Jimmy Hoffa Found….

I am day 3 into my Mr. Mom routine--I am washing clothes, picking up the youngest from school, having serious "Tah time" with the Pottamus, and working my natural born ass off in the house I can still ill afford...my wife wants for nothing. If i keep it up shes going to be a widow woman soon. I feel like John Henry when he was racing the machinery.

It had been put off for quite some time, but it had come to this---me or it. It was time. no guts, no glory.

The Refrigerator—the one bought by wifey when I was in Iraq, the one whose picture I posted up on the wall when everyone else put up pictures of the new Harley-Davidson motorcycles—(I had a photo of the fridge and the one of the washer and dryer. I still catch hell from my buddies about it).

The Fridge needed cleaning. It had no less than the following items in it (I highlight the major finds only)

1) three half eaten jars of hamburger dill chips

2) 1/3 bottle of greek olives (used sometime in 2007 for one of Wifeys new recipes)

3) Sun dried tomatoes (3 jars—one jar legitimate, the other two lost months ago)

4) More pickles-little gherkins—moderately consumed-

5) Bottle white vinegar (why I needed vinegar with all those jars of pickles is beyond me)

6) 5 containers of Parmesan, Parmesan and Romano, cheese. All were combined into one container (hint from George-one container was a “brand” name so I poured it all in there so I can impress my guests)

7) How much yellow mustard does one need? (three containers-combined value 75 cents- deliver me)—still have one huge one left

8) The decadent  Chocolate dessert from Valentines day-still in the serving glass-guess it was too decadent to eat—it got pushed back behind the mustard—who knew?

9) Marischino cherries—think maybe we used only a couple—return to duty.

10) 3 containers of crème cheese for the bagels-combined you couldn’t smear one half a bagle—it happens, people, especially with kids in the house.

11) BOOZE!! Woo-hoo!!! Extra points!!! An Anheuser Busch American Ale from last summer, a Negro Modelo, 2 Michelob Ultras, a Yuengling Lager (this was placed in their last week and this is the beer God drinks) and a bottle of wine with a screw on top. (think sister in law brought it over)

12) Miracle Whip- 2 containers, consolidated.

13) 5 of those canned bread sticks—still within the expiration date, BONUS!

14) 2 cans of biscuits, starting to swell---discarded.

15) the TV remote and car keys to my 95 Oldsmobile.

I emptied the contents, I scrubbed, soaked, sprayed, bleached, lathered rinsed and repeated. Then I re-assembled and put back in the stuff that was good. The other two bags I lugged to the dumpster, and just in time, because the trash men were coming up the street.

Victory is mine.

Now, if you will excuse me, I must get supper started. Chicken coated with mustard and parmesan cheese and maraschino cherries on top. Side items will be gherkin pickles and breadsticks.

The old battle axe,er uh, I mean, Wifey-- had better dang well appreciate it.

Shes a lucky girl, I tell you.

"Herself" is 20......

Yeah, I know. Joes birthday two days ago, and now the firstborn. Herself. Her Royal Highness, the Booger of Nottingham. We started calling her "Punkin", then "Punkinhead", then "Booger" (because shes so much fun to pick at), then "Booger Loves", then more recently "Boograh" because she loves that Marine husband of hers and says OORAH! all the time, a dig at my Army soul.

Amanda Rose Fisher. She is twenty years old. She has been twenty years old since she was ten. She gets that, and her good looks, thank God, from her Momma. Make no mistake about it when she looks at you with those dark eyes it is all Fisher. I gave her a bath once when she was a baby and she looked at me and i jumped back, thinking that it was my Father looking at me---scary, and it will make a Christian out of you in a hurry.

Amanda. She got that name from my Grandmother. I worshiped my Grandmother. I am sure my Grandmother would have worshipped Amanda, and my Dad would have met his match, which never happened in the 54 years he was around. Amanda would have conquered him in seconds. She certainly took over from the minute she arrived, wrapping her little hand around my pinkie finger when they were wiping the baby stuff off her, squawling to beat all hell. that was it for me. I never had a chance.

I should have known there was going to be trouble when she was painting her own nails at 2 years old (I have the picture to prove it)--Vanity, thy name is  Booger.

Independent, Hardheaded, Intelligent ,and Beautiful.

