The Medicare Mom

Tips for Over Worked Parents and Underworked Children

2012-02-02T14:18:00.002-06:00

By Jody Worsham

Over the course of some odd sixty plus years, I have learned a few things, mostly by trial and error, heavy on the error part. It is my sincere hope that through my tips you can avoid some embarrassing moments with your neighbors/local law enforcement and possibly keep your name off the school's "Minimal Parenting List". Please tell me your school has one of those and it's not unique to my kid's school. Here are some tips for overworked parents.

Now while you may think putting your toddler on a Sit-N-Spin and squirting him with a water hose constitutes doing the laundry, it doesn't work that way … at least not the second time. What does work is to have a different colored laundry basket for each room in the house. Instead of folding clothes, toss items in the appropriate basket. Each person can then be responsible for folding and putting away his "room".

Children cannot live by bread alone; they must have peanut butter and jelly and sometimes a vegetable or two. To avoid Corn Dog Prone-itis and frost bite fingers, find five good crock pot recipes and keep the ingredients stocked up in your pantry. Post the recipes in a prominent place…like where you keep the chips and chocolate. Dinner can be assembled in the morning and ready to eat by supper time. Invest in those crock pot liners for fast clean up.
What parent hasn't made a mad dash to Wal-Mart at 10:00 at night for supplies for a school project due the next morning? Ok, six times six kids for me but by the seventh kid, I learned. When school starts in the fall buy extra folders, markers, poster board, paper, glue, brads and hide them where the kids don't often look, like under their beds. It's cheaper than paying speeding tickets for those late night dashes; I speak from experience.
If you are or ever have been the parent of a third grader, then you know what it's like to be scrounging around after dark with a flashlight in your neighbor's back yard; then trying to explain to the nice policeman that you are looking for twig "logs" for a pioneer log cabin due by first period the next day and not attempting burglary. I suggest you buy stick pretzels while you are at Wal-Mart. They come in various log sizes and when glued to a cereal box, look just like logs…sort of…from across the room. At least it might keep your face from being plastered on every street sign by the Neighborhood Crime Watch.
While you are at Wal-Mart stocking up on extra school supplies, colored laundry baskets, and pretzel logs, you may as well grab a couple of generic birthday presents for the birthday party you forgot or was told about an hour before the party. Puzzels are good as are Frisbee's and card games. Beats embarrassing the Birthday Child when he tries to cash a hot check.
Oh, and my final tip for this time concerns travel. When you've had enough laundry, school projects, crock pot meals, log cabins, instant birthday parties, and you can't take it anymore,
take that brown/black suitcase and wrap bright colored or decorative duct tape around the suitcase just below the zipper line. You will be able to spot your luggage coming off the carousel right away, even among other brown/black suitcases, thereby making a quick get-away before you are caught…or guilt sets in.

If you find these tips useful or even semi-humorous, I will have a tip jar out by the mailbox. Feel free to contribute.

Cookie Monster Time!

2012-01-26T09:10:00.002-06:00

By Jody Worsham

In any other country if we saw little children peddling chocolate bars door to door so the band can march in the Miss Black Eyed Pea Festival, they would become the new poster child for ending child labor.

Selling products to make money for your child's school has somehow escaped the child labor laws of this country. How many times have we been met at the door by a big eyed waif and the bedraggled parent waving a catalogue of chocolate covered nuts, popcorn, gift boxes, and soap on a rope, all pictured in bright colors and ten times larger than the actual objects? And who wouldn't want to help the school band make it to the Black Eyed Pea Festival?

We never stop to ask and "What percentage of this outrageously priced chocolate bar actually goes to the Black Eyed Pea transportation fund and how much goes to pay for the CEO's condo in Maui?" But now I do.

One time I tried to figure how much the "proud partner with schools" corporation was making off the backs and strollers of school children and their parents. There is no minimum wage paid to the little sales people. The "sales force" is paid in glow-in-the-dark key chains, Frisbees, and stuffed animals, all made in a foreign country. And not every sales child gets one. Most have to sell a quadrillion items to qualify for the stuffed animal. Or, the latest ploy "every child who sells even one item has their name entered in an electronic drawing with the rest of the world for an AM hands-free radio." At least the Boy Scouts let you know up front what percentage of the popcorn sales is going to their troupe.

And now it is time for the annual Girl Scout Cookie Sale. I now understand why Sesame Street has a Cookie Monster. Must have missed the Girl Scout Cookie quota!

I am not surprised that in keeping with the shrinking dollar, so have the size of the cookies and the number of cookies in a package. Still, like eating turkey once a year at Thanksgiving, we will purchase our annual fix of Girl Scout Cookies if for no other reason than to help that little Brownie or Girl Scout earn her cookie badge and to try for the coveted "charm" for most cookie sales by a girl scout. Still, it makes you wonder how little Angelina Marie, age 6, could manage to sell 2,573 boxes of cookies all by herself and still go to school five days a week. Me thinks there may be family connections there, selling cookies on behalf of little Angelina Marie!

I know the rationale behind selling cookies: teaches confidence, business sense, advertising, teamwork, money management, targeting audience, tracking inventory, profit margin, but I believe I learned all that with my Kool-Aid stand and I only charged 5 cents a glass.

After applying all my business sense, figuring gas mileage, time spent, and interest paid on my Bass Pro Shop issued Visa credit card, I will come out ahead if I buy 8 cases of cookies myself. Then I can teach my Kool-Aid business skills to my ten-teen by setting her up a stand on the side of the road to peddle her Girl Scout cookies.

Course it will be just like the government to ask for a business license, health certificate, IRS WD 40 form, building inspection, and permit to operate a business in a residential area.

But I won't be guilty of violating child labor laws!

2012-01-19T10:01:00.000-06:00

Books I Haven’t Written
By Jody Worsnam
All rights reserved to reserve all rights
In planning for the forthcoming Erma Bombeck Writer’s Workshop, I have become hyper motivated to the point that I have hurled myself into the book I haven’t written “Procrastination Can Wait Till Tomorrow.”
Not only that, I have twenty-one as yet unwritten sequels to follow. In no particular unfinished order they are:
“Laugh-er-cise”, Reduce stress, burn calories without breaking a sweat by reading this book.
“Laugh-a-robics”, for those needing a more intense workout for abdominal muscles than Laugh-er-cise”.
“Low Calorie Humor”, the premise is if you are laughing, you are not eating.
“Laughs for the Road”, a manual for avoiding road rage
“Traveling Down the Funny Highway”, especially written for those living in Arkansas and Louisiana
“Humor, Me” an autobiography written by my daughter.
“Granny Grins and Groans”, stories from my mother. What you thought that was me?
“Prime Timer Laughter”, stories to read when TV re-runs start, usually four weeks after the first episode.
“Senior Snickers”, a mystery book to determine who dun it.
“The Joy of Not Cooking”, a guide to the frozen and canned food section of major grocery chains.
“Drive by Laughter”, targeted for the ghetto neighborhood
“Drive Through Humor”, fast food that makes you laugh.
“Drive-In Funnies”, quick comebacks for when your order comes back wrong.
“Cooking and Other Humorous Events” Stories of when the cakes don’t rise, the soufflé falls, and there’s no dough in the middle.
“Organized Humor”, stories catalogued for those wearing Depends, drinking hot coffee, coke, or stuck in boring meetings.
“Yunnf R sU”, humor for dyslexics.
“Humor-roids”, for people who would rather stand and laugh than sit and groan.

Hurry, these books won’t be on sale any time soon. Shipping and handling included.

If China Owned U.S.

2012-01-14T09:51:00.004-06:00

By Jody Worsham

With the impending bankruptcy of Hostess, another American icon slips from our grocery shelves and Indian owned convenience stores soon, no doubt, to be bought up by the Chinese to satisfy their yen for all things American. Twinkies, 100% unnatural preservatives and sugar could be replaced with a centuries old recipe of herbs, spices, and rice called Wing Ding Dongs.

This lead me to thinking of other American businesses and what would happen to those mainstay products of American life should the Chinese acquire them.

Would Kentucky Fried Chicken replace their grilled, original, crispy chicken with Chee Kin Don Wong?

Would ExLax become Ma-Ka-U-Go and Pepto Bismal become Ma-ka-U- No-Go?

If they bought out all the pedicure salons, would all pedicure franchises be sold by Mee Doo Toe?

I could see them consolidating Dish, Direct TV, and the cable companies into Moo Goo Fa U Brains.

McDonald's, being such an international company might keep its name, but the menu might feature the McChang Double Decker Duck Tongue and nobody would want to know the ingredients in the secret sauce.

Would Wal-Mart become The Great Wall- n-Cart?

Would UPS become U Pick-up Self or Unicycle Pick-up Service?

Would the American acronym CBS become the Chinese Buying System?

Once all businesses had become Chinese owned, might they then take on education and introduce their very successful program in mainland China, No Wok Left Behind?

I'm sure our government would bail out Hostess if they could get another loan from China.

In the meantime, I am going to do my part and support Hostess by scarfing down as many Twinkies, Snowballs, Wonder Bread, Ding Dongs, Mini-muffins, and cupcakes as my stretch jeans will allow! It's my American duty.

F.F.A.A.T.

2012-01-07T15:46:00.002-06:00

By Jody Worsham

"Hello, my name is Jody and I am F.F.A.A.T. (Fast Food Addicts Anonymous Tribunal). It has been one day, three hours, six minutes, and thirty-two…thirty-three….thirty-four seconds since I have been to McDonalds."

"Welcome, Jody. Have some seats. You can have the two chairs over here."

Yes, I admit I need help for my addiction. I recognized this when my husband opened our credit card statement and it was four pages long. Christmas took up a quarter of a page, Wal-Mart accounted for three-fourths of a page but the remaining three pages were to McDonald's. If McDonald's had not added their breakfast menu, free Wi-Fi, chocolate mocha frappes, and a store inside Wal-Mart, it would have only been two pages. If my addiction can be cured, our credit card balance will drop considerably along with my cholesterol levels and pants size.

