Reason #356 why to shop online for XMAS

Unknowingly lured from my throne thinking that it was “only two stores”, I accompany Wifey to the mall—with the potential for her "attention", shall we say ,would increase if I shut my mouth and just came along...

Our first stop was some clothing store for girls. Charlottes’ something or other. I forget. I could feel the air leave my lungs as I cautiously took the first step ...there was only one other guy in the place who had the same painful look on his face as I did-ashen and pale. It appeared that he too was suffering the effects of hypoxia.

Everything in the store looks like you're supposed to wear it underneath your
clothes, not on the outside--if this were at the “old mall” I could find a
bench outside the store and wait--this “new mall” has that “downtown feel” and it’s raining and cold outside so I can't opt out.

Five minutes, then ten....while the mercury slowly plummets from my man
thermometer. My power diminishes rapidly and the hopes of a sporting goods store or that place that sells all the baseball hats is the only thing that keeps me going..Maybe there's a pretzel store or cinnamon bun place somewhere at one of these places that will help me endure this death march....

Brought back to reality by Wifeys’ voice saying "hold these please" thrusting two hangars with "Tops" on them (Tops is what girls call shirts) --
We walk back and forth now, looking at the same clothing for a second time.

I notice the other guy in the store. He's holding a couple of hangars and has removed his ball cap, mopping his brow. Like me, we stand off to the side in the same fashion as a third base coach whilst our spouses shop. I feel his pain and I'm sure he feels mine. We don't know each other but for now we are brothers joined as one in a sense of non purpose.

My keeper snaps her fingers and I heel—its time to check out.

The lady bags up the purchases and Wifey says "give it to my butler" which
tickled the other ladies. 10,000 comedians out of work and Wifey’s trying to be funny.

Our second stop was some clothing store for girls. Crazy Chucks, Charming Charlie’s, or something. I forget.

It’s obviously more "hip" than the other place based on the numbers of young people.

Charlie E. Cheeses, or whatever its called (like I said I forget) had a young man working there-he had a headset on for communication with the other workers up front and its my guess that he hadn't ever fished, golfed, played ball, or field dressed a dead animal before—I further surmise that this person may even be Charles E. Charmwagon himself-- but I wasn't going to “ask or tell " because my wife gave me another hangar to hold...

She stops at a rack full of necklaces one may have seen on the Flintstones-as they looked like they were made from rocks.

You see, how it works is you get the shirt--I mean, TOP, then you have to what they call "accessorize" it--in this case, a Flintstone necklace, bracelet, and earrings-even a ladies wallet and it ALL--- every damn bit of it, mind you--- has to match.

Now, I isn't totally an ignoranimous --I have a Wifey, two daughters and have worked with women so I know a little about how the enemy thinks when it comes to fashion--but I digress-

What’s important to note is the state of my well being. I'm still shopping with Wifey and I have one collapsed lung and the other is on a banana peel.

Then I had to tinkle. Not the greatest timing, but bodily functions will buy one some time when one shops with ones Wifey.

Crisis averted

Whoduhthunkit but Charlene’s’ had a male latrine with a very manly unfinished concrete floor with a drain hole (I used the regular toilet though) Just outside the door was a water fountain to re-hydrate myself.
My luck continued though as I found a bench inside the store to rest for 5
minutes and catch my breath until I was summoned for checkout—at which time Mr. Chuckwagon Charms checked us out himself, headset and all.

Outdoors finally, the fresh air and oxygen bring relief and I inhale like Seabiscuit in the home stretch. Outside turned to inside in a nanosecond as we duck into a clothing store for teenagers of both sexes and quite possibly some who are a little of both. Aeropostcard or something. I forget.

