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.

I recently made comments as to the merits of Liver and Onions, of which there are none.

It is a bad marriage in my humble opinion. Onions deserve better.

Let me explain.

Liver is an organ meat. I don’t eat organ meats. I don’t eat organ meats because they are organs.
The only organs that are allowed are those that are played musically. Lest I digress, let us stick to the liver for a few moments, shall we? I know there are Humans out there among us who think Liver and Onions are quite the meal.
Like one of my friends said, “Why mess up good onions?” to which I heartily concur.

I have no issue with anyone who likes to eat liver and onions, or just liver by itself. But hear me clearly, I do not like it. I do not like it a lot. Detest may be a better word for it but I don’t want to hurt anyone’s feelings who enjoys eating the organ that is the filter for whatever animal to whoms entrails it belongs.

Childhood Trauma to Blame?
*****************************


My Dad was one of the most intelligent human beings I ever knew. One of his favorite things was to cook. He made excellent Lasagna and Pizza, among other things.

Much to my Moms chagrin, in the process of his preparing meals he would totally destroy the kitchen. Every cabinet door would be open, every knife, fork, spoon, bowl, dish, and cooking instrument used and spread out in a holocaustic array that one could not adequately describe, but whose carnage one had to experience.

Dad also loved liver and onions. Loved it, I tell you.

And quite naturally when you love something you want everyone near and dear to you to love it too. So on occasions----(actually I know of about three times this happened in my young life) the Old Man would get a craving for Liver and Onions.

I remember the first time.

I was making my way home in time for supper (back then the rule was “have your narrow ass in this house by dark or else”) and about half a block away I smelled something. At first snort, it didn’t seem an offensive smell at all. I then discovered the smell coming from my house so I proceeded to make my way inside and when opened the front door and made my way into the kitchen, still delving into the unknown, I inquired:

“Hey Dad, whatcha making?”

“Liver and Onions.”

“OH N---!” But before I could form the word “NO” I was cut off. “You don’t have to clean your plate but you do have to TRY IT!”

When the Old Man said that, it was over. No discussion, no debate, no reprieve, no last minute call with a pardon from the Governor. There would be none of that “I ate a late lunch” or “I’m trying to lose weight for Baseball season so I can run fast around the bases” pleas for exclusion. I was the size of a broomstick, anyway.

Any other meal that I would have stared at when I was a kid (I was quite a wormy little guy) would have gotten me a lecture about “all those starving little children in Africa” or wherever. Why, oh why, could all the starving little children not have my liver? I would have been glad to donate it to them. “Try it, you’ll like it”, as the Alka-Seltzer commercial slogan went. I had a bad feeling that Alka-Seltzer wouldn’t come close to fixing the pending issue I had as the dinner hour quickly approached.

The proverbial dinner bell rung. Rang. Ringed. Er, uh, we were summoned to dinner.

With the speed of a sloth I found my barstool at the counter in our little kitchen and my supper. Liver and onions, rice, and tea to drink. I had many a meal out of rice and or white bread and tea in the past; surely I could negotiate my way around this manhole cover sized piece of liver sitting on my plate.

My siblings were in the same boat as I, and we looked at each other and then the plates. Then each other. Then the plates. Lather, rinse, repeat.

The Old Man set his eyes upon us.

That only meant one thing, and that was to cut into the organ meat and taste it. I cut a piece as small as I could that would be big enough that the Old Man wouldn’t say anything and small enough that perhaps I could swallow it whole like a pill. Saying a prayer I popped it in my mouth and began to chew. I would show Dad I was man enough to eat his silly old liver and onions. I chewed some more. Nothing. The taste wasn’t good at all. It tasted like…well, like Liver.

I took a swallow of tea and continued to chew.

The Liver was being chewed but it was ten times bigger now than the piece I had originally had on my fork. I chewed faster, thinking that the mechanical action of my jaws would naturally take over and send the liver on its way. It was not to be. The liver was in the roof of my mouth, the sides, the corner, and in the front. In short, it was everywhere that I had taste buds and had begun to homestead right there in my mouth with no plan of going anywhere ever. More tea. By God I would drowned it all. I would wash it away if I had to drink a gallon of tea to do it.

Somehow, we all survived the supper.

I know that Dad was only trying to show us the way and expand our horizons. Quite frankly my horizons expanded a lot better with Peanut butter and Jelly or some Cap’n Crunch. Moms spaghetti, Fried Chicken or roast beef would have been heaven sent in a situation like this, but like I said it wasn’t necessarily a democracy at the Fisher house back then, so you just had to take the good with the bad-- or liver, in this case.