So I have embraced the 366 steps (these are baby steps) toward being F.F.A.A.T. free. This is day one, or step one which is "Do not EAT in McDonald's." This morning I resisted and only ordered a diet coke. I could have not even gone into McDonald's but a dollar diet coke compared to $1.49 diet coke at the check-out stand made economic sense to me. Ok, I'm rationalizing. Back to step one. Baby steps, remember?

Now to make it through the next 365 steps and days. Why did this year have to be a leap year? I'll keep you posted. One day, three hours, seven minutes and fifteen…sixteen….seventeen seconds…

House of Cards

2011-12-31T15:46:00.000-06:00

House of Cards
By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Poker Anonymous

Poker has been a mainstay in our home for as long as I can remember. It was once confined to us young couples without children on New Year’s Eve. With age and two children in our Medicare years, it has become a regular Monday night event for Dr. Hubby and a means to entertain the six-year-old at home the other six nights of the week. At first I rationalized that it was a means to teach counting and addition to the children. Now I realize it was the first slippery step sliding down toward P.A. (Pokers Anonymous).

The first hint came when I saw the pictures of our then four-year-old’s Pre-K class dressed in the clothing of their career choices. There were cute pictures of boys and girls dressed in scrubs, our future brain surgeons no doubt, others dressed in suits and ties as future Apple CEO’s, some dressed as firemen and policemen; all lofty, admirable choices and certainly reflective of the Christian school they were attending. The last picture was a picture of my four-year-old. I thought at first it was just that the wall was crowded and that was why it was behind the classroom door. Then I saw what he was wearing: black visor, white long sleeved shirt gathered up with black elastic bands on each arm, sitting at a green table with a deck of cards professionally fanned out in front of him. His wanted to be a professional gambler.

I didn’t realize that career choices were to be reinforced at the kindergarten level. Again, his career choice was captured in Kodak-never-fading color. Under his first and last name this time for all the parents in his new school to see was Professional Poker Player.

I admit I am a tad guilty for using cards to teach addition, probability and statistics. When he was having trouble counting and adding, I taught him to play Blackjack. I didn’t expect him to beat me. And we only played a few times.

Recently on our cruise we were eating pizza at a booth. A family of five sitting next to our booth was playing cards. It was if some uncontrollable force kept his face pointing to the card players. “She should hold those aces!” said my child. The Dad smiled and finessed the cards from his wife. “Don’t tell what she’s holding”, I said. “Can I ask them what game they are playing?” “Ok”. The Dad smiled and said “We are playing a variation of rummy. Do you know that game?” My six-year-old shook his head.

“Well, you try to get three cards just alike…”
“Trips”
“Uh, yes, trips. If you can’t get….. trips… or three of a kind….then you try to get a run of cards in a row…”
“A straight.”
“Well, yes, a straight. What is your favorite card game?”
“Blackjack!”

At that point I thanked the kind and shocked Dad and we hurried back to our cabin.

I wonder if there is a minimum age for Poker’s Anonymous?

T’Was the Night Before Christmas on the Magic Ship!

2011-12-26T09:52:00.002-06:00

We've been on a lot of cruises, but this Christmas cruise was something special and resulted in this blog. If you have sailed on Carnival's Magic, you will understand the references. (Martina, from table 624 Southern Lights Dining room on Carnival's Magic, you may have to Google "The Night Before Christmas" to get the full effect)

T'was the night before Christmas

And all through the ship

Every creature was stirring, this was our Christmas trip!

The stockings were duck taped to the cabin door with care, in hopes more refunds soon would be there.

The children were checked into Camp Carnival with care

For parents had things to do and no time to spare.

Ma in her sequins and I in my white tee

Had just settled down at the bar for some Red Frog Tea

When out on the deck there rose such a clatter, I staggered from my booth to see what was the matter.

Away to the railing I rushed with glee . I looked to the left, but no one to see.

The moon on the foam of the whirl pool below, revealed two couples shouting Oh No".

When what to my wandering eyes should I see

But a stack of packages and eight men carrying a tree

With an Italian leader, not so heavy, I KNEW IN A MOMENT IT MUST BE Battinelli

Slipping and sliding on the wet decks they Came

And he WHISTLED, AND SHOUTED AND CALLED THEM BY NAME.

"Now Sergio, Now Alordf, Now Ajehab and Ackrill!

On Rogebad on Beorgman on Gazzolo and Bobbybill

To the top of deck 12 back there by the wall, now hurry away, hurry away, hurry away all.

AS Wal-Mart bags, before the hurricane fly,

When they meet with an obstacle, mount to the sky,

So up to deck 12 the crew members they flew,

With a tree on their back and Capt. Battinelli, too.

And then in a twinkling, I heard on the deck,

Much wrestling and pushing up the tree, without a wreck.

As I was pulling back my head and turning around, down the staircase, Capt. Battinelli came with a bound.

He was covered with salt from his head to his foot, but his clothes were spotless not a speck of soot,

His droll little mouth was drawn up like a bow,

And no beard on his chin, what do you know!

A stump of a pipe he held clinched tight in his teeth, but no smoke encircled his head like a wreath

He had a broad face and hair cropped to the neck.

That didn't move, not one little speck.

He was slim and trim, And good looking, too,

And I hoped he was married with eighteen kids, I do

A wink of his eye and a twist of his head soon gave me to know I had nothing to dread.

He spoke not a word but when straight to work doling out toys and even some books

And then smiling and turning, and waving a hand, back to the bridge he ran.

He sprang to the stairs, to is crew gave a command,

And away they all flew, back to play in the band.

And I heard him exclaim as he ran out of sight, Merry Christmas to all and to all a Good night!

Let Sleeping Dogs…Sleep!

2011-12-17T22:02:00.002-06:00

By Jody Worsham

My child's fifth grade teacher had her class finish well known proverbs. Obviously the ten-teen has never read Proverbs or heard a proverb, an oversight on my part, but she comes from a humorous household even though that was not our intent. Here's what she SAID:

It's always darkest before..... IT IS LIGHT. (I'd give her credit for that. Makes sense to me)

A watched pot....IS A WIERD POT. (Given the limited number of pots and pans in our house that's all she could say)

You can lead a horse to water, but..... NOT TO SCHOOL (OK, we live in Texas. I'd count that.)

A woman's work..... IS GOOD WORK. (You tell'em kid)

If at first you don't succeed, THEN STILL WORK. (No welfare for this kid)

Don't bite the hand that...... IS WEAK. (I guess it wouldn't taste as good)

All that glitters..... IS GOOD! (Just check out her Justice wardrobe if you don't believe her)

Two's company, three's..... PROFESSIONAL. (I thought I had that channel locked!)

If you can't stand the heat, DON'T EAT IT. (Jalapeno's last night)

A chain is as strong as..... YOUR HEART. (Whoa, now that's profound)

Dance with the one..... WITH TALENT. (Such a smart child)

Give him an inch...... OR A YARD. (Must be talking about her brother)

A fool and his money..... IS NOT COOL. (Tell that to the government)

Loose lips..... IS BAD. (So she is saving for Botox, right?)

Maybe I should turn this blog writing over to the children!

Merry Christmas, Ya'll!

Middle Schoolers and Other Forms of Alien Life

2011-12-11T07:13:00.002-06:00

By Jody Worsham

I have taught high school for thirty-nine years. Subbing a full day in kindergarten last year was traumatic, enlightening, but traumatic. That was nothing compared to my half day subbing in middle school. If we really wanted to make a dramatic change in our penal system, judges would need only to sentence an offender to substitute teaching in middle school. Even the most hardened criminal would be begging for the death penalty after just a few days.

The teacher for whom I was subbing, and to her credit, actually expected me to teach. Cool, I thought. Most of the time I only get to push play on the DVD and maintain order. However, I had exactly five minutes to master the Smart Board ( 21^st century chalk board) and comprehend the socio-economic and cultural significance of the valued contents of a middle class family in Japan that had been piled on the street in front of their house and the same for a family in Iceland. The teacher warned me that middle schoolers were a different kind of animal. She didn't tell me they were wild animals. She also said to seek the assistance of the principal if I needed to. She didn't say to yell for him as soon as the bell rang.

I managed to turn the Smart Board on before the first thundering herd arrived. The minute they entered the door, I knew I was in trouble. Somehow mob control was omitted from my college educational curriculum. I knew one family was having trouble regulating their child's medication so I understood the desk chair gymnastics that was going on. I did not anticipate the need for serious medication for the rest of the class. Ten students were really interested in learning so I focused on them while trying to keep the other twenty-five contained somewhere close to their assigned seats.

Mercifully the two and half hour class that was only forty-five minutes was over. Time for the next group. I was ready. I'd play the tough teacher. After one minute of class, one little person said "You're mean." Yes, I hadn't lost it. I could do this. I had put on my video-chair looking brace for my plantar fasciitis as the floors were some kind of concrete. "Hey, you under house arrest" came from the back of the room. I knew what she was referring to because I watch "White Collar" and Martha Stewart but I wondered about her frame of reference. No one in this class was interested in Japan, Iceland, or anything within ten miles of the school. Time to call in reinforcements. I knew the principal was in another wing of the building, so I would have to bluff (I also watch "The World Poker Series"). I stepped out and yelled into an empty hall "Yes, tell Mr. Smith that he is needed in room 211."

I returned to a classroom where ten were feigning a search for Iceland somewhere around Tahiti on the giant wall map, fifteen were reading aloud from the textbook about German technology, and eleven were trying to mute Angry Birds on their I-pod. I managed to bluff my way to the end of the period which was five minutes away.

There was a basketball tournament the last period so the teacher had suggested the class might want to attend. YES! Time to send the recess-deprived-high-maintenance-hyper-loud middle schoolers to a place where such behavior is acceptable…the gym. As I was leaning against the rail in the gym, two regular teachers came over.

"Subbing today? I could tell by the glazed look," said one.

"Yes, they said I was mean," I replied.

"Good, maybe they will hire you full time. There's ninety-five in this class."