And a Momma herself--to the Pottamus B. Rex, almost three. She loves that boy and he loves her. What a pair they make, and are joined at the heart and hip on most days. Unless I can bribe him with ice cream. One day soon shes gonna move away and take the Pottamus with her, and I will be placed on suicide watch. My relatives and friends are already starting to talk about it.

But for now, Happy 20th Birthday Amanda Rose Punkinhead Booger Loves....

Love,

Daddy

Mans Best Friend-A Dad looks at 18

Last time I lamented about Joe Fisher I was feeling sorry for myself because I found myself with a little less time on my hands with him in my world or me in his--this has been cleverly compensated of course with the ongoing adventures of Pootapottamus Bunkus Rex, my wascally wascal of a grandson, even though I am much too young to be a Grandfather. Alas, I am much too young to have an 18 year old son, for that matter--at least in my minds eye I am.

Lest anyone forget I drive too fast, listen to rock music too loud, and suck the life out of each day--as long as I take my meds and am in bed by 9 pm. Ahem.

Regardless, tomorrow, my son Joe turns 18. Manhood. In reality, young manhood, but manhood none the less.

Good grief--18 years ago. The night prior to Joe showing up we had went to dinner with my boss. Sue was absolutely miserable and was ready to take the steak knife and deliver the baby herself. My Boss and I were oblivious to her plight at the time, and as he continued buying me Jack and Cokes while the night progressed into nearly midnight. Only a couple of hours later Sue told me "its time" and away we went. Joe showed up about lunchtime that day, and we added a son and brother for Amanda. In the delivery room My glasses fogged from the tears in my eyes as I could hear my late Father, H. Ray Fisher, congratulate me on his new grandson.

Joseph Ray Fisher had arrived.

The Daddy in me still sees Joe as the little bitty fellow who sat in the barber chair before he was 2 and got a haircut like his dads and never squirmed once, just like the old men. In fact, Joe has the soul of an old man. I see him when he told me "Dad, we are brothers in Gods eyes", when he was about 4, coming home from day care. The same little boy, when asked at the same day care thanksgiving program what he was thankful for, replied "My Dad"...and I still get misty eyed at that--and I see him playing his first game of baseball on his 5th birthday, and I see those blue eyes turning into crescent moons when he laughs---which his Momma thinks is the absolute greatest thing.

The first day of school, the last day of school, Uncle Bubba (his real name Ray, after my Dad) showing him the joy of fishing and peeing outside, and on and on until I see him coming down the elevator at the airport to tell me goodbye that one last time, both of us crying so hard we could only hold each other. And I see him break all the rules a year later when he nearly knocked me down on the parade field as I came home.

More fishing, more baseball, lots of really good friends (they are all a great group of young people) and throw in the guitar and the girls and here I sit, about to watch my son turn the corner into "young manhood". He is having a great time and I am glad he is. Glory days, indeed.

He is a good boy, I don't care who his Daddy is. All his good traits come from his Momma. Thank you, Lord.

Happy Birthday, Joe Joe. I love you.

Now, If someone will go bring the Pottamus to me, I believe he and I need to have some ice cream.

I regret it, it was wrong, I apologize, BUT.........

This will be filed under the "Not the best business practice" or "Don't do like I do do like I say" ; However, it happened and while it is regrettable it is a good story, and certainly falls within the realm of GEORGE.....


I had a recent experience while working the Welcome Home Ceremonies for the 48th Brigade. While I have resolved this issue with the person in question (I sent him an email apologizing for my unprofessional behavior), and "learned my lesson", I am not sure I would have changed my actions in as much as perhaps my language, but I had been provoked to the point of profanity.

As most of you know I tend to use too much punctuation from time to time.


And as folks are likely to learn, messing with my Family, Friends, or anyone I happen to like and I tend to take it personal and go from zero to Redneck in a hurry. And the grabbing of my sleeve when I was walking away...well, that will get your butt kicked from here to Sunday in most places....my neck is red but its not that Red. Again, I say, bever get into a braying contest with a jackass...