I'm now at the point of rather peeing on an electric fence than to "shop"
any longer—

I look out the window and spot an "oasis" in this desert wasteland of retail
sales--it is the Wild Wing Cafe-I know for a fact there's a bounty of ice cold Yuengling lager, pictures of baseball players on the wall, and a sundry of
Pub grub, all suitable for eating and with the right amount of carbs to
sustain me in this hell-a-thon. I find a place to sit and patiently take
cleansing breaths...Wifey engages my fashion taste by asking “What color Red or Tan?” I say “Red”. “White or Black?” I say “White”. “Blue or Green?” I say “White”. Red White and Blue, baby—till I die.

Which may be soon.


Get in Line

Wifey says she's almost done and if I secure her a place in line she will be
back in a jiffy. (Fellas don't ever fall for this trick) I stood in line
for about a minute and I would have been called next and so I call out for
Wifey to come on and she says I'm not ready yet-the look given to me by the
other patrons in line who WERE ready to check out says it all and puts me in
my place next to the whale doo-doo already at the oceans bottom.

I go back to my bench and reclaim the butterbean sized butt indentations I had just vacated--There dang well WILL be a Yuengling lager in my future and I didn’t care if there were going to be any potential for “attention” later that night. I had to deal with the now.


I yawn. I look at my watch. I yawn again. This is oxygen deprivation-I
increase my threat level to DEFCON 3.

I look down at my watch and calculate the total shopping time. One hour and thirty three minutes.

I'm living on borrowed time and I know it.


Phase 2-I was saved for the moment by lunch. We found a place that didn’t have a 45 minute wait. The All American Slider burgers gave me a new lease on life-and the Yuengling Lager on draft that I washed it down with..well, as Ben Franklin purportedly said, “Beer is proof that God loves us
and wants us to be happy”.

I am a man refreshed.

We begin heading for home, with a couple more stops to regular stores before we call it a day. I am totally psyched that the man cave and the Pottamus Rex are only minutes away. Maybe there’s even an afternoon nap in my future. Life is good. I’m George Bailey.

SNAFU

Fast forward....its almost 1800 hours, and my body feels as if it was hit by a
convoy of cement trucks with full loads. The great lunch and Yuengling lager induced "buzz" (as well as my will to live) dissipated somewhere in the house wares section of Kohl’s- Wifey again left me stranded in the long line because she forgot something, but with 20 folks in front of us she could have left to perform surgery and be back in time.

We still have to go to the drugstore and grocery store.

If I make it in bed by 2100 hrs tonight it will be a miracle.

The woman in the car who resembles my Wifey scares me. Her eyes are fully dilated and glazed over --she is a woman possessed.
--------------------------
Tis’ the season, you know. I'm George Bailey.

I'm the only hell my Grandma ever raised..

Did mention that I WORSHIPPED my Grandma?

Today is my Grandmas birthday-December 3rd, and not a day goes by that I don't think of her. My oldest daughter and first child Amanda was named after her. My Grandmother meant so much to me that I have evaluated all other Grandmas I have known or met by some of the following guidelines--

-Some of the intangibles about being a good Grandma-- (JUST SOME)

-Carry chewing gum in your purse (Dentyne or Juicy Fruit)

-Always carry purse with straps held at the bend in arm

-Don't have false teeth-this scares the bejeezus out of grand kids

-Tobacco and alcohol forbidden

-Only say "HELL" when answering the question of how you feel after a radical
Mastectomy for breast cancer in 1971

-Take your grand kids to the train station downtown to watch the Nancy Hanks come in-huddle them in your long coat and make sure co-cola in the little glass bottle and toms peanuts are served.

-Take them to wherever they want to go eat after church, even if it means leaving after Sunday school and skipping the big service in the sanctuary

-Have water in a clear bottle in the fridge, not an old Prune Juice
bottle (my other grandma did that—she also pinched snuff and had false teeth--I remain traumatized by it all)

- Cook Fried Chicken at least three times a week because its Little Georges favorite

-Cook everything with the secret ingredient—LOVE

-give grandson a dime to help you wash dishes-take to Bills book store and let him buy a dollars worth with his dime

-when he has the mumps and cries when it hurts, take him in your arms and hug him until he quits crying (it worked-I ain't had the mumps since)

when sick, deliver to Grandmas house and put on couch for
4-6 hrs-spoil as necessary, then send home MIRACULOUSLY cured

-Wear the blue dress with the big white plastic buttons—it’s his favorite

-teach him how to sew, he will be thankful when 30 years later his wife needs a button sewn on her blouse.

