" 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

PASS THE SWEET POTATOES!!

Ah, Thanksgiving.

A time to reflect on what is really important in our American way of life.Our family and friends, the Pilgrims, the struggle of our founding fathers and birth of the greatest nation on earth-- and the Turkey, the virtually nonflying bird that was invented solely for our national holiday.

More importantly, it is about the one thing that keeps me up at night...the feast--the bounty that nature and Kroger has provided for us with which tohelp us give adequate thanks.
For weeks prior to last Thursday I had kept my eyes and ears glued to theFood Network, watching everything I could find on Thanksgiving Dinner--I had, quite frankly, pelted Wifey Poo with a million and one questions about what she was going to cook, when she was going to cook it, and for how long,etc...
She said it was very reminiscent of my phone calls to her when I was in Iraq, when I asked about what she may or may not have been wearing....
Ahem.

After recovering from my Saturday a week ago traumatization at the Grocery store, I accompanied wifey to Kroger on Tuesday for official Thanksgiving Shopping...
Oh, Beloved, this was the proverbial cakewalk, as all I had to do was push the buggy and watch the goodies become contained therein-- Of course, no visit to theKroger would be complete without the occasional groin kick and verbal admonishment("How many times do I have to tell you to stay on the right sideof the aisle?!?")--which usually comes after the cereal aisle, when the endorphins are released from my brain after having seen some of my best friends- Toucan Sam, Cap'n Crunch, and Tony the Tiger.
It is during this euphoric state that I "occasionally" invoke some attention defecit and my buggy strays into the middle of the aisle or into the path of oncoming traffic, causing her royal highness much embarassment. This is then followed by heart rendering apologies to the other customer and a high and inside blow (mostly verbal) to what feels like my groinage. I usually say"I'm sorry, excuse me", and when the victims continue on their way I say"pardon me all to hell" under my breath.
That's a quote from The Shootist, a John (Hallowed be thy name ) Wayne movie. I bet The Duke never even went inside a grocery store, much less pushed a buggy and did battle with miscreant old ladies and mothers with their snotty nosed urchins running amuck.
Barbarians.
Anyway, back to my Wifey,who, bless her heart, may have been under a smidgen of duress, inasmuch as half of her family(three of the brothers had turns with their in laws) would be coming over to dine with us. The sum of people that would invade our little piece of paradise would be somewhere around 18, but no one really knows for sure because the entire crew are moving targets--if you count a couple neighbor kids and the dogs, well it goes even higher.

But, enough of the grocery store...suffice to say that I was PUMPED andRARING TO GO to unload all those bags of groceries when I got back home, even if it was black as pitch outside, even if there were no kids around to help, and even though I may quite possibly have herniated a testicle (teste if you prefer) in the process of carrying all those plastic bags from the car.

Afterwards, as I settled in my easy chair with the ice pack, my mouth salivated at the mere thought of what Wifey would be cooking in her newly remodeled kitchen in a mere 48 hours. ( Weighing that thought just now, I wonder whether it is the food being prepared or the sight of her knocking around in the kitchen that gets me excited...)
Alas, it is both.
You perhaps thought I was going to be chauvenistic, but no, dear hearts, that is not the case. The fact that she is toiling away in theKitchen like a galley slave only speaks to the love and devotion--the attention mind you, or great tenacity and detail given to her culinary art. In short, Wifey is a good cook and I more than encourage her to stay in the kitchen and work at it.

This Thanksgiving my attention was focused on one particular item. Normally it is the Cranberries (we discovered they actually are a berry, not just the stuff in the can) or the dressing , even the Turkey itself, that makes me hunch. This years obsession was the Sweet Potato--not that I'm not already a fan, but the Food Network had this whole big deal about em (Sweet Potatoes,Yams, etc) and it got me "peeing on car tires howling at the moon excited". The butter, the brown sugar, or the marshmallows, all of which you have to eat sitting down, became my food of choice for T'giving 08.

OnThanksgiving morning I arose early and got the coffee and newspaper all ready for Wifey-and even had the Macys Thanksgiving parade on the TV so she could watch those gay folks in those broadway shows dance around in next to nothing as if it were 90 degrees outside--ANYHOW, I reasoned that a little attention on my part in the morning would potentially pay off later--yes sir, I had to keep my gal happy and healthy for the next few hours...