"Don't worry," I said, "there'll soon be fifty-two. Some sub is going to snap and go on a screaming rampage and thirty-three will transfer to Alaska."

"Really?" she said all too hopefully.

"Luckily, they are protected by law so they all survived today."

"Are you coming back tomorrow?"

"No, I've been to Hell, I'm not going back."

As I herded my group back to class I observed a middle school teacher. "Ray, are you supposed to be running?" "Well, I was late and…" "Yes ma'am or No ma'am. Are you supposed to be running?" "No ma'am." "Thank you. Now continue walking." Ok, short sentences, repeat question, accept only the designated response, thank you, send him on his way. Got it…maybe.

The middle school secretary asked if I would sub tomorrow as I was making my escape. "No, sorry." I almost suggested she call the state prison for a list of those on death row.

Teachers of kindergarten and middle school must answer to a special calling…or have some kind of mental problem. I couldn't do their job. Thankfully, they are there for my children and I am eternally grateful. I shall look on them with greater respect and admiration and will ask Santa to fill their stockings with a sufficient supply of valium, Zoloft, wine, and other strong tranquilizers to get them to May.

Rudolph Can’t Guide My Sleigh

2011-12-04T18:31:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

The last car we bought was just around Christmas several years ago. I, wearing my deer antler Christmas head band complete with bells, found a car on the lot that met all hubby's criteria and was the color that I liked. I stood in the car filled lot near to closing time and yelled "Anybody want to sell me a car?"

A lady salesperson came outside. I think she drew the short straw or maybe, having five kids herself, was not frightened by an elderly couple, one wearing antlers. She proceeded to tell us all the advantages of this particular model.

"Excuse me, we know all that. This is what we will pay," I said as my husband pretended he didn't know me. She accepted our price. We went inside where it was warm and she wrote up the contract. Then hubby came alive and began to finesse his hand. 'Oh, we have GMC credit we want to apply to the purchase price." Out came the white out; down went the price, new numbers added.

Once that was presented, hubby mentioned he had two gas tanks or something he was redeeming/claiming/turning-in or whatever. Out came the white out, "Anything else to declare?" she said before putting in the new price... " Nope", he said. The new price was written down.

Then I jingled my head, "Oh, wait, I forgot. We are over here with our RV trailer. How can we get that home without a trailer hitch or trailer brakes to go with the trailer package we just bought?" "Deal breaker?" she asked. "Afraid so", came from Hubby. I jingled again, "Can't leave the RV here." More white out, new price. By now the saleslady was getting a bit high from the white out. We could have edged the price down more but then the manager came over and said "I'll take it from here."

I think somewhere in this dealership there is now a sign that says "Beware of elderly customer wearing antlers at Christmas. She ain't Rudolph!"

Operation Black and Blue Friday

2011-11-27T10:47:00.007-06:00

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for body armor

It was a glorious Thanksgiving. After an eleven minute dinner, the guests were ushered out the door with a to-go-box and "Have a safe trip!" I had Buck Fever. The adrenaline was pumping. It was time to assemble my gear. Orthopedic arch inserts? Check. Water bottle? Check. Credit cards cleaned and oiled for quick sliding? Check. Chocolate M&M pretzels? Check. Cell phone charged. Check. Angry Birds loaded onto the ten teen's I Pod? Check and Double Check. I was ready to spend bucks to save bucks.

The object of my Black Friday hunt? A new trampoline with enclosure and padding. As Confucius, ancient Chinese philosopher and Businessman and the originator of the "Own America" campaign, once said "He who makes net and padding wear out same time as trampoline, only sell once." Or as his cousin Wing-a-Ding-Wan-Yo-Money Trump put it "Wise man make cheaper to buy two than to buy one even if one is all you need".

Having previously scouted out Wal-Mart, I knew the number of trampoline boxes available (48), where they were located (garden center patio), and time I could load (10 p.m.). To secure the most advantageous spot, I needed to be in position by 7 p.m., three hours before the season opened. Done, Done, and Double Done!

7:11 There is only myself and two other people standing by the pile of trampolines. I strategically place myself and my basket near a support post and the end stack of trampolines. A small crowd of three or four adults have gathered in the corner where about twenty 12 volt white convertible Barbie type cars are stacked two deep and three high. I pull out Angry Birds. Low battery. I begin to crowd watch and eves drop.

7:35 I become friends with a young man who's I.D. tag says "Event Staff". He seems fit and healthy and capable of loading a 200 pound trampoline in my buggy. I'll recruit him for later.

8:30 The crowd is increasing, notably the group milling around the 12 volt Barbie type cars and a new group around the Play Tyme Custom Kitchens just behind me. Strategies being planned. "Now be ready to go into action the minute it's 10:00. People will push, shove, and bite but hang in there, stand your ground. Use your cell phone for backup but only if you are losing the battle." I thought it was a security guard behind me talking on his walkie talkie but it was some Mom instructing her teenage daughter, a Black Friday novice. Several security guards are making a line of defense in front of the outside exit doors. The S.W.A.T team has arrived complete with flak jackets, walkie talkies on each hip and enough battery packs to power four mini TV's. This is going to be big.

8:55. The hairs on the back of my neck are tingling. The crowd is larger and shopping carts have been circled in a defensive formation around the Barbie cars and Custom Kitchens against late comers. I half expect to see Geronimo and his warriors come through the doors.

9:05 My M&M's are gone and half of my water. The crowd is shifting around restlessly. Some of the late comers are sporting intimidating t-shirts. One says "P_ss, Puke, Blood, Guts". I don't know if he is referring to shoppers who stood in his way in the past or if this is an indication that the turkey and potato salad had been left out too long earlier in the day.

There is enough cell phone action going on that I'm surprised Verizon isn't saying "I can hear everybody now." "Bravo One to Bravo Two. We have 12 volt convertible in range. Scanning the bar code now. Yes this is the best price. We have flanked the target on both sides. Over and out."

9:25 There are NO security guards in sight but several Alabama line backers have arrived to secure a Kiddie Custom Kitchen. I'm sure they will get one. There are now 20 Barbie type cars and 60 car-wanters… who can also count. I am digging in. This could get ugly and I don't mean just the view of my backside squashed behind a six inch support pole and a wall of trampoline boxes.

9:59. 5-4-3-2-1 START SHOPPING! I unsquash myself from behind the pole and fling my arms on top of my trampoline box. Some Granny next to me is jamming my shopping cart into my ribs as she wrestles her trampoline into her cart. No pain, no trampoline. An altercation is erupting in the Barbie car lot as I suspected. The Incredible Hulk is emerging from the car lot, probably due to the stress, and has two white 12 volt convertible boxes held high over his head. I can only assume he is divorced, has twin daughters visiting for Christmas, and this is the only thing they wanted. The SWAT team arrives, from somewhere, and handles the situation.

Within five minutes the garden center looks like a hurricane has blown in and swept the area clean. There is nothing left but three bicycles and me wrapped around my trampoline box. I hope my recruit shows up soon.

10:31 Target is acquired and secure in the back of my truck.

10:32 Replenished M&Ms and back in line for the three-in-one printers ready to go on sale at 12:01.

God bless free enterprise! Over and out!

No DIY or HGTV Episode was consulted in the Writing of this Piece

2011-11-20T14:58:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

When I designed our house thirty years ago, no one told me I should plan for a left handed tub. Let me explain. I am right handed so I designed a right handed house. Most of the doors are hung with hinges on the right. You step up to the door, extend your right hand, grab the door knob, and pull the door toward you. Right handed door. I also have a right handed refrigerator and kitchen cabinets, that don't have two doors, are right handed cabinets. The same is true for our three bathtubs. They are all right handed bathtubs. You step up to the tub, face the faucets and shower head. Extending your right hand, you reach in and turn on the water. Then right foot first, you step into the tub.

All this has worked fine for thirty years and 315 days. At thirty years and 316 days I limped into the podiatrist's office to discover I have plantar fasciitis (limping right foot). After taping my foot into permanent field goal kicker position, I was told to go home and never, ever get the tape wet until it was time to remove the tape; that being one week. They offered me a shower cap for the foot for $10. HA! I am a creative former theatre person who has made do with nothing for thirty-nine years as a public school teacher. I think I can manage to keep one foot dry for a week.

My original plan was to just stand my right foot out of the tub while I showered. I did not count on the right handed house design. The master bathtub is right handed. To keep the right foot out of the tub, I would have to turn on the water with my right hand, then hop around and step into the tub with my back to the shower, and my foot out of the tub. Not an easy task. The other two bathtubs were also right handed tubs. The only left handed tub was in the RV and I wasn't up to hiking out there with no hot water.

The next creative solution was to wrap my foot in a trash bag and tape it closed. The only tape I had was that blue painters tape. That seemed to work pretty well except when I got out of the tub, I couldn't tell if I had gotten the foot wet or it was just sweaty from the steam and length of time the foot had been in the bag.

The next night I wrapped a wash cloth around the upper part of my ankle, put the trash bag on secured with a rubber band, and followed by more blue painters tape. This time when I removed the painter's tape (which is paper and somewhat soggy) the towel was damp. I couldn't tell if I had gotten the foot wet or not because the rubber band had cut off the circulation to my foot.

Tonight I think I will just sit in the tub, backwards, and hang my foot over the side. No way am I going back to the podiatrist's office and admit I do need a $10 foot shower cap! Course if hubby has to call the EMT's to come with a wench to haul me out of the bathtub; a $10 shower cap might be a bargain.

HGTV never tells you about right handed bathtubs. I may have to start hanging out at Home Depot or Lowe's looking for Bath Crashers Matt Muenster. I wonder if he has ever designed a left handed bathroom?

Black Friday Shopping Tips

2011-11-17T10:57:00.002-06:00

By Jody Worsham

Judging by the massive preparations going on, you would think the 8^th US Army battalion was preparing for a twenty-five mile hike or Elvis had been discovered living in Greenland and tickets were going on sale in thirty-six hours for his next live concert. Actually, it is just previous Black Friday Survivors getting ready to launch their next shopping spree.