The take away here is that in my dealings with the local media the past year, I have established what I felt like were pretty good relations, these hard working folks telling the 48th's story---and doing an excellent job of it mind you. So, while I felt somewhat responsible for my "media peeps" coming down to ft. Stewart to cover the event, I went on the offensive when I discovered one of them had been "dissed".....after all, they had covered several of these events already, and had driven 3 hours to be here for this most recent one. The fact that my reporter friend had already contacted the Public Affiars guy and had left a voicemail wasnt good enough, and the "offended one" told our local reporter that he "should have used more fortitude to contact him"....Thats when my blood pressure went sky high and I went off....

below is the "offended Public affair guys" version of the story--which is quite accurate.


"I observed the reporter approach personnel from the Georgia National Guard to tell them about my confronting him about violating the installation news media escort SOP (an SOP that was shared with all interested media by (name witheld), who also provided my phone numbers to the media for access). Moments before the Soldiers marched onto the field, a LTC Fischer from Macon and part of the Georgia National Guard approached me and asked who I was.

I replied I am Public Affairs for the installation.

At that point, LTC Fischer said words to the effect of "I don't care who the f--- you are, but if you have f---ing problems with people from Macon you f---ing take it up with me because you don't f---ing know how to treat people" in a hostile tone.

He then turned away to walk away angrily.

I followed him and sought to calmly explain the news media escort SOP to him. He reacted by saying, "don't f---ing follow me." I did reach out and grab the sleeve of his ACU when he
continued to walk away.
When I grab the sleeve, the LTC threatened
me, saying "don't f---ing touch me."

I had already let go, but I continued to follow LTC Fischer in vain, attempting to reason with him.
I did give up after following him from in front of the one of the covered reviewing stand to the rear of the central reviewing stand. At that point, I called Mr. (name witheld) to advise him of my actions, the reporter's actions, and LTC Fisher's actions.

One of my friends who is also on staff up at our Headquarters expected no less from me, and told me "I bet they don'e ever f--- with anybody from Macon ever again".

'nuff said. Lesson learned. Even if he did spell my name wrong.

EWEWANHAPPACHABE?!?

I was of town so didn’t get to my regular Barber.

No sweat, Military town, barber shops all over the place.

Go into a place, 6 chairs, no waiting.

Fall in on a chair, older oriental lady standing by.

I sit down, get the sheet wrapped around me And said "howyoulike?"

"Skin on the sides, por favor", I reply.

"EWE WANH HIGHFAY,MEDIAFAY,LOWFAY?" (translation: you want a High Fade, Medium Fade, or Low Fade?)

I point halfway up the side of my head, an inch above my ear- "Here Fay", I say.

"And my barber at home normally shaves the sides", I fay-- I mean, say.

With clippers abuzz, she descends upon my occipital like a swarm of locusts.

In another thirty seconds, she has lathered the sides of my freshly shorn scalp and shaving it smooth as my grandsons bottom. I'm seriously feeling like Elmer Fudd in the Bugs Bunny version of Barber of Seville.

She works at lightning speed and I am fearful that I will be bleeding soon---my head isn’t exactly the shape of an egg and has several areas where you have to run the speed limit.

This lady works faster than the guy on tv selling the Ginsu knives--schwing, schwing, schwing.. I make it thru no problem--my fear transforms to amazement.

What normally takes 30 minutes in the barber shop at home has taken all of 5 minutes here.

This place is a tonsorial production line.

"EWE WANH APPA-CHABE??" she asks?

"Maam?" says I.

"APPA-CHABE, EWE WANH APPA-CHABE?"

Er, uh, umm, what I really like is for you to speak Engrish, I mean English, I think to myself.

After two attempts when I don’t understand what someone is saying I default to the smile and nod--I am deaf but this is more about enunciation than my eardrums--

It’s a cultural thing and that’s ok. But I can hear better when its English.

What on earth could Appa-Chabe be? A rock band? A breakfast cereal? A U.S. run military prison in war torn Afghanistan?

Or perhaps was it an old classic movie once, "The Road to Appa Chabe", starring Peter O'Toole and David Niven?

I took the bait. "Sure", I reply.

It was... After shave. {The math :[ EWE WANH APPA-CHABE = Do you want After Shave?] }

She splashes some AFTER SHAVE on a napkin and rubs it around my head.

I am spring fresh.

I am coiffed.

I am anew.

And I learned some new Phrases if I ever go to Korea. "APPA CHABE". It's my new scent--and It's not just for breakfast anymore.