- let him help in the kitchen and ask many bothersome questions-it will last
a lifetime and his favorite room in the house will always be the kitchen

-act surprised when he throws the quarter in the bed for the "magic fingers"


-don't be surprised that he brings all his dates to meet you first

there's more---but it has me about to cry right now---

POOTIEPOTTAMUS TURNS TWO!!

Dear Pootie-

Another year older!! Time flies, does'nt it little buddy? Or as they say, Tempis Fugit-That is Latin for "Time flies". SO now you can credit me for teaching you your first Latin phrase.

Since you already know what "Yuengling"is, at some point in the future I will introduce you to "Uno Cervaza, PorFavor", "Ein Pils", and even our own language of "Whatchagotontap?", which isused when going into a place you haven’t been before...

Anyway, lets talk about you.

You have certainly changed a lot in the last year, what with learning how to walk, then run, then run away from your mom while you are naked during diaper change, and knowing the difference between "TT" and "doo doo". Last year you sat and stared out the front door along with the dogs, and now you are able to walk out the door, and into the yard without letting anyone know it. This is a great thing for you I know but do me a favor and let your momma know you're going to step out for some air, please?

Next year I will teach you what all men do in the yard, but make sure you do it only in our yard, not the neighbors like your Uncle Joe did when he was your age.

You are a serious music lover, and sing along to every song that comes on the radio, to include the theme song for Spongebob Squarepants and even"Bonanza", which we ride the horsey to- (dun de de lun de de lun dun dun dundunn dunnnnnnnn)--and already I can tell that you like the Westerns on TV just like I do. This year has flown by, and your Momma is even more crazy about you now than she was a year ago, if that’s possible. She and Grandma still try calling you "Christopher" (as if that were your name or something) but only when you are in trouble. You need to tuck that away for future use, Bunkus--if you hear "Christopher" my advice to you is put a small book in the seat of your pants just in case. When I hear "George" I always make like I can't hear anyone, but you can't do that yet. That will come later on when you're grown and have a Wife. But your Momma absolutely thinks that you are the greatest fellow in the world. I don’t think that’s ever going to change.

Lyndsay, or Yee-Yee, as you call her, understands what its like to be the youngest. She can show you the way and by the way she plays with you even more than she does the dogs.

Uncle Joe. Now this is something you need to know about. Uncle Joe is the only other guy in the house besides you and me, Bunkus. He really likes you a lot, but he does not do it like the girls do, with hugs, kisses, and a lot of sissy girl stuff. He is a teenager, something you will be one day.

But for now, just know we adore the Pootie. Especially me. I love you PBR!

Sincerely,

"TAH"

" TAH !!!! "

My Grandsons name is Christopher Riley Fisher--I haven't seen anyone call him that yet. His Mom called me on day two of his arrival (almost two years ago) and said she was going to call him "Poot" because that's what he had been doing since his arrival. Of course that as all I needed to hear, and he has been Poot or some variation thereof ever since.

It was Poot, then Pootie, then his Pootiness, then Pootie Bunk, then Bunk (pronounced Buuuunnnnnkkk), followed by Pootipottamus, and as of now, POOTIPOTTAMUS BUNKUS REX--(This name is not only his scientific Latin name, but his Indian name not to mention his AKO registered name) --In true southern fashion this could be reduced to "PBR"--but for now I will stop just short of that since he is not legally old enough to drink (he does know what "Yuengling" is and it may very well be his first words ever read)--seriously.

Himself is my buddy. He is the only living creature that runs to the door when I come home from work, actually glad to see me. My own three used to do that, and they eventually stopped. For a while the three dogs did that, but since they love to go to the bathroom indoors they couldn't care less who comes in the front door.