Food, gum, bottled water, a camp stool, bungee cords (for attaching two shopping carts together), and a thermos of coffee are crammed into a duffle bag and strapped onto their backs. Others are perfecting their fake limp in order to snag a handicapped scooter at Wal-Mart. Still others are preparing by sleeping an extra eight hours two days before the sale starts.

The first rule for Black Friday Shopping is to plan ahead. Several online Black Op sites feature comparison shopping, store maps, launch times, and a printable list for the what, when, where, and time for each store's specials as well as links to cyber sales that may or may not coincide with Black Friday or the alignment of Mars and Jupiter.

Once you have your plan of attack, it is time to suit up. Boots with steel toes are recommended if you plan to battle it out for the latest electronic must-haves; otherwise your best arch-support-long-term-standing-in-line-NASSA-designed-foam-lined-gel-tennis shoe will suffice. Outer wear should support sub-zero temperatures if you are waiting outside in a line six blocks long. Inner wear should support tropical approaching desert temperatures to compensate for the body heat of ten times the maximum capacity of persons in any given store at any given time.

The plan is to arrive at the first shopping stop at least five hours before the official sale starts. Sometimes rooky salespeople will panic at the sight of a restless mob and begin giving out vouchers, armbands, or secret locations of the "real" TV's, computers, I-Pads etc. Hint: If you are a retired airline stewardess, veteran air traffic controller, or former kindergarten teacher, you can usually pick up some part time work on Black Friday working crowd control.

Here are a few lesser known tips for Black Friday Shopping that I have gleaned from past Black Friday Sales Survivors.

Always shop with a partner. If there is a limit on the number of items you can purchase, you have an extra person to buy the additional items needed. Also you can swap out if you need to make a potty run.

Make sure your i-phone is powered up for any online specials or E-bay auction items. This is also necessary for communicating with other operatives located in nearby stores

If a particular item is not at the top of your list, wait until the frenzied shoppers have decimated the pile, and then circle your buggy in a six aisle radius. Often when mob crazed shoppers come to, they realize they don't need six waffle makers or portable DVD players and will dump them on the nearest shelf. I found $3 mixer on the underwear aisle that way

If the shelves were empty before you got what you needed, hang out around the check-out lines. Many sale items will be eliminated at the register due to maxed out credit cards.

Security knows nothing. If you want information, ask a person with a walkie-talkie attached to their belt, ear phones on, wearing a really ugly vest, and preferably standing on a ladder with a bull horn. If that fails, follow the buggy with the most items in it or the person wearing the camo t-shirt with BARGAIN SHOPPER embellished in crystal dots.

By following these simple tips, you , too, can spend the next eleven months paying off your credit card in order to take advantage of the next Black Friday Shopping Op!

Shaving at Six

2011-11-13T20:27:00.003-06:00

by Jody Worsham

Yes, my little man is shaving at six years of age. No, he doesn't have some hormonal imbalance, well I don't think so. If the child had a full gorwn beard or moustache, then I'd be calling the Mayo Clinic or perhaps the Guinnes book of World Records. He isn't shaving his face or even his arms for some kind of boldy building magazine photo op. No, my little man is shaving his legs!

I'm trying to figure out where all this came from. It's not like he's seen me shave my legs. Over sixty and hair stops growing, well except for the one on my chinney chin chin. I don't suspect that his ten-teen sister has started to shave. I don't think the TV has sported any new or innovative hair removal systems of late. If his sister hadn't tattled, I might never have know.

"What posessed you to shave your legs?" I questioned in my most intimidating FBI manner. Wrong tactic. He immediately burst into tears. Between gasps from him and my husband, he said he had seen it on TV. I explained that he wasn't in trouble but I was concerned that he might have cut his legs while shaving. Images of gushing blood, numerous dots of toilet tissue flashed through my mind as I remembered the first time I shaved my legs.

"And once you start shaving the hair grows back stiff and black and you can't stop." More tears and hysterics...from hubby. "but I have blond hair. I'm gonna have blond hair and black hairy legs? wailed the six-year-old. "It will be alright. Just don't do it any more," I advised.

Later that evening as I was tucking him in, he asked one last question. "Do your legs kinda burn when you shave them?" Ancient screams echoed in my head from the time I tried using alcohol to stem the blood flow that first time. "I'll rub some baby lotion on your legs so they won't burn anymore. When you get much much older and start to shave your FACE, we will have to remember to get you some shaving cream. Now, goodnight."

I went back into the living room to console the still sobbing hubby whom I am sure was remembering the early days of our marraige when my barbed-wire legs hadn't seen a razor in a couple of days and thinking of the fate of his future daughter-in-law. "I was just kidding about the stiff black hair growing back on his legs...that only happens with women's legs. I just didn't want him to do it again." More sobbing from hubby, but I think these were sobs of relief.

Men! Young and old!

Shaving at Six

2011-11-13T19:17:00.001-06:00

There’s a Hole! There’s a Hole! There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Seat!

2011-11-05T21:07:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

There was a time when all things laid on a car seat stayed there, sometimes for months. Sun glasses tossed on the seat would remain until well one of my sudden stops. An open bag of M&M's would stay put until the last one was eaten. Of course all of this is BS, Before Seat-belts.

With the passage of the seat-belt laws, all cars developed seat belt holes in otherwise perfectly good bench seats. The seat-belt slots housing the retractable seat-belt became the Black Holes of Inner Space. Eye glasses placed on the seat would disappear down the hole at the slightest turn. M&M's would pour themselves into the never ending abyss. Cell phones would slide ringing into the blackness.

Small children are now bribed by parents to "Stick your hand down in the hole and see what you can find." Or "Ok, honey, help Mommy find her glasses. I think it went down the hole. Now don't worry if you feel something gooey, that's probably the chocolate bar I lost when I turned the corner yesterday and not zombie brains."

Others have used the black hole searches to occupy starving children. "We want a snack." "Ok, you can have all the M&M's you can find in the seat-belt holes." Others threaten to use the black holes to threaten misbehaving children. "If you don't behave, you're going to have to search for my car keys in 'theeeee blaaaaack hoooole' and it won't be pretty."

Like space black holes, you know the seat-belt hole is there; you just can't see what's in it. You know your cell phone is in the hole, you can hear it ringing from afar as friends frantically dial your number so you can track it down before your battery dies. You can look under the seat a hundred times, around the seats, even between the seats, but nothing can penetrate the black hole.

Nor can you prove the existence of anything that has entered the black hole. You saw your driver's license slip into the black hole, but you can't prove it to the nice policeman. Unless you have the long slim fingers of a concert pianist, a visiting midget is in the passenger seat or a cooperative two-year old (now that's a contradiction of terms) in the back seat, the chances of retrieving the item are slim. Just go ahead and pay the fine.

Anthropologists predict that in the future the first and second fingers of adults will grow to resemble pincers due to continuous probing of the black seat-belt holes as they search for lost objects. I'm sure space ships will have the required seat belts. That could explain Spock's unique hand greeting.

Now when the children are singing that maddening never ending "There's a Hole in the Bottom of the Sea", I had my own lyrics. "There's a watch on the pen on the earring on the phone on the M&Ms, on the log in the hole in the bottom of the seat. There's a hoooole, there's a hoooole, there's a hole in the bottom of the seat."

Maybe I'll invent the rubber stretch seat-belt slot cozies. Then I could sing "There's a cover for the seat belt in the bottom of the seat. There's no hole, there's no hole, there's no hole in the bottom of the seat." Until then, I've got to find a midget or two-year-old to retrieve my glasses.

Memoirs of a Six-Year-Old

2011-10-30T10:27:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

When I think of nostalgia, I picture some old couple sitting on the front porch in rocking chairs lecturing to the "young'uns." Usually the lecture begins "When I was a boy, we walked six miles to school, uphill, both ways in six feet of snow." Or, more recently, "Kids today don't know the meaning of work."

I never figured it applied to six-year-olds. While I write mostly of what it is like to be over 65 raising children, I forget what it must be like for six-year-olds and ten-teens to be raised by elderly "parents." For example, the ten-teen has appointed herself Chief of the Fashion Police. Before we leave the house, I'm checking for folders, ballet bags, homework, backpacks, and lunches. The Chief is checking to see that my breakfast isn't on my shirt, my shoes match, and that I'm wearing make-up and all required undergarments.

The six-year-old constantly asks "How old are you now?" or "You don't look as old today" which lets me know he's a bit concerned about this whole aging process. I read to him every night after he locates my glasses. He told me the other night that before long "I'll be reading to you." The ten-teen struggles with fifth grade reading vocabulary but she is an expert at reading Crestor, Lipitor, Nexium, calcium percentages and other directions from the miniscule printing on my medicine bottles.

The kids also pick up on all our discussions. Yesterday during P.E. class my first grader told the coach he couldn't run today because "My knees are killing me." On Friday, we deliver chocolate to the elementary teachers. I'm accumulating brownie points for a later date. As we walked down toward the kindergarten classes, he said "I miss this old hallway. I miss my old teacher. She doesn't teach kindergarten anymore," which made me wonder if teaching him had been the last straw. Got to remember more chocolate on Friday.

While the children are providing me with a number of topics for my book-ette, I'm sure they are compiling stories for the sequel "Acne and Social Security, It Isn't What it Used to Be"

Smurf’s Up

2011-10-23T10:10:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I attended a meeting of our six-year-old's school PTO (Penalizing Their Offspring) meeting. I figured I would score some brownie points for future use. The topic was the upcoming Fall Festival. It used to be called a Halloween Carnival. I guess to be politically correct the name was changed to downplay witches, goblins, and ghosts. Did I mention the school mascot was the Blue Devils?

Besides the usual assortment of booths for dunking, pie throwing, food, and games of chance, there would be a table set aside for silent auction items. As I had no desire to be dunked and felt all pies should be taken internally, I quickly volunteered to create an item for the silent auction. But what?