After ensuring that her caffeine and nicotine levels were up to par, I unlocked the drawer containing the kitchen knives-- and informed her with the one statement that would surely give her the adrenaline rush she would need for the next umpteen hours:
"If you keep me full of all this good food I'm convinced I will be so full I won't be able to even attempt to have conjugal relations.
"Before you could say "coitus interruptus" she was rifling thru cabinet doors, banging pots and pans around, and making ready the stove, microwave, fridge, clearing off counters and barking out orders to take out the garbage, unload the dishwasher, and put the dogs out. She was a woman posessed.
As is the custom at our house, I always try to work my way into the kitchen at some point to inspect and check on things.
I stepped one foot into the kitchen when the cooking had started, only to have my groinage verbally abused with the promise of physical abuse- to include dismemberment- if I were to set foot in there for any reason- Of course, wifey didn't have to go into any of those details-she just gave me that look and said "GET THE HELL OUT OF MY KITCHEN". She had a knife in her hands there was little I could do.

As I went back downstairs to my mancave I muttered "pardon me all to hell"....Anyway, It's ok to peer into the kitchen-where I saw the dressing with sausage, onion, and whatever else goes in it, and I saw those wonderful sweet potatoes--I saw the turkey being basted with all those succulent juices collecting in the bottom of the roasting pan. I also saw the pineapple casserole, the greenbean casserole, complete with those little fried onions that makes one hunch....

The fact of the matter is that she shooed me away from her kitchen at least a half dozen times. On one occasion I feigned arthritic conditions and had to take some pain reliever-the pills and the water to chase them with would be located in thekitchen! Another time was to check and see if the trash needed taking out, and still another to help with the dishwasher-she always found me out though, and would proceed to shoo me away again.
She has been shooing me away ever since I met her 20 some odd years ago, and if not for my persistence I wouldn't have gotten married to her or been able to be underfoot in her kitchen--my strategy is quite simple--you just gotta wear em down and break their will to live.
Sue says I do that better than anyone she ever met. She should know.

At any rate, first guest of du jour was father in law-the man has never been late for anything in his life-if an event begins at 1500 you can bet your hat and your ass he will be out in your driveway an hour prior.
Unfortunately, his penchant for timeliness did not get handed down to his first born daughter.
It was comforting to have him at the house, because my mother in law never let him in the kitchen either. He felt my pain and we both peered into the kitchen like two hound dogs in a butcher shop window.
An hour or so later, and the smell in the house has me rabid. I eat an apple to control myself. It helps a great deal, but not as much as the diversion created when sis in law and her crew and then brother in law and his crew come walking up on the porch- Kids all over the place--a welcome distraction while Sue kicks in the afterburner and starts kicking some culinary butt in the kitchen-honestly all I can do at this point is provide comic relief in my never ending role as court jester.

In a little while the proverbial dinner bell is rung-the chow line is formed and everyone falls in and starts helping their plates. We pause after we all get seated at the dining room table-and the other lunchroom table for an additional 6 seats--and return thanks. Even the little kids hush while the blessing is asked. That's as quiet as the house has been since 0730 when I woke up and it won't be that quiet again until well after 900 pm-when Sues family--Our family--departs. How delicious was it?
I performed most of the cleanup afterwards, if that tells you anything. One of the benefits of cleaning up is you get to dip into the pans for another"taste" if you need it--seeing as how I had promised to not ask for any other"wifely services" on this evening, It would be the safe bet to make sure thatI was not only full, but so full that I harbored no thoughts of a'more. It was a WIN WIN situation..I have a full belly and Wifey gets to sleep thru the night.

Life is good. Thanksgiving was awesome.

Behold the power of Sweet Potatoes.

Adventures in Grocery Shopping

This Saturday found me with an off weekend and a grocery list handed to me by Household 6 (that's the call sign for Wifey) to go to Kroger and do the "just a few things to get us by before we do the HEAVY Thanksgiving shopping"...



