You know how when you go to the Mexican restaurant there's the table that orders the fajitas and the waiter walks past with a sizzling smoking plate that makes the entire place smell almost as good as chicken frying?

Well, kids, I will have you know that I jumped out of my normal "I'll have the number 3" and went whole enchilada (if you'll excuse my espanol) and ordered the chicken fajitas.

The sizzling smoking plate that smelled up the restaurant landed at my table this evening.

Wifey says every time she forces me out of my comfort zone I always remark how I enjoy it. She's right, of course.

3 glasses of water and 25 napkins later and everyone in the place knew they were dealing with a renaissance man...ahem. #fajitasdelajorgepescado

Observations in Air Travel

The flight from Denver to Atlanta had several folks from France on board. All of them were decked out on big Harley Davidson leather jackets and western hats-- um, chapeaus, if you'll pardon my French. I was amused watching them taking all that gear off and stuffing it into the overhead storage bins, all the while parlay vous fran-saying , if you'll once again pardon my French, Mesdames et Messieurs..surely they would be in dire straits upon arrival in Georgia, the hottest place on Earth....

The man sitting next to me purchased what obviously was his supper. While the rest of us heathens had the Delta special, i.e. Coke and pretzels, this fellow whipped out the plastic from his money clip-- that ought to tell you something--and purchased what is referred to as an 'in flight tapas snack box'. I know this because I read the box...I don't know what Tapas is--in fact I just looked the word up and its Spanish and means 'snack' --- so a 'snack snack' box...probably established by the Delta Airlines department of redundancy department.

I never heard of tapas-- best I can tell, they didn't have it until just a few years ago, but it appears that tapas is 25 individually wrapped snacks shoved into what should be a KFC 2 piece and biscuit snack. Little dried English peas, yogurt, some crackers, and some hummus (I could smell it) and some other things I didn't make out looking out of the corner of my eye because I didn't want to stare at the guy when he was having his supper, I mean, tapas.

 He consumed his in flight tapas snack snack box with sparkling water.

 Grab that and let it sink in---Sparkling water. When I hear those words it makes me think I need to be wearing a tie.

I, too, had sparkling water. It's referred to as Co-Cola, hallowed be thy name.

If I ever owned an airline, like if I resurrected Eastern Airlines I would call it Georges Southbound and Down Airways, and we would offer the aptly named 'Fried Yardbird Special' snack box' with either wing and breast or thigh and drumstick. For shorter flights we would give out moon pies, in whichever flavor our customers like--chocolate, vanilla, or banana.

 Everyone would be welcome, regardless of the language they spake---um, speak...spoke. And they could keep their money clip in their pocket. For the price of a ticket, we can dang well feed 'em and give 'em free wifi, and, I'm saving the best for last--a lemon scented moist towlette to wipe the yardbird off their hands.

 In the meantime, please refrain from tapasing on the backs of the seat in front of you, and have a pleasant flight.

The supper menu called for a breakfast sandwich (sausage, egg and cheese) served on one of those multi-grained Bagels that Wifey likes. 

I made a command decision and opted for English muffins instead. 

When I say 'opted', however, that really means that I had to come up with plan b, because there weren't any bagels. 

Here's why...

Having just ascended the basement stairs, I saw Satchel surrounded by what surely must have been all the pillows from the den, gnawed to a fare thee well, their freshly gnawed contents throughout the floor. 

It looked like Hells half acre.

My mouth was open. It was beyond open, it was agape. No words came out. Even my adjectives would have to wait.

 Satchel Paige, my floppy eared hound dog who was given to me to ease the pain of not having my grandkids close by, had retrieved the bag of multi-grained bagels--the kind Wifey likes--from the kitchen island. The same kitchen island that is, um, er, was--beyond his nimble reach and sturdy mandible. 

My inability to speak---along with the realization that Satch had just consumed and or scattered the entire bag of multi-grained bagels-- the kind Wifey likes--converged at the same time, and for the next 30 seconds I let fly with nearly all my adjectives, wiping the dust from several that haven't been used in a while.

Bagels. 

Everywhere. 

In all shapes and pieces, chewed and unchewed, not to mention  the larger bagel pieces he took and hid in the corners of the sofa and chair, like he does when hiding his bones for later. 