I glanced at my last blog post about handcrafted memories and decided I would make a quilt. Ok, "quilt" is like saying you want a coke with that burger when you really want a Dr. Pepper. It was two weeks till the festival, so there was no way I could actually quilt a quilt. I opted for a combination of tacking and quilting. I needed a gimmick to get people to bid on my project. Sometimes my quilting can be like my cooking…got all the required ingredients but it doesn't look like anything edible.

My six-year-old is in the first grade, class of 2023. I would have all the first graders put their handprint on quilt squares and then sign their name beneath the handprint. With eighty-two first graders, that should get at least eighty-two parents submitting silent bids. If there are a lot of divorced parents, I might even get a hundred bids. Factor in grandparents, ex-grandparents, and warring grandparents, it might even evolve into some kind of bidding war. My one quilt could be responsible for adding an entire new wing to the elementary school! The Jody Worsham Wing! I was excited!

First I had to get material. Six yards should do the top plus six yards of blue print for the backing, then batting, paint, and paint pens. I carefully figured how much space to allot for each handprint. I should get this out in a couple of hours. Now, I admit I have only fed, clothed, and signed report cards for eight first graders. I've never actually done anything with 82 of them. I wisely visited with the first grade teacher…first.

"Paint pens are not a good idea. Blue Sharpies are better." Ok, I could swap the paint pens for Sharpies at Wal-Mart. "Oh, and I'll bring soap and paper towels." Ok, I hadn't thought about getting the paint off their hands. "And you should paint their hands with a sponge brush, don't put the paint in a paper plate." Ok, I'll return the paper plates and get a foam paint brush. "And I'll send them to you a few at a time so you can supervise hand-washing at the sink." I have to supervise hand-washing? How quickly I forgot my one day as kindergarten sub .Ok, I'll supervise hand-washing.

On hand printing day, I would have made the FBI proud. I was organized. I was prepared. I was clueless.

First, I quickly discovered that the name should be printed BEFORE you do the handprint. Some archeologist will discover this quilt a thousand years from now and will offer it as proof that the hand had evolved to seven fingers. Unless the parent of my seven fingered print thinks their child is really special, I don't think they will be bidding on this quilt. Second, the longer you hold a Sharpie to fabric, the more the ink will spread. Some first graders write more slowly than others. That is why some names will appear as a big blue blob. My number of potential bidders is dropping. Third, the child with the smallest hand will have the longest name printed in the largest letters. Fourth, a lot of names were spelled with backward letters, thus dropping my pool of bidders even further. Fifth, you do have to supervise hand-washing. Evidently you should not leave a bottle of blue paint next to the bottle of soap at the sink. "Blue Paint" and "Soap" are not on a first grader's sight word list. Ruined shirts on Monday will not encourage bidding wars on Friday.

After eight hours of printing, painting, wiping, and washing, all eight-two Smurf marked children had been hand printed. I spent the next three days trying to transform blobs of paint into actual names, performing finger-ectomies, and offering to replace ruined shirts. It took two days to assemble the quilt

I fear that the bids on this quilt will be silent and absent. I may have to buy my own quilt. At least if Ruby Lee dumps my sweet six-year-old in ten years, I can point to this quilt and say "See, you are better off. Look at how her hand had seven fingers back then and she wrote her R and B backwards."

Ok, maybe I won't.

Hand Crafted Memories

2011-10-16T08:31:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Americans have witnessed an increased interest in handcrafted items over the past few years. More and more people are learning to crochet, knit, sew, and quilt. Handmade toys made in America are highly sought after items. Festivals featuring hand made in America items, some even restricting to items made within that state are springing up in ever increasing numbers. Most of these items could be mass produced at a lower cost so why the resurgence in handmade items?

One reason might be the search for something unique and individual. In an age of mass media advertising, items are available to almost everybody at the exact same time regardless of where you live. What you have is just like what everybody else has.

Perhaps it is a way to connect with the past. With computers, i-phones, i-pads, the internet, we can immediately connect to people around the world instantaneously. But how do you connect to the past? One way to experience the past is through crafts that have literally been "handed down" to the next generation or by learning a skill as it was done in the past such as quilting. Hand quilting is done today in the same manner as it was done a hundred years ago.

What makes the handcrafted items so "valuable" is the story that goes with it. It could be the doily your grandmother made that was the centerpiece of the dining table every Christmas. The pillowcases your aunt made from flour sacks, then hand embroidered with your name, hold special meaning. The christening gown your great-grandmother made and trimmed in tatting , brings forth special memories each time a new baby wears it.

Handmade quilts add more than physical comfort when wrapped in memories of snowy Thanksgivings, camp outs under the stars, or pallets on the back porch in summer. Quilts don't have to be old to be treasured. I have a quilt that was made by my 4-H Horse and Pony Club. My group used crayons to color in the outline of a horse on cotton squares to match the horse they rode. They added their name and the name of their horse on the square. I pieced the squares together, put a backing on it and then took it to the next 4-H meeting. The kids helped tack the layers together. The quilt isn't valuable in terms of skills or materials, but rich in memories. A couple of the kids have since passed away. I wouldn't take for my quilt. A modern quilting machine can make the stiches; it can't stitch the memories.

Whether you are seeking that one of a kind gift, connecting to the past, or passing on skills to future generations, handmade carries with it the love and care those hands used in the creation of it. Handmade, from my hands to yours.

The Once and Future Mascot

2011-10-08T08:50:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

From what I can remember of my theatre history classes, the shaman or medicine man would don a mask, usually that of an animal, to do "business with the gods." Once he put on the mask, he embodied all the qualities and characteristics the animal mask represented. And thus began the practice of athletic teams adopting an animal as their totem and having someone who can't play the game, wear the mask and costume and become the mascot.

In Texas we have over 2,000 schools boasting all kinds of school mascots, each hoping to imbue their team with all the power and attributes associated with their chosen mascot. Usually mascots are lions, tigers, bulldogs, hornets, eagles, or even marlins. You want your mascot to be something that strikes fear in your opponents.

I first became aware of the impact a mascot can have on a team when I entered Pattie Welder Jr. High. A clue should have been the giant insect painted on the wall as you entered the school. Being a city girl, termite did not first come to mind. Already self-conscious about our size, no junior high athlete wants to be called a termite. Now granted, a termite can render an oak floor to a pitiful pile of sawdust over time, but did we really think our opponents were going to shake in their cleats over facing the mighty termites? What were the cheerleaders going to yell?

"Go Termites Go! Chew ! Chew! Chew!

Reduce them to sawdust! Boo Hoo Hoo!"

As a child, our family moved a lot. After the termite incident, I did some research on various mascots in Texas. My sister coached at a high school in Lewisville. Their mascot? The Fighting Farmers! I could just see the costumes for their drill team, little checked skirts with white aprons and a sunbonnet. No thank you. I didn't want to go to Itasca and be a Wampus Cat. I didn't even know what a Wampus Cat was. I didn't want to be a Red Ant, so Progresso High School was out. New Braunfels seemed promising, the Unicorns, but I wasn't sure how aggressive they were when it came to athletics.

Hutto looked like it might be an option until I realized they were the Hutto Hippos. I suppose when they were voting on mascots one of the board members or coaches had just seen a National Geographic episode detailing the ferociousness of the hippopotamus, Africa's most violent animal. That is the only reason I can see voting for the hippo to be your mascot. Being a Lady Hippo did not do anything to raise my self-esteem.

We finally settled on Blooming Grove ISD, home of the Lions in central hot Texas. Our arch rival was a school five miles down the road, Frost High School. Their mascot? The Polar Bears of course. Most of our football games were played in 99 degree heat. Go figure.

Over the years I've thought a lot on the subject of mascots and I have noticed some omissions. For example, we have the bulldogs, but no Shih Tzu or pugs; hornets and yellow jackets, termites still, but no brown recluse spiders or red bugs (also known as Chiggers). We have cowboys and plowboys but no carpenters or mechanics; jets but no submarines. We have tornadoes, hurricanes, but no tsunamis.

There are no mascots to represent our modern times. Since we all know competition drives education in Texas, I propose the following mascots. For the high schools for the visual and performing arts, I suggest the Butterfly. For the technical schools we could have the Geek Greeks, the Modem USBee's, or the Galveston Giga Bytes! For the School of Art and Fashion Design, they could be the Van Go's. For the all-girls school of graphic and web design, the Web Debs would be perfect!

I have yet to find a school embracing the ultimate mascot in terms of viciousness, tenacity, stamina, agility, versatility, speed, and vision…the common housefly. Now think about it for a minute. Their bite is ferocious and irritating. You can't run them off. They keep coming back. They can cling to ceilings and hide in places you can't get to. They can fly around forever no matter how many times you "shoo" them away. They can cling to the backs of chairs, screens, moving ceiling fans, and beneath tables. They are faster than most rolled up newspapers, flip-flops, fly swats and chop sticks, well except for Mr. Miyagi. And talk about having eyes on every opponent! Nothing beats the house fly. They love hot humid weather, and yet I've found them in the dead of winter.

No, you can have your lions, your tigers, your hippos, your dogs. Give me the common house fly as a mascot to be reckoned with! Go, Flies, Go! Buzzzzzz!

Before the Before

2011-09-30T12:37:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

When you see those television commercials with the Before and After photos, do you find yourself scrutinizing the two photos to see if it is really the same person? Granted if you lose 300 pounds you are going to look different, but does that weight loss also affect the size of your head or the length of your ears? The Before Photo shows the fat person with scraggly hair, wearing baggy clothes and a frown looking full front into the camera. The After Photo always features the person with a lovely hair-do, stylish clothing, a big white Crest smile, and the body torqued in such a way that the least amount of waistline is facing the camera. Any fisherman worth his weight in big mouth bass knows those camera tricks.

All this got me to thinking of a way to supplement my non-existent unpublished writing fund. I call it my Before the Before Concept. I figure I am the perfect universal Before picture. Put some baggy saggy ugly clothes (right out of my closet) on me, bring the camera up close, and I am the perfect Before Jenny Craig photo. Even if the After person only lost five pounds, dress her up, put on some make-up, back the camera way off and there you have it… a perfect size two compared to the Before photo.