When going Krogering, I rarely go by myself. Undaunted and not the least bit intimidated by this "womans work", however, I grabbed the list, put on my ball cap, grabbed the keys to the Titanic and hit the road. With as much zeal and zest as i could muster, I psyched myself to get in and get out in a hurry. Double checking to make sure the grocery buggy had 4 good round wheels and no alignment problems, I struck out thru the produce headed for my first stop, the bananas.

two bunches and a plastic bag off the roll of plastic bags thingy, i headed over to grab a loaf of bread and was on aisle two before the senior citizens could figure out which grapes to buy.



Next on the list was Tomatoes, written like this: "4 Cans Tomatoes"--I ran into the entire section of tomatoes on the next aisle. It was here i encountered my first small glitch. Big cans, small cans, or regular cans? Diced, Peeled, or Whole? Hunts, Del Monte, or Store Brand? I thought about it for a moment and out of the corner of my eye could see the senior citizens I had blown past a moment ago were now waiting on me, as was another lady with a small child. I maneuvered my buggy to give them the right of way, and called Wifey for guidance.



"Big cans, small cans, regular cans, Diced, Peeled or whole, Del Monte, Hunts or Store brand?" I asked.



"Regular, Diced, whatever is cheaper" was the reply.



I threw 4 cans into the buggy, one of which hit the bread, and I sped off while feeling the stares of the old folks and a Mother with small child. I will make it up on the next aisle, I thought to myself, because in all of grocerydom, this aisle belonged to me and to no other.



It was the CEREAL Aisle.



The cereal aisle is the greatest aisle in all the universe, known only to little kids and middle aged men. The cereal aisle is where i feel closer to God. It's like a closer walk with thee. The cereal aisle reminds me of all that is good in the world. It was here that in a matter of seconds i had scored boxes of Froot Loops, Cap'n Crunch (who Crunchitized me back before Crunchitizing was even a word), Apple Cinnamon Cheerios and Corn Pops. I bought the reverend stuff because it is, after all, the week before Thanksgiving, and life is too short for the generic brands of cereal. I was on aisle three before you could say White Grape Peach Juice, which was what was next on the list. OATMEAL, as it turned out, caused me another issue. There was store brand, Quaker oats, and both in assorted packs.

I called Wifey again.

"YOU have a coupon for Maple Brown sugar", she said, and clearly agitated. OOPS! I forgot I had brought some store coupons with me to save some money. We are, after all, in a recession. "OK, Love bug, GOT IT! BYE" and could hear her muttering something about her doing it herself as I ended the call. I had been in Kroger a million times and now all of a sudden the place had become Mt. Everest. I was fast becoming helpless and my list was as vague as if it were a blank sheet of paper.

Rounding the next aisle, I felt the beads of sweat break out on my forehead. Not only had those first two ladies caught up with me but I was now in a veritable traffic jam with buggies all around, everyone reaching for the same items--or so it seemed. Quickly I bolted for the meat section, where there was a little breathing room-I hoisted a 23 pound Turkey into the buggy, only to find it wouldn't fit, so I shoved him under the buggy. The list had Hamburger Meat (2) which meant two pounds. Ground sirloin, chuck, or lean? one 2 lb package, or two one pound packages? I started to dial the phone again but got hold of myself, picking two one pound packs of hamburger meat, still not knowing if it was lean, ground chuck, or sirloin.

Doubling back to use the coupon for sugar, both white and brown, brought yet another dilemma. Brown sugar comes in two shades, light and dark. I know enough that a recipe will be specific enough to ask for a particular shade, and one need not stray from shade to shade. It may mean the difference between oooh and ahhh. So, quite naturally, since this was of utmost importance, I had to call Wifey once more.
"Light or Dark?", was all I asked. Then, a long silence. "Light", she said and before she could utter another sound I yelled into the phone "I GOT IT- SEE YOU IN A BIT!" and hit the red button on my phone. Another Aisle, and paper plates, paper towels, napkins, and the one necessity we cant live without, toilet paper, or as I like to call them, hockey tickets. No significant issues to report here.