But the Pootster comes running and I always pick him up and get that wonderful hug that only a little one can give.

He has a name for me, too, and HE gave it to me. At first, there was a serious dilemma about what I, the "middle aged not old enough to be a grandfather yet but here it comes so grab your ass and hold on" was to be called--No way was I a Grandpa, Grandaddy, Daddy George, a Paw Paw, a Poo Paw, a Me Maw, or anything like that--it just ain't my style, and after all, I do have a little vanity. So what we kind of worked out was "Pops"--I wasn't too crazy about it but in the scheme of things and the other names I just mentioned, it was the lesser of evils. I had thought he may address me as "LT. Colonel Fisher" but that's a bit formal, and like I said, the little booger has got me by the short hairs now. What has happened, over the course of almost two years, hundreds of episodes of Sponge Bob, baseball games, wrestling with dogs, throwing food across the room, and running buck naked thru the house, is that HE HIMSELF now calls me "TAH"--The POPS came out only like "Puhhh", but TAH comes out just like it is spelled--"TAH".

TAH is my Indian name as well as the Pootipottamus' battle cry. Tah is Cherokee Indian which roughly translates into "Him big chief what is in charge if Grandsquaw Sue say so"--(see photo of Pootipottamus in native garb and ceremonial headdress above).

I have a name now. I didn't have to get it from any other person except who by birthright should give it to me.

The Pootipottamus Bunkus rex.

MANS BEST FRIEND- The Teenage Years, Part II

It was bound to happen sooner or later.

True, things had tapered off, but that was natural.

The last time we spent any quality time was back last October at the Allman Brothers Concert, and a few days prior when he got his driver's license.

We had a blast.

Fast Forward almost a year-- nature continues to take its course-- Joe Fisher, aka Man's best friend, and his Dad have seen less and even less of each other. School was in, out, and back in again, with a great amount of Father and Son time spent with Father watching son play High School Baseball.

Yep, Joe STILL loves Baseball. And Golf. And Fishing. Thank goodness.

Right now though he doesn't recall just who it was pumping all the baseball data into him while he was still in the womb....but that's ok. ('twas I)

The Fishing poles and Golf clubs sit idly by and gather a fair amount of dust.

Alas, every Father has to deal with this---I would have hoped for advanced warning.

I never saw it coming. In hindsight Ray Charles could have seen it coming.

It began with all those showers he was taking.

*****************************

For the record, they have been "going together" since about the time it snowed this past winter.

For more of the record, she is a very nice and pretty girl not to mention well mannered.

At any rate, the young lady and Joe are an "item" now, I guess, if that's how we are supposed to say it--or so says my sons facebook page.

I will get over it.

The prodigal son will return. We may even go fishing and golfing again, or even take in a Braves game. He even told me not long ago that one day if he has a son he is going to name him "George".

Hopefully there's time to sort thru all that. At the moment I have more than I can say grace over with his highness, Pootipottamus Bunkus Rex (his AKO registered name). I am his "Tah"--which is my Indian name, roughly translated into "Big Chief what thinks him in charge but Sue Squaw really is..."

*************************

But this isn't about me. It's about Joes poor unsuspecting Mamma.

A few months back as Joe was making his lunch to take to school, Sues face turned as white as a sheet and fairly shrieked---- "WHAT IS THAT ON YOUR NECK?!?!?"

There was an uncomfortable pause.

In the moment of that pause the dogs scurried away and hid under the couch. I twisted the top on to my traveling coffee mug and winced simultaneously. It was pure reflex. I could smell the impending doom.

The room, in fact the entire house, grew deathly quiet.

I felt the house shift slightly on its foundation as the last word emitted from Sues mouth.

Everything was in slow motion by this time.

Yes.

It was.

Oh no you just didn't.

And your Mamma just saw it.

A hickey.

Defined in the dictionary as follows:a temporary red mark or bruise on the skin (as one produced by biting and sucking)

It's the "biting and sucking" part that made Sue faint.