But weight is just the start. I am the ultimate Before Rogaine. Shoot the top of my head, photo shop the gray hair to whatever shade the After Rogaine has and voila! Remember, they never show the Before person's face. Photograph my ugly toes, rough heels, bitten ragged fingernails, and I can corner the Before market for Pedicures, Pedi-Eggs, and Press-on-Nails. The good thing is that even the slightest improvement on my look-a-like would be sure to gross millions in increased product sales when compared to the Before. I am a marketing gold mine! One photo shoot fits all.

So while I'm waiting for that publishing contract to arrive in the mail, I'm standing by the phone waiting for that call from Jenny Craig, Weight Watchers, Rogaine, Bare Minerals, Pedi-Egg, and Press-on-Nails. And the best part is no talent or preparation required. I just have to be myself!

Wonder why no one has called?

Cone Head, the Barbarian

2011-09-25T10:10:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

You could finance a small country for what it takes to keep a Shih Tzu healthy, much less happy. Shih Tzus stress over everything. They stress out if you take them to the groomers. They stress out if you don't. If you clip them too short, they sunburn which causes stress. If you just clip their faces, they stress over what the other dogs might be saying.

No matter what causes the stress, it manifests itself in the form of skin irritations and in Mia Tia's case, hot spots just below each ear. I tried treating the hot spots she had scratched raw with Neosporin and Benadryl gel but nothing would stop her scratching. I began to feel sorry for her. Here she was pregnant, hottest summer on record, and now hot spots. I was feeling the stress myself.

I checked our life's savings, the kids' college fund, our line of credit, and then made an appointment with our veterinarian.

Miss Tia was too stressed out to walk into the vet's office, so I had to carry her. She was too stressed to remain on the scales long enough for the technician to get her weight. I had to sit on the scales and hold her while the technician subtracted more pounds than I care to admit to, in order to determine Miss Tia's pregnant weight of 12 ½ pounds. Now I was stressed. At least we weren't asked to move to the cattle and horse scales.

The technician took her away and in a few minutes the doctor returned.

"These dogs are highly susceptible to stress."

Try raising a six-year-old and a ten-teen when you are in your very late sixties, I thought.

"She has had an allergic reaction, probably to something she ate."

I swear I only gave her a small portion of the purple chicken.

"Or going to the groomers may have triggered the reaction."

Good, I like that. Blame it on the groomer.

"We will have to shave around her head and clean the wounds."

Ok, more stress and probably more scratchy spots for Tia.

When the doctor returned, poor Tia was wearing the Get Smart Cone of Silence. Miss Tia needed a shot. Ka-Ching! She needed a special spray. Ka-Ching! She needed a special flea repellant and heart worm medication for pregnant mommies-to-be. Ka-Ching! Ka-Ching! She needed her six-months flea repellant prescription renewed for after the puppies came. KA-CHING! There went our life's savings and the first two semesters of college. Our credit card balance now qualifies us for debt consolidation and financial counseling.

After carrying Miss Tia to the car, she was too stressed out to walk, we returned home. As soon as we got inside, she ran around the house doing the happy dog dance while knocking her head cone against the floor, the walls, the refrigerator, and the sofa.

When the six-year-old came home from school, he immediately dubbed her "Cone Head the Barbarian".

"Don't say that!" I cautioned, "You'll stress her out." "Oh, she's just a dog. She won't get her feelings hurt", he nonchalantly replied. "Ok, the expense for her next you-are-stressing-me-out-hot-spot comes out of your future-all-we-can-afford truck".

Cone Head the Barbarian was soon dropped, but now I can't get it out of my head.

Oh, the stress!

Check, Please!

2011-09-18T12:18:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

When my children were younger, I employed the Mama Cat cleaning method for the on-the-way-to-church-and-just-before-we-arrived check. Keep in mind, Mothers have done this for centuries and this was before zip-lock bags with a wet wash cloth or wet wipes. With six children in the confined space of a van, all at one time, I had the chance to make a final check before we went inside the church. Lick finger, wipe smidgen of jelly from cheek amid screams of "Eeeeeuuu, spit, nooooooo!"

Getting six children up, fed, and dressed along with myself was a running battle, literally. As soon as you chased one down and dressed him with a semi-matching outfit and clean socks, the fashion diva would streak by wearing a tutu and nothing else declaring she was ready for church. No one was surprised when the church nursery worker discovered that I had often forgotten to put diapers on the toddlers.

Fast forward to the teen years. The Mama Cat method is no longer needed as the teens have discovered body wash, lotion, conditioners, deodorants, after shave cologne, powder, lip balm, Clearasil, perfume and make-up. Before leaving the house, the teens had to subject themselves to the "bend over and touch your toes" method for blouses that may be too low or skirts that were too short. "Boy, your car is on fire. Run and put it out". If their pants were too baggy to "save" the car, they failed the insurance test and had to change. Girls also had to pass the white towel check for make-up. After blotting, if there was a distinct imprint resembling Tammy Faye, the make-up had to come off.

Now that I have entered my senior years, the children are seeking their revenge. They want to install full sized magnifying mirrors if I continue to fail the "Dripped your breakfast on your shirt this morning, did you?" Check.

I admit as senior citizens our eyesight isn't what it used to be. In fact, nothing is like it used to be, so I am suggesting that before we go out to meet the public, open the door, or the children come over, we should have a "Senior Check." If we had had Senior Check, my friend would not have shown up at work wearing white slacks. It was before Labor Day so that wasn't the problem. The problem was she was wearing bright orange underwear. I should have told her. The fact that she lives 600 miles away was no excuse; we do have web cams on our computers if we only knew how to use them.

For those of you entering the Senior Check Phase, allow me to offer some suggestions. Before going out, besides checking the obvious, are you wearing clothes? here are a few things to look for:

Pants zipped…up Check

Two matching earrings, one on each ear, check

Bra on, cups in front…check

Shoes at least in the same color family preferably with the same heel height… check and check

No evidence of previous meals anywhere… check

Make-up application/colors close to the style for this decade …check

Lipstick applied to actual lips, not where lips used to be …check

No sleeveless clothing unless wearing accompanying jacket… Check

No flip-flops or backless sandals unless you have used the Pedi-egg or #8 grit sandpaper with Black and Decker power sander within the last few hours... Check

White underwear, white slacks... Check, Check and Double Check!

Just by following this simple list, you may never have to experience "Oh Mother, before we go, you've got a bit of bran muffin stuck to your cheek. Just let me get that ..."

" Eeeeeuuuuuu, (spit), noooo!"

The Germs Have It?

2011-09-11T06:25:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Maybe because it is late at night and my brain is only hearing half of the television commercials or, which is more likely, the commercials really are that dumb. My subconscious has been subjected to ads for giant cupcake pans, Eggies for boiling eggs without the shell provided you can still find all the parts, and pajama blue jeans which only look good on those physically fit who wear a size two.

The ultimate dumbest commercial to date, just slightly ahead of the Eggies, is the hands free soap dispenser. Now granted, a hands free touch faucet makes sense. If your hands are really dirty, then touching the faucet with your elbow, your nose, or your big toe if you are into yoga or Pilates makes sense. Even a hands free paper towel dispenser would protect your clean hands, especially if the previous person touching the paper towel dispenser lever did not do a good job of washing his/her hands, but a hands free soap dispenser?!

The advertisement touts "prevents the spread of germs." Ok, now you are getting soap to wash the germs off your hands, right? So washing a few extra germs picked up from the soap dispenser isn't going to break the germicidal bank. Plus, is the soap dispenser suddenly going to shower the room with germ spores? Are the germs congregating just south of the dispenser mechanism waiting to make a gigantic jump through the air? If the soap in the hands free soap dispenser cannot fight off the germs left by the hands the soap is supposed to clean, then it isn't going to make any difference if the soap dispenser is hands free or not. Besides, who is going to touch the soap dispenser and NOT wash their hands?

Better that germ fearing inventors turn their efforts toward inventing a hands free toothpaste dispenser. Now there's a germ laden object just waiting to explode. Think about it. Multiple hands touching the tube, (why am I the only one with toothpaste in the house) then tossing it on various counters that may or may not have been the semi-final resting place for pet frogs, worms, and gold fish? Hands griping the twisted distorted tube, squirting crusted semi-dried goo onto a toothbrush, then said hand and brush going to your mouth. Bleeegh!

Put toothpaste in those individual packets like catsup or put toothpaste in your hands free soap dispenser. At least that would make sense.

If, however, you are one of the millions who bought the hands free soap dispenser you can just toss it in the drawer with the missing eggie parts when the batteries run down. Your hands can still get clean with old fashioned soap-on-a-rope.

Frying Purple Chicken Beater!

2011-09-03T18:17:00.003-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Some of you have suffered through my tales of cooking woe. I'd like to say I have improved just like I would like to say Vanna White is grooming a replacement, but we know that isn't true. She's still there and I'm still turning chicken purple. I'll explain.

I recently visited my friend, Wanda Argersinger (Land of Confusion blog). She is a good cook so I watched carefully as she prepared a chicken dish. It didn't look too hard; chicken, simple batter, wine, mushrooms, spices, beef bouillon, I could do that. I would do that, just as soon as I got back home.

Most of my culinary disasters seem to occur when I try to substitute or take short cuts. This time I would do just as Wanda did. Well, except I couldn't find the same Sweet Red Wine with the footprint on the stopper so I found a red wine with some kind of kangaroo on it. And I didn't have an iron skillet so I used my super heavy aluminum one. Oh, and I didn't remember exactly the order of ingredients so I dumped everything in at once. I did buy a meat hammer and I beat the stuffing out of those chicken breasts just like Wanda. When they hit the skillet, those chicken breasts were as flat as mine were as a teenager.

