WIN! WIN! WIN!

By Jody Worsham, co-author “Kin We’re Not Related To”

All rights reserved for bigger, taller, wider, heavier trophies

Our state song says it all:

“Texas, our Texas, all hail the mighty state!  Texas, our Texas so wonderful so great!                   Boldest and grandest, withstanding ev'ry test.  Oh Empire wide and glorious, you stand supremely blest."

Now you might think it was a sad day when Alaska joined the union and became the assumed largest state, but Texans just claimed that when all that ice and snow melts, Texas will still be the biggest state.

Texans are by nature the most competitive people on earth.  Whatever it is, we have to be the best, the biggest, the tallest. the smartest, the cutest, and the fastest.

 I was born and raised a Texan so I am competitive to the bone.  Get a room full of Texans and a contest, well, what can I say.  This past week has been highly competitive.  I made a quilt for the school's Fall Festival.  Rather than raffle off the quilt, the school decided to hold an auction for the quilt.  Now I had spent six months hand quilting that thing and as soon as the auctioneer asked for an opening bid, up came my hand.   Then another Texan raised my bid, and my husband raised that bid.  Well, not to be outdone I raised his bid. 

"Jody, you're bidding against me," Dr. Hubby said.
"That's ok, it's your money.  You can afford it."
"Not at this rate” and he hustled me out of bidding range.  I heard the quilt went for a high price, but it would have gone higher if Dr. Hubby had just let me stay in the bidding.

Then there was the Fall Festival Children's Costume Contest.  No prize, just a First Place 8  1/2 x 11 Xeroxed certificate...in color.  The thirteen-year-old flat refused to wear anything I created.

"Mama, I have to go to school here.  I see these people every day.  You really expect me to go as 'Miss Recycle' and wear a costume made out of trash?   Pleeeeeease don't ruin the rest of my life!"  as if I had ever done anything to ruin any part of her life... past, present, or future.

Ok, she is thirteen...and taller than me...and I would have to raid a couple of dumpsters for the necessary recyclable material.  On the other hand, the nine-year-old is shorter....

"Look boy, just do what she says.  You might as well learn now; it is easier to give in then to argue with a woman, especially one born and raised in Texas her whole life. You are not going to win," said the wise and experienced Dr. Hubby to the panicked nine-year-old.

"You only have to wear the costume for five minutes.  Just long enough for the judges to be suitably impressed. " I blatantly did not lie, just stretched the truth a little.

"Ok, but can I at least be a zombie?"

"Sure." My brain neurons began firing like tinfoil in a microwave. 

I skillfully sprayed two empty two liter sized Dr. Pepper bottles and a swim mask with gray paint. I found a gray painters head stocking I had been saving for just such an occasion. I cut the straps off a back pack (oops sorry, did you need that for school?) removed the vacuum cleaner hose from Dr. Hubby's shop vac (you never really cleaned your shop anyway)  hot glued part of a semi-broken flashlight to the vacuum hose, and made some swim fins out of construction paper.  I guess you don't mess with a man's chain saw covers.  They were too heavy anyway.

I hot glued some dead leaves and twigs to the mask and glued the "air tanks" to a piece of cardboard.  Then I slapped some white baby powder on the nine-year-old's face and Wah-la!  Scuba Zombie! 

And yes First Place Funniest Costume.  And yes, therapy will be required.

Next, Atwood's Pet Costume Contest.  Let the Competition Continue!!

It's Bow Beau Season! Or What Really Happened to the Mayans?

By Jody Worsham, co-author “Kin We’re Not Related To”

All rights reserved for Dictionary of Homonyms and Jerky

“Tomorrow is opening day for bow season,” yells the nine-year old.

“I don’t care.  I already have a beau,” comes from the just-learned-a-new-word-and-turning-obnoxious thirteen-year-old.

“Great!  We can go shoot’em.”

“M-a-a-a-a-m-a-a-a-a-. “

In the past, the opening of bow season was a time of peace and quiet.  At 4a.m. on opening day, Dr. Hubby would grab his compound bow, a thermos of coffee and head out for the deer stand.  If he got a deer, he would bring it home, dress it, and later, over breakfast, he would tell me all about it.  The children would awaken an hour later and after hearing the story from the original Deer Slayer, would offer comments like “That’s nice.  Can we go play?”