Joe didn't say a word.

He looked over at me and gave me a grin that only a mortician could remove.

Did he not know he was about to meet his maker?

It was at this moment that I did what any sane Father and Husband would do under the same circumstances.I grabbed my coffee and headed for the door as if shot from a cannon.

In the adrenalin rush, which must be the same in heated combat, It all happened so fast. I am pretty sure I heard a "thud" and perhaps out of the corner of my eye thought I saw Susan's' lifeless form hitting the floor. I kept moving as fast as I could, yelling out loud and to nobody in particular that -

"IGOTTAGOI'MLATEANDIGOTTTAMEETINGGOTTAGETGASSEEYALLTONIGHT"--

I may be crazy, but I'm not necessarily stupid, and I wasn't about to watch the impending train wreck. There are times in our (my) life (lives) that it's "Every Man (Woman) for himself (herself) and brother (sister) this was it! As I burned rubber out of the driveway, I had a mental picture of Sue as she regained consciousness on the kitchen floor to the feel of our three dogs licking her in the face.

************************

Long Story a bit longer

Joe, of course, now 17 as well as being ten feet tall and bulletproof, took the ensuing days as good as any man I've ever known. He avoided his Mom at each opportunity. For a good two weeks he washed his own clothes and no one had to remind him to park the trash at the curb. A quick study, I thought to myself as I watched him one evening take his dinner plate to the sink, rinse it off and promptly place in the dishwasher, prior to going back to his room and playing the guitar with the amp turned down to an acceptable level so as not to disturb anyone. I am somewhat amused as my son spreads his wings a little more. We played golf recently and have spoke of Fishing. Both dwell somewhere out there on the horizon. Closer to light is the Friday night date and gas money scenario. My wallet has been opened 575,874 times since April.

Back to Sue.

She has recovered nicely, and remains the Plymouth Rock of the United State of Fisher. I told her she has to take it one day at the time, just like the drunks. We have turned the corner....

She gives Joe that look and Joe knows he is toast. He now knows the secret to a long life is making sure the trash makes the curb on Tuesday night in addition to keeping those collared shirts handy.

Like MacArthur, the prodigal son shall return.

In the meantime, Pootipottamus Bunkus Rex and his "TAH" will be whiling away our hours in the Man Cave. He likes baseball and all my stuff on the wall. He shows promise at almost two. I need to get to work on him now, as there is much to learn if he is to be a FISHER. It's my job to ensure he soaks it up like a sponge. So far, so good. Joe is welcome down there anytime.

But like I said earlier, It ain't me. It's Joes Mom I'm worried about. I'm sure somehow I can help her through this.

POST HOLE HELL

My Mailbox and its supporting post has died.
Actually, someone backed over it and put it out of its misery. A few months ago some vandals came by and performed blunt force trauma on it, rendering itunable to close the door and the flag permanently in the down position.
However and whoever put the final bullet in its brain remains at large.

So, hi-ho, hi-ho, its off to Lowes we go. We, as in Wifey, who also wants toget flowers for the porch and some birdseed for the feeders, and to gaze upon deck furniture that we can ill afford. That's Another story for another day I'm sure.

Back to the Mailbox issue.

We got a mailbox. And a post for it. The box said it was a "no dig" post. I dug that it was a no dig post because I have digged--rather--dug-before, and I don’t care for it. SO I bought the "no dig" post, piled everything in the back of the Yukon and headed home.

Next day.
Go to work. Come home. Tired, aggravated for no real reason except I am dragging because its Monday but figure I should get to work on my "no dig" post and new mailbox. I opened the box without so much as a paper cut. I am on a roll. I empty the contents and go for the directions. I am a big believer in directions. I once tried to assemble a swingset without directions and I still have a nervous tick from it. Never again. Besides, I can sit down while reading directions and not take any grief from you know who (Wifey) about not getting moving on the project--reading the directions shuts her up every time.
Step 1. Either I can take my 4 pound hammer and drive the wood supporting post into the ground (this is the "no-dig" method) or I can dig a hole. (At this moment I should have put everything back in the box and, as they say,"call the man"....I know that digging a hole is the only real way to put a mailbox post in the ground. Besides, I had eaten a very "non-manly" salad for lunch, and I was not to proud about that. I needed to do some MAN stuff and this would get me back on the path of righteousness.