My first hint that something was going south, and I don't mean the Yankees, was when my chicken turned purple. When Wanda added wine to her dish, her breasts did not turn purple, the chicken breasts not Wanda's although they may have. She was wearing clothes so it was hard to tell and I was intent on her cooking methods. My mushrooms remained perfectly tan, not brown, and did not even slightly curl like her mushrooms. The dish was tasty but I'm telling you, purple chicken is a definite appetite depressant so everybody ate with their eyes shut.

For my next attempt at Wanda's dish, I found the right Sweet Red Wine with the footprint on the stopper while I was at Wal-Mart between trips down the great elbow smashing slides at Great Wolf Park in Grapevine. I bought several bottles and hoped I didn't get stopped by the authorities. Once back at home I invested in a cast iron skillet. Wanda also e-mailed me the correct sequence of ingredients. Got it! Right? Wrong.

Back to the kitchen, more breast pounding, batter slathering, and a hotter skillet. This time I managed to get the chicken to turn mostly brown with just a tinge of purple after the wine was added. The mushrooms still did not turn brown but I did manage to turn the beef broth into gravy, sort of. Wanda didn't mention it, but I think there must be a precise ratio of flour, water, and beef broth to make gravy that is not the consistency of wall paper paste. Just sitting on the table, it looked like gray purple tinted dog barf. Again, a tasty dish that, eaten with blindfolds on, was delicious.

This evening I decided to give it one more try. The newly opened wine bottle was on the counter and only half gone. The beatings began in earnest. The children came running into the kitchen at the sound of my pounding. "Hey, Mama's cooking again," said the ten-teen. "Can we help?" "Sure," I replied as she hurried off to get the fire extinguisher. "Great," said the ever helpful six-year-old, "I'll get the blindfolds!"

The radio began playing a golden oldie "It was a one-eyed; one horned, flying purple people eater, pigeon toed, under-clothed frying purple chicken beater." At least I think that's what I heard. Only a smidgeon of wine made it to the skillet, so I'm not sure.

Raising Cain, and Able to Do It!

2011-08-27T22:15:00.002-05:00

in By Jody Worsham

I never really raised Cain when I was a teenager, but now that I have a very active six-year-old, I have come to appreciate the saying. The kind of Cain he raises, at least at the present, is more in the realm of bug and frog catching, forgetting to let them go, or not remembering where he stashed them. I'm thinking of investing in Febreze or at least a hound dog to sniff out the location of the fermenting bugs and reptiles.

He has also occupied himself lately with his "inventions." One particular varmint trap consisted of jump ropes strung between door knobs and coat racks and a large milk crate. Fortunately I was able to grab the door frame before facing the crate head on. Traps of all kinds have since been banned to the back yard.

The right side of his brain has not been ignored as he continues to raise Cain with his backyard drums. Now these are not your regular music store variety drums weather proofed for the outside. These are 50 gallon plastic barrels with hardwood tree limbs for drum sticks. The metal barrels are used for his Caribbean repertory. I must say that there has been no need for those high frequency pest abaters since he took up the outdoor drums. When my head could no longer differentiate between his drum solos and the roaring of an approaching tornado, I put an end to the outdoor concerts.

That's when he switched to a more western form of raising Cain…barrel racing or should I say barrel herding. This is not your normal run your horse around barrels in a four-leaf-clover pattern. This is get on your junior battery operated 'gator and herd the barrels around the pasture, bumping and bouncing them from fence to fence. To up it a Cain or two, he involved his sister and thus barrel penning was born. This quickly evolved into Olympic Barrel Bumping and Tossing. When plastic barrels began to sail across the full moon like E.T., I'd had enough. No more barrel anything.

I wonder if Eve had as much trouble raising Cain. I think, with some help from Centrum Silver, Advil, HRT, and a sufficient supply of McDonald's Mocha Frappes, I'll still be "Able" to handle raising Cain.

Small Successes

2011-08-26T09:14:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

This is a bonus post. Regular blog will appear on Sunday.

A friend, Sherry Antonetti mother of eleven, posted a list of small successes for the week and then asked several friends to blog-connect (is that a term?) with their list. Here's mine.

#1 Success at negotiating the pick-up and drop-off lines the first day of school. No way was I going to give up and go back home with two kids. I've been waiting all summer for this day.

#2 Success at avoiding Mocha Frappes at McDonald's for one week; note teeth marks on steering wheel.

#3 Success at getting children to and from school, to and from gymnastics classes, to and from violin practice, to and from baseball practice and to and from Girl Scouts. Biggest success was that this was with my actual children and not ones I accidently picked up in the never-ending pick-up and drop-off line.

#4 Success at getting my Wanda Argersinger chicken dish almost brown and almost right. Fifth try should get it right.

#5 Success at doing the Naked-at-Midnight-Bring-On-the-Rain Dance. Received 2 inches by morning. Sorry about the hurricane. I guess I mixed up the rain dance steps with the Dance-for-Extreme-Wind choreography.

That's it. Back to my regular blog on Sunday.

The Great Wolf-at-your-Door-Mortgage-the-House Lodge and Waterpark

2011-08-20T22:57:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Last week I left home for Dallas with the six-year-old and the ten-teen to meet my sister, her husband, and their two grandkids for Great Wolf Lodge and Indoor Waterpark, otherwise known as the Great Mortgage the House, Weight Loss and Indoor Climb-a-Mountain Chlorine Treatment Park.

I had promised the children I would take them to a water park this summer but it was just too hot to be outside all day. My sister mentioned a wonderful waterpark that was indoors. Great! Count me in. I had not anticipated the need to mortgage the house in order to pay for the trip nor did I anticipate having to participate in their weight loss program. In order to slide down any of the six gigantic-more-fun-than-you-can-imagine slides with my two children, whom I am determined will not miss out on anything by having older parents, you have to climb up six flights of stairs carrying a two man inner tube.

The very first thing the six-year-old and I did was go down the two person inner tube slide. I figured I'd better climb early before the legs and knees totally gave out. Upon reaching the third story of stairs, I noticed there were no oxygen tanks on any of the landings. As I arrived at the top gasping for air, there wasn't time to read all the instructions for the two person inner tube, much less follow them, before the rushing water started us down the never-ending- slide to hell.

Half way down with one leg flayling to the north, my other flopping to the south and my butt creating tsunami waves in the middle, we were flipped out of the inner tube. I grabbed the six-year-old in true Mother Wolf pack fashion and held on to him while banging my elbow against the slide and grabbing the inner tube. Evidently the inner tube arrived at the pool before we did. To his credit, the baby life guard was leaning over the edge, whistle in his mouth and the giant red life preserver tube at the ready when I finally surfaced. As we drug ourselves out of the pool, the six-year-old noticed my elbow was bleeding profusely (dang those baby aspirin) so I had to go to the first aid station for a Band-Aid, which resulted in an accident report.

First Aid Life Guard: What happened?'

Super Mom (that would be me): I banged my elbow on the slide?

FALG: Which slide?

SM: The yellow one.

FALG: Cause?

SM (Because 67 is the new 47?) We obviously did not get into the inner tube correctly.

FALG: Age?

SM: (silence, then) Old enough to know better and young enough to try it anyway.

FALG: I need an age. an age range?

SM: Ok, over fifty and under a hundred.

FALG: Thank you.

That afternoon I told the six-year-old to pick his very favorite slide to go down because there was only one climb left in me. The ten-teen was tall enough to handle all the slides except the Texas Tornado. Fortunately, my brother-in-law said he would go down with her. The six-year-old told everybody quite loudly "I'm too little to go down the Texas Tornado and my mama is too… (he caught himself just before "old") likely to hit her elbow again." The child is a born politician. The rest of the day was spent splashing in the wave pool and dodging water gun cannons.

That evening with the aid of mega doses of aspirin, Advil, Ben Gay, Tylenol, and a heating pad big enough to wrap around my entire body, I fell asleep.

Even though it cost a small fortune, I did lose a pound or two and the waterlogged smiles on the faces of the children was worth it. At least that's what I told myself as I put another band-aid on my elbow.

Egg-scuse Me?

2011-08-14T10:19:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

If you have watched TV at all in the last few weeks, I am sure you have seen the latest gadget/gizmo must have: The super egg-ceptional, egg-citing, egg-strodinary, The Eggie! This latest device to separate you from your common sense and money is a plastic egg shell…really! They show you the frustrated house wife with a bowl full of hard boiled eggs that look like she tried to peel them with a weed eater. She has been trying to peel them all night. I figure she is getting paid by the hour.

With this double offered twenty-four part egg-citing time saving invention, you can take twenty-five minutes to 1) locate both the tops and bottoms to the Eggies 2) wash the plastic egg holders,3) crack the eggs 4) pour eggs into the plastic holders, 5) mop up what you spilled,6) fish out the bits of shell that got into the Eggie holder, 7) fill a pan with water, 8) light the stove, 8) place your plastic egg holders in the water, 9) remove plastic egg holders from the water, 10) wait for them to cool, 11) remove the eggs from their holders, 12) round up all the Eggie pieces, and 13) place them in the dishwasher and hope they don't fall to the bottom and catch on fire just so you can peel a dozen eggs in thirty seconds.

Or you could put your eggs in a pan of water and boil them.

As for peeling eggs, anybody knows you can't boil and peel fresh eggs without creating the mess the advertiser has pictured. According to " Hints from Heloise" or "My Mama Done Tole Me" or maybe it was Alton Brown or Mr. Wizard, you always use eggs that are at least two days old if you are going to boil them. Once the eggs have boiled, all you need do to peel them is drain the hot water, rinse with cool water, than bounce the heck out of those eggs in the pan. Fill the same pan with a little water and the shells just fall off. You can peel a dozen eggs in less than thirty seconds without the aid of the Eggies.

Now why would anybody want to go through thirteen separate steps, try to keep up with twenty-four pieces of egg-holder-thingy-bobs, and secure them on the rack in the dishwasher when you can accomplish the same thing with one pan and a good bounce?

Egg-zactly!

It’s ALIVE!