Today preparation for Deer Season Opening Day for Bows (sounds like a red neck concerto doesn’t it?) began with me making yet another trip to Wal-Mart.  This time for hot chocolate, in case the temperature was below 80, Dr. Peppers in case the temperature was above 80, Honey Buns in case somebody got hungry, and an extra charger so the  I-pod could be fully charged in case the deer were late showing up and somebody got restless. 

The inner-layer being taken care of, it was time to start on the outer layer.  The outer layer actually began during the summer with an extension added on to the deer stand to accommodate a cot, an additional window, and carpet.

 Now it was time for the clothing.  Camouflaged shirt, camo  pants, camo socks, camo underwear (don’t ask), camo jackets, camo boots and camo bows were located. 

 Three alarms were set for 4a.m., as if the nine-year-old would actually go to sleep.  Both old and young checked the deer cameras that had been previously set.  They checked the weather forecast again and the feeding table for deer.  (Aren’t deer always hungry?).  They were ready.

In the meantime preparations for Beau Season were underway with the thirteen-year-old.  It was time for the “Big Harvest Costume Dance”.    Being competitive and a theatre arts teacher, I was all for creating the winning costume.  She was all about creating the “right look”. 

“How about these jeans and this top?” I suggested.

“Noooo.  Those jeans make me look fat.”

“They didn’t make you look fat two days ago.”

“Maaaaaaama…..”

“Sorry.  What about the top?”

“No, that won’t look good if it is a fast song.”

“There’s a special wardrobe for fast dances?” I foolishly asked.

“My   arms    will   show   if   it   is  a   fast  dance” she said patiently and slowly  as if speaking to a hearing challenged teen-fashion alien, which I guess I am.

After going through her entire wardrobe, she settled on a batman shirt and the same jeans that an hour ago had made her look fat.    

Then it was on to the false eyelashes, her one concession to a costume look.  No matter how she attached the lashes, she ended up looking like a deranged spider.  Even I agreed she looked more like Spider Woman than Batman’s wife.   She ditched the lashes.   Once she got the adhesive removed, she looked normal.  Ok, maybe a little red around the eyes, but I kept my mouth shut.

I dropped her off at school for the dance, then came back home to help load the truck for the Bambi Safari.  The nine-year-old decided to sleep in all his camo clothes.  “It will save time in the morning.  I can just wake up and shoot a deer.”  I hope he gets out of the house first.

I picked up the scowling thirteen-year-old from the dance.  On the not so silent ride home, I learned that Beau #1 had turned into a real jerk.  Great!  Tomorrow with my luck I will spend the day dealing with beau jerky and deer jerky. 

As I was hanging up the car keys, I noticed the souvenir Mayan calendar on the wall.  Youth Bow Season and the beginning of Thirteen-year-old Obnoxious Beau Days had occurred on the same date.  Now I know what really happened to the Mayans.

Happy Bow Beau Day!  Oh deer, oh dear!

 

 

 

Canned Quilt

By Jody Worsham, co author "Kin We're Not Related To:

All rights reserved for Cream of Quilt Soup

I entered my chicken scratch quilt in our Piney Woods County Fair Craft Show.   Now what is a chicken scratch quilt, you may ask, and rightly so. 

 

Chicken scratch is a sewing technique whereby you fill in the squares of gingham print by sewing double X’s over the white squares,  then sewing single X’s and connecting them in a circle using embroidery thread.

 And what is gingham print you ask as if you understood exactly what I just wrote?   Gingham is woven checked material. 

 The quilt is going to be auctioned to the highest bidder at our school’s Fall Festival Fund Raiser in late October, so I thought this would be a good way to get the quilt seen and to advertise the festival.

 I did not expect to place.  I did not expect to win.  I did not expect the unexpected. 

I shall explain.

There are age divisions within the craft show as well as categories.  There was no age division for “Jesus was my next door neighbor” so I just entered as an adult.  “Kin We’re Not Related To” has just been published so if they have not read the book, then my “adult” status would not be challenged.  Category was a different matter.