Around this time Mans best Friend (Joe Fisher) shows up to assist his Old Man-

(important note: The art of being a Man is the ability to sub delegate and manage).

I instructed Joe to get the shovel and we both marked the spot for the hole."this looks lush enough" says Joe. "Concur" I say. We bonded. It was abeautiful thing. A decision in less time than it takes to say "Where do youthink it should go?" like a wife would say.

About that time the Neighbors came backing out of the driveway, and Mike advised that he had some post hole diggers in his garage that I was welcomed to use.

"I'd rather eat Liver in hell with gasoline soaked underwear than to use posthole diggers", was my reply.

Post hole diggers are INDEED the work of the devil himself, and if there is a hell, there will be plenty of post holediggers available to all who reside there.
I owned a pair of Post holediggers once, when we had our first house. I was young and stupid then.
When we moved, I instructed Wifey to leave those post hole diggers as a housewarming gift for the new tenants. As God as my witness I wouldn’t go hungry or use post hole diggers again.

Mike drove off with somewhat a peculiar look on his face.

Perhaps he didn’tknow I had served my time in Post hole digger hell, and that my body size and frame (soft, short and with little upper body strength-think pear with toothpicks for arms and legs)was not made with posthole digging in mind.
Had the Hanoi Hilton had post hole diggers, the POWs would have sang like canaries.

The shovel worked for approximately three scoops.
I didn’t cuss.
I didn’t panic.
I didn’t let on like Armageddon was near.
I steeled myself, and took yon shovel from mans best friend and tried to scoop out a shovel full of earth.
Nada.
Nyet.
Bedrock.
No earth in that hole, reason being all the dirt was displaced by Georgia red clay, whose tinsel strength is 158.6 times greater than that of titanium. I did what I had to do. I looked both ways before crossing the street, and then went to Mikes garage and got the Post hole diggers.

Joe looked at me and said "Hey Dad, didn’t we use to have a set of those"?

I gave him the diggers and told him he had done such a good job with the shovel that he would be a cinch with these.(actually, he made little work of the hole-he is 17 and bullet proof)

I went to my shop and retrieved a small wheelbarrow and a sack of ready mix concrete. I May as well do it right, I think to myself. I get the shovel, the water hose, and head over to the newly formed hole and see immediately that Joe needs a break.

"Joe, I will carefully add the water, you mix.."

I had mixed concrete several times before in my life, and here I am teaching my son to do the same thing, and he at the tender age of 17. You always want your kids to have it better than you did.Watching Joe sweat reminded me that I needed to drink some water so I drank a swallow from the hose as Joe began to mix.We got the concrete ready, filling it around the wood stake previously anchored into the ground and as prescribed in step 2. I released Joe from his temporary duty (his girlfriend had patiently been waiting inside the house) and finished up my handy work.
This entire process may have taken 15 minutes.

I was feeling pretty good about everything when IT HAPPENED.

Wifey came bounding out of the house wuth that look on her face. It is the same look she had when I totaled her car a few years ago, the same look onher face when she came to investigate me working on the car, when I did minor plumbing or repair work, and the exact look she gave me when I was putting upthe swingset and even the inflatable pool that time.
It was that look that roughly translates into the following:"you are screwing up and I know it because I am like a shark drawn to blood when you start working on anything and why didn’t you check with me before you started to dig I hope you have your cup on because I'm going to kick yous quare in the you know (what rhymes with whats)"...."why did you dig the hole here?" she asks."Why not?", I reply."you're too close to the street", says she."No I isn’t", say I.(It is entirely possible that I may have mentioned to her at this moment thatshe really should take her butt back inside because I knew what I was doing and if she didn’t like it she could not only dig the hole herself, but she may as well go to hell and get one of the many sets of post hole diggers theyhad available)Undaunted, she says "the box will poke out in the middle of the street"...