I was in full afterburner, my phrases spoken in a tongue that fast became a blue streak, but as my mouth was coming in for a landing here's what I saw...if you look close he has a bagel 'stogie' in his mouth. 

Get a dog, they said. It'll be fun, they said.

A GIRL TO LOOK UP TO



Lane Elementary Class of 75- Joy Culpepper on back row,
runt George front far left

By 1975, the tallest girl at McKibben Lane Elementary was a young lady by the name of Joy Culpepper. We were all in our last year there, and like a lot of kids, all of us had spent our entire school career at Lane. It’s quite possible that Joy was the tallest girl in each grade previous, but there is no supporting data to verify that claim. As one of the kids closest to the ground, everyone was usually taller than I. I was a runt among runts, as it were.

As girls go, she was one of the good ones. She could hold her own when it came to kickball and basketball—well, in basketball she commanded respect. Like I said, she was the tallest girl in school, which meant she was taller than most of the boys in class as well. In todays' parlance, she would be considered to have 'Playground Creds'. In those days, one’s prowess on the playground had far reaching effects that could result in an extra milk or dessert at lunch from one of your peers or the loan of a pencil or paper when caught short.

 

Joy Culpepper had playground creds.

On occasion, she would chase me down and place me in a headlock or grab my arms and spin me around. Such was life in those halcyon days of grammar school.

I recall her having announced to our class an older sister Brenda who was a participant in the Miss Georgia pageant; her older brother Lee went to Lanier High, where the greatest ROTC program in the world was located.

On another occasion, Joy got up and sang in front of the entire student body—the Mac Davis song “Baby don’t get hooked on me”—and it was obvious her playground creds had transferred over to the lunchroom stage. I was amazed because how could a kid, 6 feet tall or not, have the guts to get up and sing in front of people? I was mortified! If I was so much as asked to go to the chalkboard to work a math problem, I peed a little.

Well, I had a recurring thought about Joy over the years--the main thing I thought about, though was DID I EVER GROW UP TO BE AS TALL OR TALLER THAN JOY CULPEPPER?!?

Why that thought stayed with me I can't explain—there were several boys in the class who were much taller than me but I always figured that was normal--perhaps it was sexist in a way to think I might at least be able to attain the height of the tallest girl in school, thereby having some modicum of self-worth.

Thru the power of social media, several of the Class of 75 have become re-acquainted. Joy has a beautiful family and now lives in South Georgia. Her family looks like the family in the picture frame you buy at the store. Her kids are all tall, in fact, taller than their Mother. Her husband Stan is as tall as a Redwood as well, and a nicer man you can't find.

And today, I had lunch with my lifelong friend Joy Culpepper Crawford, her husband Stan, and one of their beautiful daughters Karly. It was wonderful to reminisce and it made my heart smile.
And after 42 years of wondering if I ever got at least as tall as Joy, the answer to my question was finally answered…(see the photo)

 

 

 

 

 

 

Playground Creds, 42 years later

Thanksgiving Eve

The cover thief laying next to me is 'breathing heavy'.
When I breathe heavy she calls it snoring.

She's tired because she did a days work then came home and did another 2 days work getting ready for tomorrow, where it will be utter and complete chaos.

All her kids are home and that makes her heart as full as the house is tonight, which contains 7 adults, 3 kids, 5 dogs, 4 cats, and 1 beta fighting fish.

There will be another dozen descend on us tomorrow, but for now she can breathe as heavy as she wants.

This girl--this wife of mine--never ceases to amaze me.

Creme De George

I like Saturday because I get to hang out with my best girl, Wifey.

Today was no exception, but it wouldn't be complete had we not incurred what started out as a routine task but quickly became an adventure- a quest, even.

When we recently celebrated Wifeys birthday, she had a cocktail that quickly became her favorite.

It's called an Aviation.

This particular cocktail got started ions ago, kind of went extinct, but more recently is out of moth balls for a resurgence. 

 

Regardless, Wifey loved this drink and what Wifey wants Wifey usually gets. It only stands to reason that we attempt to duplicate the cocktail at home.

The Aviation is comprised of gin, lemon juice, maraschino liqueur and creme de violette, which is also a liqueur. And based on the events of today, it may be easier just to order one the next time we go to Dovetail, the restaurant where Wifey and Aviation first met.