About this time I ran into Friend and fellow soldier Captain Mike Lipper. We have seen each other naked in the shower on many mornings in Iraq, and I bought my mid life crisis car from him. He is family. He saw me and held up his list that his wife had given him, and I held my list up that my wife had given me. The pained look in both our faces could only be appreciated and understood by those of us who have seen each other naked in Iraq.

On final approach, I hit the dog food aisle for puppy pads and dog treats. The Puppy pads are for the dogs to wet on when they don't get the chance to go outside. The reward for hitting the pad is a dog treat. Neither works like it was designed, and until they make puppy pads in the 2500 square feet versions, its like threading a needle trying to get my canines to go anywhere other than hiking their legs on the fake ficus trees inside the house. Don't get me started.

The last stop at the 10 items for 10 dollars discount bin, I was able to get some AA Batteries, some Almond Joy candy bars, some air freshener (See the note about the non-housebroken dogs) and some Shave cream, all one dollar a piece if you get ten items. Woo-Hoo!!

Making my way to an available checkout lane, I was able to see what pandemonium exists in this place on a Saturday morning--Why anyone in their right mind would want to go grocery shopping on a Saturday is beyond me. Unloading the buggy onto the checkout counter proved that I had sufficiently ruined the loaf of bread and placed the hamburger meat where the juices would run out onto the other food. My environmental hazard caused my cashier to ask the next attendant for some wipes so that the "spill" could be contained. somehowI managed to get the stuff all over my jacket and it looked like I had taken a bullet into the chest. There was no way this grocery store visit was going to be anything but grueling work. What joy I had brought into the store disappeared shortly after reaching for the Cap'n Crunch.

Out the door and now pulling a super stacked buggy of vittles, I managed to get out the door and into the path of an oncoming car when the paper towels managed to leave my buggy and hit the pavement. Pulling the buggy and toting an armload of paper towels, I had to sit it down again when I got to the car, now having to fish around in my two front pockets and jacket pockets for the one key. Lifting the tailgate I start by taking all the CRAP that is presently in the cargo hold and throwing it back over into the back seat. Slamming my shin into the trailer hitch and ball almost proved to be my undoing, and the only thing that kept me from cussing a blue streak was the intense pain that my shin was in. A lesser man would have succumbed to his wounds and died on the scene.

After 5 trips back and forth to get the groceries to the kitchen, and another thirty minutes of putting everything away, Iwas mentally and physically exhausted, not to mention having my shin hurt.

I had to have a nap.

This "Womans work" is like a kick in the shins. I will let a diesel mechanic give me a colonoscopy before I go back into the grocery store again without my wife.

I ain't man enough.

VETERANS DAY

I don't think of MYSELF as a Veteran. Technically I am, but the real Veterans are the ones who came before me. The famous ones i have read and studied my entire life. The not so famous ones, ones who did a hitch and got out to live otherwise normal lives, I remember fondly as well.

Uncle Terry, the Battle of Midway survivor, SGM Sapp and Major Carter, my ROTC instructors, my father in law, the Marine from the Korean conflict, Mike Pantera from the Vietnam era, my WW II Navy neighbor Mr. Cortez, and even my Dad, who spent two years as a mobilized Guardsman during the Korean conflict, making it as far as an operation in Canada.

I have rarely met anyone who ever served in any capacity in the Armed Forces that didn't have some story to tell and that wasn't proud of their service.

I am proud of them, too. Our country is the way it is because of them.

Electile Dysfunction

Its over.
My man (and Woman) didn't win. Curses. Oh well. Roosevelt died and MacArthur got fired, and the world kept turning. I have had enough politics for a while. UNCLE!

We have lived through Democrat administrations before, and America will survive regardless of whichever party tries to run it in the ground. These days, there's plenty of blame and middle fingers to go around. Lets keep em all pointed in the direction of Washington, DC, though. I hope whatever happens they are ALL inspired enough to get off their collective asses and get with it.

More importantly, Whats the media going to do? My God, no mud to sling? We might have to go back and watch Britney Spears.

As for me, Baseball season is over. This is the time of year to pick up a good book or three and read. The only thing in the world, really, that matters (besides that) is Soldiers, and possibly the next time I might get some fried chicken.

P.S. Governor Palin, I am going to miss you.