I vowed by all that was holy that If I ever smelled that smell while coming home for supper I would ditch my school books in the bushes and hide out until past dark, reckoning that even getting in trouble for being late and the butt-whipping that would ensue would be childs play compared to eating liver.

But like I said, I harbor no ill will for Liver lovers. To each their own. I do know of one purpose for liver when it’s not filtering the toxins of its owner, and that’s to use as bait for fishing.

I have to stop writing about this now. I have begun to sweat profusely and I am cold and clammy. I also have the sudden urge to floss.

Liver is the work of the devil. You can quote me on that.

"YOU MUST BE FROM UP NORTH"

I am fuming right now.

It’s not because it’s Monday, and it’s not because I had to get the tire on my car patched, nor is it the fact that I’m still recovering from my last little episode of Gout.

The incident happened on the way home. It just so happens that my main man, Pootipottamus B. Rex, and his Mother, the Boogs, are a tad under the weather. Nothing major, just a lower gastrointestinal bug or thingy, One of those things that kind of require you to be “nearer my heart to thee” to the facilities, as it were..Ahem. Oh yeah and the Pottamus has a snotty nose, cough, watery eyes, etc.

Being the loyal “Tah” and Dad that I am, I stopped off at the CVS drugstore to get a few things: Some pink stuff, cough drops, and a couple packs of gum (Himself likes gum) and a couple of Ginger Ales for the Boogs.

That’s when it happened.

Another customer in the place, a woman, and obviously ignorant beyond description, comes up to me and says (allow me a moment here to take a cleansing breath):

“You must be from the North, buying Ginger ale.”
(Long pregnant pause to allow the words to sink in..)

“EX-CUUUUUSSSE ME?!?” I replied.

“You must be from the North- Nobody buys Ginger Ale here” or something to that effect. By this time my blood pressure was rising and my head spinning and ears are ringing. No way in hell she just said that to me---and not just once but said it twice.

As the young girls say while doing the chicken head, “OH-NO-YOU-JUS-DID-ENT!!

“Madame”, I replied, raising my voice to the right amount of decibels so not only could the checkout girls hear it but also the ladies back in aisle 11 (Incontinence, laxative, and antacid) could hear it as well---“I have NEVER EVER been accused of anything so DASTARDLY in my entire life--!! I was still in shock, and my face turning red. She looked at me and tried to justify her mis-aligned perception, and she may have mentioned something about what folks in Michigan drink. Quite frankly it’s all a blur and I responded once more:

“Maam, I drink CO-COLAS. I am from the South, I am a Macon boy and we drink Co-Colas down here, even if they have “DR. Pepper” or “Orange Crush” labels on the bottle, and furthermore, I have been accused of a lot of things, some of them unmentionable, but I have NEVER, EVER been accused of being a Northerner.”

Who in the H-E-double- hockey-sticks did this woman (who was nattily dressed by the way and It just so happens there was another lady in the store who saw the way she was dressed and gave her a good going over with her eyeballs when she came traipsing her big ol’ butt in the place like gangbusters and very unladylike I might add) think she was to number one, start up a conversation with me, and secondly, accuse me of being a foreigner? I wasn’t raised thinking that it’s ok to beat on women, but I’m telling you people, this woman could be a testament to wife beating.

Clearing my throat, and becoming still louder, I continued.

“As an addendum, Madame, I will have you know that Ginger Ale is a staple of the Southern medicine cabinet. To three parts ginger ale one normally adds one part black and white movie and one part Grandmas couch and within a 12-24 hour period one is as good as new.”

I was seething. I was at a crossroads. I could continue to have “conversation” with this heathen, or I could grab my stuff and take the high road and exit the premises. I must be getting old, because I chose the latter.

It is times like this that I would love to have a tattoo on my person someplace (in this case my buttocks) that proclaims “Forget, Hell”, or “American by Birth, Southern by the Grace of God” that I could “whip out” and show her that would have made her swallow her snuff or perhaps soil herself. She deserved to do both.



I am back home now, my blood pressure almost back to normal and my two sick ones are getting better by the minute. The Pottamus will be as wide open as a peanut hull before bed and the Booger has casually sipped on her Ginger ale. My wife, god love her, has soothed my savage Southern Beast and told me it would be ok, that some folks are alive only because it’s against the law to kill em. She said to forget about it.

Forget, Hell.