 

It is complex, if not complicated because

a) it ain't beer

b) two of the ingredients aren't readily available, and

3) my auto correct just tried to correct the word 'liqueur' to 'liquor', which only adds to my frustrated ability to communicate. 

Armed with my phone, Google, and wi-fi, I did the rational thing and called the nearest adult beverage store.

 

"Yes Sir, do you folks by chance have a couple of liqueurs I need, one is Maraschino liqueur and he other called Creme De Violette, in order that I make my wife her favorite cocktail and as a result she finds favor in me?"

The lord as my witness, this is the way my brain and the voice inside my head asked the question to the man on the other end of the phone.

In reality, it came out like this (It is important to note here that English is my second language, Southern being my first):

"Yessir, dew yew folks have 2 of these lick-kewrs I'm needin'? Ones called Mary-sheen-oh cherry not the cherries but the lick-kewr and the otherns called Kreme Dee Vie-oh- let-tay?"

Out of the corner of my eye in the middle of my inquiry I had noticed Wifey looking at me as if I had just transformed into a unicorn.

 

I have seen this look before, and quickly surmise that she is impressed with my tenacity, persistence, and ongoing pursuit to keep her to a standard of living to which she has been long accustomed.

 

Wrong look.

Wifeys face is red. Her eyes are tearing up, her mouth is agape and there's no sound coming out. She is doubled over. Then she takes in a breath and starts to laugh from the deepest place in her soul. She starts mimicking me in the same voice I used (not the inside my brain one) and admits she may have even "peed a little".

 

She's roaring and laughing so hard she cannot contain herself. In another moment she has me laughing, about to wet myself.

Well, we finally found the stuff after the fifth attempt.

Liquor store #5,  the Macon Beverage Outlet (who knew, right?): "Yes Sir, we have it" the young lady said. "Maam, I said, hold on to that bottle I will be there in half hour to pick it up- my name is George!" She agreed, so Wifey and I took off out the door to get what has to be the rarest and hardest to pronounce beverage in the universe.

We walked in the place, and began to look around. Not having said one word, the girl behind the counter noticed me and immediately held up the bottle of the unpronounceable lick-kewr.

Wifey starts laughing, I start laughing. I said " How'd you know it was me?!?"

She said

"You look like a George"

Wifey said " He acts like one, too!

All is well, Life is good. Now if you will excuse me, I've a cocktail to make.

 

Post Election Thoughts

I suspect most of us feel the same way.

I'm glad its over.

The fighting, the commentary from both sides, the rhetoric, the lambasting--OH, THE HUMANITY! or lack thereof. He said, she said, they said, and the propaganda machine called the Media sliced it, diced, it, spun it, shunned it, 'splained it, and turned it ALL into an ice water enema of epic proportions, pitting Us against Them, with no one knowing who THEM was, were, or are. When you added religion, race, ethnicity, social class, and whether you were left right handed, we had all the ingredients of a civil war.

In short, it was a doo-doo sandwich, served without bread. Relationships suffered, friends were unfriended, as the entire ordeal played out on television, talk radio, and social media. Facebooks, Tweets, Snappychats and Instagratification Grams made me think of the Wizard of Oz-"Pay no attention to the Man behind the curtain.."

It was, like my grandfather said in referring to life in general, "one continuous damn thing after another."

Amazingly, on the 9th day of November, the Sun rose in the East as always. Most folks got up and went to work, kids went to school, and dogs and cats went outside to pee. Half of the Population did this with hurt feelings because their team lost, while the others celebrated their teams victory.

The propaganda machine is still figuring out how to make it look that they had a firm handle on the situation the entire time, while the ghosts of Edward R. Murrow, Walter Cronkite look down on them in disgust.

Roosevelt died, MacArthur got fired, and the world kept turning. America needs to give itself a swift kick in either the gonads or ovaries, and go back to being Americans. Divide yourselves over what counts--sports teams, music preferences, brands of cars, clothing and fast food joints. Argue about long or short hair, your favorite season, and white or wheat bread. But at the end of the day you must be part of something greater than yourself, and that is to be a Free American who lives in the greatest place on Earth.