I rally and fire a volley of "NO IT WON'Ts"--"I don’t want the mailman to drive a rut in the yard, followed by a "it will be dead even with the street which is optimum" and one last "It will work fine" before I was shut down. She stormed off back inside the house muttering unintelligibles. They were unintelligible because I couldn’t hear her. Maybe it was because I was tired already, maybe it was because I know what the end result would be. I didn’t even throw a George Fisher patented thermo-nuclear fit (I wanted to). I pulled out the wood stake, scooped outall of the already mixed concrete, and filled the hole back with the titanium laced red clay that had been dug previously. I went back inside told her inas firm and authoritarian voice I could muster, "Where do you want the hole?"(my mind was answering this question by saying "upside your head" but Iremained calm).

She came back outside, and showed me where she wanted the hole to be dug.Then she show me another place. And another. Still another. I did what any other person in the occupation of manual labor would do. I leaned against my post hole diggers and waited for a decision."Where do you think it should go?", said she."You already know", I replied, nodding my head in the direction of the freshly filled titanium, red clay, and leftover concrete laced hole where my current visit to hell had begun, and thinking had I kept digging a little wider and deeper, I could be placing her in that hole along with the mailbox. Although the thought was fleeting it felt good to think it.

In a nanosecond her shrillness blasted me back into reality.

"Fine", she says, and by this time youngest daughter and Pro Mom supporter Winnie had come out, having immediately joined forces with her birth mother and telling me herself, "George, George, George, you should have listened to Momma." Winnie got the mailbox and laid on the ground in order they get amore clearer picture of where the hole should be. Novices, I say to myself.Had they a calibrated and trained MAN eye like myself, they could do withoutall the theatrics and merely mark the spot to dig, as Joe and I had done.Between the both of them they picked the spot. I asked if they were sure.They said yes. "Would you like to use a lifeline or call a friend?", I advise.
Susan (by this time she is not "Wifey" any longer, but possibly Ex-Wifey)clears her throat, "ahem".....

My hole digging began in earnest. The first one was practice.By this time Mans best friend is back with girlfriend and watching TV in my mancave, a place where I should be hiding. My neighbor Mike and his wife are now back home, and the neighbor lady and her daughter across the way have decided to take their dog for a walk. Amanda and Pootie come riding up from their weekend in North Carolina, and in a matter of 25 seconds the entire neighborhood, or what appears to be most of it, have begun migrating towards the man with post hole diggers in his hand.

Mrs. Fisher is now holding court and briefing everyone on the current scenario. I had no idea that me digging a #@$%^ hole in the ground would garner so much attention. There are now women, dogs, and babies in my driveway, all of them looking at me like an an exhibit at the zoo.

Cars that normally fly by our house are now slowing down, looking at me dig, pointing, waving. I know none of these people. I strike harder with the diggers. The red clay on this side of the driveway is ten times harder than on theother side. My digging method becomes a dance of sort, with a strike of the diggers into the clay, followed by a quarter turns, repeating, and a final scoopful of clay out of the hole. Strike, Four quarter turns, scoop. So easy,like the foxtrot. I call it the Posthole Polka, but only because I don’t feel too much like cussing right now.

Finally, a new hole dug.

All the while, the neighbor ladies and dogs and babies sounding like a hen house, clucking away blah, blah, blah, cackle, cackle, cackle. With so much clucking I'm surprised to not see any eggs. Had I a backhoe I could dig a really, really big hole and bury them all in it.I finish my work, and leave the concrete to set up and dry. The mounting of the post and final assembly of the mailbox will come tomorrow.

Post hole diggers.

Along with Astroturf, Aluminum Bats, and Liver . They are unwanted, undesirable, and uncomfortable. Whoever invented them must have been prepared to spend some time in hell. GLF