbies include, but are not limited to, Hunting, Golf, and swimming, all of which he performs in an above average manner.
His endearing traits in the 14.5 years he has been in our care are considerable. He has a flair for mirth and merriment, and is a natural comedian. This comes by way of his paternal ancestry, for which we offer up no excuses, just an occasional apology. His temperament in most cases is fairly balanced and even keeled, a trait of his Mother. He is the most flexible of the three children, and as it has turned out, the middle child. The fact that he is the only other male in the group perhaps lessens any middle child syndrome. His willingness to do what his heart and conscious tells him to do is more prevalent in him than his siblings, and he is usually true to word and deed. He possesses the soul of an old man and a keen insight in people and how they behave.
His goals have changed over the years, as his interests have broadened. First, as stated before, was Baseball. He enjoys video games like most young boys, but only plays them when he is trapped inside by weather or illness. And while he stands at the cusp of teen-dom and becoming a rock star, his current goal is to become a professional Bass Fisherman. The strange part of his current goal is that he is awfully good at it and has a fire in his belly for the sport. He has fished in 4 tournaments, won two, got second in another, and competed this summer in the Junior Bassmasters State Tournament in July at Lake Oconee.
There are certainly worse endeavors a young man can pursue and his Mother and I support this to the utmost. However, the fishing shows and their sponsorship have cost me a small fortune in all the right “gear”—alas, things have changed since my days as an angler, with cane pole and a bucket of minnows.
Now, let’s discuss Joe Fisher, the student.
Joe Fisher did fine in the world of academics for the first three grades, and then had some struggles. In typical Huck Finn fashion, Joe Fisher, while a great American 100% Norman Rockwell inspired lad, is no Thomas Edison. His grades suffered up until he failed the seventh grade. While taking responsibility for his lack of performance, it cannot be understated that the culture from which he left grade school into the absolute zoo that was middle school certainly didn’t help matters. Thus, his transfer into Howard, which by all accounts has resulted in Joe performing better. Simply put, he is a kid that requires a teacher to teach, not to resort to the independent learner or whatever the term is. You have to get inside his wheelhouse and get his attention—once that happens, he is like the bass on the hook. If he were to be graded on character, integrity, selflessness, loyalty, and mental toughness, he would have few peers. He is a good boy with an enormous, loving heart.
For almost an entire year this young man endured his Dad being deployed to Iraq. During this time he had to endure the wrath of his Sisters, which makes Iraq pale in comparison. He was the ONLY man in the sorority house, save for one little black dog named Spanky, whose only allegiance was to the food bowl.
His greatest moment in life so far (I asked him) was, and I quote:
“When you came back from Iraq—Hands down.”
Not that it matters, but it was his Dads greatest moment too.
Joseph Ray Fisher came into the world on 11 April, 1992, two weeks late and after the initial shock of his Mother thinking she were to have beget another daughter, she decided he was a “keeper” and decided he would be called Joey. She is the only person currently on the planet that calls him Joey, as he was immediately called Joe by all that know him.
In the early years, everything round was called “ball” and his passion for baseball and the green of the grass summoned him from the start. Soon thereafter his Uncle took him fishing and not only did he take to that like a—fish to water—but his Uncle also taught him the manly rite of going number one outside, a task he mastered after only one try and immediately came home and impressed on all the neighbors on our street with his newfound skill. What we discovered in these early years is that our Joe picked up very quickly those things that captured his attention. His other hobbies include, but are not limited to, Hunting, Golf, and swimming, all of which he performs in an above average manner.
His endearing traits in the 14.5 years he has been in our care are considerable. He has a flair for mirth and merriment, and is a natural comedian. This comes by way of his paternal ancestry, for which we offer up no excuses, just an occasional apology. His temperament in most cases is fairly balanced and even keeled, a trait of his Mother. He is the most flexible of the three children, and as it has turned out, the middle child. The fact that he is the only other male in the group perhaps lessens any middle child syndrome. His willingness to do what his heart and conscious tells him to do is more prevalent in him than his siblings, and he is usually true to word and deed. He possesses the soul of an old man and a keen insight in people and how they behave.
His goals have changed over the years, as his interests have broadened. First, as stated before, was Baseball. He enjoys video games like most young boys, but only plays them when he is trapped inside by weather or illness. And while he stands at the cusp of teen-dom and becoming a rock star, his current goal is to become a professional Bass Fisherman. The strange part of his current goal is that he is awfully good at it and has a fire in his belly for the sport. He has fished in 4 tournaments, won two, got second in another, and competed this summer in the Junior Bassmasters State Tournament in July at Lake Oconee.
There are certainly worse endeavors a young man can pursue and his Mother and I support this to the utmost. However, the fishing shows and their sponsorship have cost me a small fortune in all the right “gear”—alas, things have changed since my days as an angler, with cane pole and a bucket of minnows.
Now, let’s discuss Joe Fisher, the student.
Joe Fisher did fine in the world of academics for the first three grades, and then had some struggles. In typical Huck Finn fashion, Joe Fisher, while a great American 100% Norman Rockwell inspired lad, is no Thomas Edison. His grades suffered up until he failed the seventh grade. While taking responsibility for his lack of performance, it cannot be understated that the culture from which he left grade school into the absolute zoo that was middle school certainly didn’t help matters. Thus, his transfer into Howard, which by all accounts has resulted in Joe performing better. Simply put, he is a kid that requires a teacher to teach, not to resort to the independent learner or whatever the term is. You have to get inside his wheelhouse and get his attention—once that happens, he is like the bass on the hook. If he were to be graded on character, integrity, selflessness, loyalty, and mental toughness, he would have few peers. He is a good boy with an enormous, loving heart.
For almost an entire year this young man endured his Dad being deployed to Iraq. During this time he had to endure the wrath of his Sisters, which makes Iraq pale in comparison. He was the ONLY man in the sorority house, save for one little black dog named Spanky, whose only allegiance was to the food bowl.
His greatest moment in life so far (I asked him) was, and I quote:
“When you came back from Iraq—Hands down.”
Not that it matters, but it was his Dads greatest moment too.
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