There was no quilt category so I had a choice of:  A) Cross-stitch, B) Miscellaneous, or C) Specialty Sewing, French Hand Sewing.   I had to register my project before 6p.m.  I waited for all of the other entries to come in before submitting mine, trying to gauge the competition in each category and working up the courage to enter at all.  There were already a bunch of cross-stitch pieces entered and miscellaneous would have me competing with popsicle ash trays and scrapbooks.  That left category C.  

The ladies at the registration table were scrutinizing each entry.  I decided my best bet was to go for Specialty Sewing, French Hand Sewing.  To be on the safe side, I threw in a little French accent.

“Si vous plait.  Pleaze, e vish to enter theeze quilt with zee special cross-stitch in how you say Specialty Sewing for the French.”

They looked at me, at the quilt, and back at me. They huddled together discussing the various aspects of the quilt and my ancestry.  I heard

“It’s a quilt.” 

“No, look at the cross-stitching. It’s cross-stitching.

Yes, but it is a specialty cross-stitching.”

 “Y’all, I don’t think she’s Southern.” 

Then they looked over at me.   I was afraid one of them was going to say “I remember you.  You taught me in high school as well as my daughter and her daughter and my great-great-grandniece,” but they didn’t.  Finally one of the ladies handed me a Category C: Specialty Sewing, French Hand Sewing registration form.  I was in.

The next day while my children were competing in the broiler show, I checked back to see if my quilt had been placed in a good position for advertising the Fall Festival. 

There in the corner of the display room was my quilt with a huge purple ribbon with “SWEEPSTAKES WINNER” written in fake gold letters.  I checked around.  Nobody else had a fake gold lettered purple ribbon.  Then I saw it.  Overshadowed by the loops of the big purple bow was the coveted blue ribbon.

FIRST PLACE   CANNING.

 Maybe they thought, since I was French, I wouldn’t notice.  Or maybe they ran out of FIRST PLACE  CRAFT ribbons.  Or maybe they read my book.

Anyone want to bid on a First Place Blue Ribbon Sweepstakes winning canned chicken scratch quilt?

Hawaii Five-Go! How to Sell Your Book

By Jody Worsham, co-author "Kin We're Not Related to"

All rights reserved for Author’s “Birth of a Salesman”

After giving birth to a new book, I am like those first time parents who greet you at the door and shove their new baby in your face with "Look what I made”… only I add “Here, take it home with you.  It’s free.”

Wanda Argersinger, my co-author, keeps telling me I have to SELL the book, not give it away, but I view it as spreading the laughter about.  If I give it away, they will laugh and maybe tell their neighbors "No you can't borrow my book, buy one of your own."  So far I have spread the laughter to Boston, Louisiana, Dallas, Blooming Grove, to my dentist,  family members and one to a total stranger.

I am afraid I am not a salesperson.   I don’t think I could sell life rafts on the Titanic.

 I don’t mind driving around with “Kin We’re Not Related To” letters stuck to the rear window of my suburban.  I can wear a t-shirt with the cover of our book splattered on the back.  I can even convert a normal white blazer into a “book jacket” with pockets for the paperback books.  I can create a miniature cardboard outhouse and stack the books inside for a table display.  I can drill a hole in the book and tie it to the outhouse door and advertise it as a “clean humor.”  I can drop the tailgate on the truck and sit in the Wal-Mart parking lot, where people hawk puppies, with a big sign saying “Funny Book for Sale”.  I can dress up in a white wig, cat eye glasses, purple polyester pant suit, and make a you-tube book trailer with no problem.

 It seems I have a knack for creative marketing and no fear of stupidity; just don’t ask me to come up to people and say “Buy my book.”

At the rate I am going, I cannot afford to write a second book without taking a second mortgage on the farm.  So far I am my own biggest customer at Create Space Books.  If my loan goes through, I may single handedly  move “Kin We’re Not Related To” from 1,543,908 to #1 on Amazon’s Best Seller List.  If everyone in your town has our book, it is probably because I flew over in a helicopter dropping books out by the box full.

I really need to overcome my aversion to self-horn-tooting and selling if for no other reason than so my children can go out in public without a bag over their head.   There is only one thing to do:  hire a salesman named Daniel. 

Then I can say “Book’em, Dan-o.”