2011-08-07T11:56:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

As I was filling the gas tank on the rental car, I took the time to program the GPS I called "Tom" before continuing on to Florida. Tom, like the rental car, was designed, manufactured, and shipped by foreign midgets with tiny fingers. It was impossible to type in a location with my fingers without creating locations in Zimbabwe or local destinations with dyslexic spellings. In desperation I used the end of a ball point pen. Even with the correct American spellings, Tom indicated there were no such locations. I tried typing with a foreign accent. That seemed to work. I also had a road atlas as a back- up. The gas pump burped after depositing ten gallons into the tank and I was off on my adventure.

As soon as I left the gas station, "Tom" said "500 feet turn left." I knew that couldn't be right so I continued. Again "200 feet turn left. 100 feet turn left. After one quarter mile turn left. At any of the next six intersections feel free to turn left. Ok, turn left or right, I don't care."

I think I have a trust issue with Tom or maybe it's a commitment issue. I hear what he says but I get contradicting advice from humans, one being my niece who had said to turn right after six miles, then left. She was right about the location of the trunk button in the foreign made car, so I followed her advice. After backtracking six miles and following the road signs which were in English, I finally turned left. Tom said "Finally!"

After traveling for an hour, it was time to stop for a quick snack. I didn't bother checking in with Tom. He'd just tell me I didn't need the calories, the next gym was 162 miles away, or my stretch jeans had reached their limit. I looked for the familiar golden arches or a sign with the golden arches. That's when I discovered signs can be wrong or else I am directionally challenged and turned the wrong way, both possibilities. After a detour of four miles, I settled for Burger King and got back on the interstate.

Now my confidence in road signs and the GPS were shaken. I crossed the state line and stopped at the Tourist Information Center where real local humans could converse with me in something close to English. My ears cut through the heavy accent and listened carefully as the helpful tourist human marked the paper map with a yellow highlighter. "Y'all can't miss it." Since I was traveling alone I could only assume she meant me and Tom; then I realized we were still in the South so I replied in my native tongue "Thank ya, podner!""

At this point I have a l993 Road Atlas that may or may not be up to date, a single printed sheet with a yellow highlighter marking city streets, and Tom who may or may not be speaking to me. The mall I was trying to get to evidently hadn't been built in l993 and Tom and the highlighted map did not agree so I sort of drove in ever tightening loops until I saw a Target sign along with a Dillard's, Starbucks, and other assorted signs testifying to the possible existence of a mall.

After several cups of Starbuck's frozen coffee and before my credit card sent up a red flag, it was time to head for my friend's house. I studied the map. I typed in the address on Tom. I guess he was still mad because he told me no such street existed. I typed in the community where my friend said she lived. That did exist so I committed to giving Tom another chance. This time I would ignore the map and listen to Tom.

When Tom said "Left turn ahead", I turned left. Of course I was so concerned about doing exactly what Tom said, I forgot that he gives you instructions then a 500 foot warning before you are to actually turn left. Had I realized that, I would not have been going the wrong way on a one way street. I safely dodged a couple of cars whose drivers still gave me that friendly universal one finger salute. I pulled over to the curb just as my cell phone rang. It was my friend. She stayed on the phone with me and guided me street by street until I arrived at her house.

I parked the rental car in her drive-way and as I reached to unplug the GPS, I swear I heard electronic giggling followed by "You have just left the Twilight Zone."

Next time, I'm going to fly.

2011-07-30T21:24:00.002-05:00

Olympic Car Driving

By Jody Worsham

For the very first time in my life I went on an adventure all by myself; ok, half way by myself. My sister and her husband drove me as far as Biloxi, Mississippi and I went on to Florida alone.

My training for this event began as I tried to rent a car on line. I made it as far as "What size car do you want?" Once upon a time there were cars; just cars, not big cars, not little cars, not compact cars, not sub-compact cars, not economy cars, not midsize cars, not SUV's, not smart cars, not luxury cars, just cars. And their names were Chevrolet, Ford, Pontiac, Dodge, and Cadillac not Cobalt, Hyundai, Taurus, Elantra, Toyota, Avio, Kia, Fiat, Peugeot, Scamp, Swinger, Jeep, not Escalade, Escapade, Marmalade, or Just Made. I called the car rental place and asked a live person to hold a car for me. "Yes, what size would you like?" "An average size car for one person and one suitcase," I said.

I arrived the next morning to pick up my average size car. The rental agent seemed friendly enough. The car seemed friendly enough. I smiled in a friendly manner, signed the papers, paid the fees, and got the keys. I put the key in the ignition, pushed the gear shift forward which immediately activated the windshield wipers. Through much trial and error, I managed to deactivate the windshield wipers. However, when I tried to remove the key from the ignition to put my suitcase in the trunk, the anti-American automotive brat wouldn't turn loose. My niece said I had to push then pull. It worked but then there was no key hole in the trunk when I tried to open that. "Here, it's in the door." "What's in the door, the trunk?" "No, the button to open the trunk. "Why isn't it on the dashboard" "I don't know, but see there's a picture of the car with the trunk open." "In the door, at the bottom?" "Give me your suitcase." I located the real gear shift in the floor, waved good-by, and drove to the nearest gas station as I was on empty.

That's when the friendship really ended. The car was definitely un-American. No matter where I pushed or pried, or banged I could not open the hinged gasoline cover. I looked all over the dash for some kind of picture of a gas cap. I looked in all the unlikeliest places under the seat, in the backseat, in the glove compartment, above the visor, even the door.

After ten minutes I went inside the station. "I know this is a dumb question, but do any of you know how to put gasoline in this Hyundai rental car?" A child around twenty-two years old said "I do. I have a Hyundai." We walked out to the car. I was trying to push then pull to get the key in the lock to open the door. "You know you can just push the button on the key ring?" "Yes, thank you. I knew that." She opened the door and pointed to an itsy bitsy rectangular button with a picture of a teeny tiny Smurf sized gasoline pump stamped on it at the side of the driver's seat. Now who, but an unfriendly nation, would put the electronic switch to the gasoline cap on the floor of the car? "Thank you," I said again as the child walked away not quite stifling a giggle.

Car 1, Driver 0. The foreign car may have won this round, but there are more events to come. Next week GPS Let the games continue. Stay tuned.

Scratch That!

2011-07-24T19:28:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

As you slowdown in life, the allergies that have been chasing you for the past sixty-five years finally catch up. I'm sure if you are in, near, or close to my current decade, you have noticed slight changes in your digestion. Lactose is no longer your friend so you become intolerant. Strawberries start to give you hives. Prunes become your fruit of choice…by default. Almonds and other nuts can suddenly make you itch for no apparent reason.

The other night I was awakened at three a.m. with itchy boobs. Now I know what you are thinking, but that isn't the case. My scalp, ears, knees, arms, and back also began to itch. I tried scratching with my finger nubs, a brush, the door facing…I was headed for the metal bar-b-q grill brush when I passed the medicine chest and remembered the Benadryl.

When I awoke, two days later, I suspected the almonds. In my futile attempt to lose weight the last two days, I had opted for the Asian Salad covered in almonds with the fewest calories at Mickey D's. I had eaten that two days in a row and on the third day the itching began.

While food choices must change, or will, you begin to invest large amounts of money in Benadryl, Calamine lotion, anti-histamines. That may not be the only thing you must change.

The laundry detergent I have used for ten years, I suspect has turned on me. Good old Arm and Hammer laundry detergent is exhibiting more hammer than arm. That is the only thing that I can figure that is causing me to continue waking with the itchies since I haven't eaten any nuts in a week. Once I was fully awake, I realized I was itching all over just not all at the same time. When I was a kid we believed that such itches were caused by "beatchy bugs". By the time you reached the spot that was itching, the "itch" would beat you to another spot…beat-you-to-it bugs... beachey bugs. I ruled out bed bugs since no one else was having the same symptoms.

The other possible cause of my itching is my attempt at recycling. Previously I had changed laundry detergents in an attempt to whiten and brighten my husbands' tee shirts. He began to itch. Rather than throw away the container with the handy dandy dispenser that I could dispense from the upper cabinet right into the washer, I just poured Arm and Hammer into the container. I don't think they got along. Maybe it's a chemical reaction. Maybe you aren't supposed to recycle empty jugs to keep the economy on track. By recycling, I may have put hundreds of dispenser people out of work.

Now I'm not only itching, I'm feeling guilty as well. So between the nuts, the detergent, my attempt to repurpose, reuse, guilt for my contribution to the national debt, I am now depressed. I think I may have to resort to the wine cure….eight ounces of wine every two hours; then whatever is happening, I won't care.

A Geek for All Seasons

2011-07-17T08:11:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

The Geek Squad, I imagine, was started by somebody's grandchild who constantly had to program his grandparents' DVD player, change their digital clocks to daylight saving time, identify all buttons on their cell phones, and set up their computers. Then he had to translate 21^st century terminology into Boomerisms. For Example:

Tweet= formerly what the birds did but now a shorter form of texting with stalking capabilities.

Facebook= previously known as a picture album, but now a way for people you've been trying to avoid for 30 years to find you.

DVD= a shiny mirror thing that has movies on it, not underwear for a dyslexic grandpa

Update= What your computer will do whether you want it to or not and then you have to call for help…again.

Cut and Paste= what you used to do with scissors and glue but you now do with a mouse, not the live or dead kind but the kind attached to your computer.

Keyboard= a typewriter without the throwback thing or that annoying bell.

Blog= a diary that everybody can read whether you want them to or not.

Blogger= Gossip, know-it-all, motor mouth on a keyboard

Blog roll= Not the fruitcake log you got for Christmas but a list of stories you read when you accidently find them on your computer

Internet= world-wide party line

E-bay= formerly known as the Sears Catalogue or newspaper want ads

Webcam= An electronic Peeping Tom.

Lap Top= Not a dance at a men's club but a small computer you can put on your lap

Netbook= Not a book about nets but a small lap top (see above)

Giga bytes= Not Texas size chigger bites, but a measure of storage capacity for your computer

Social network=quilting bee where there is no quilt and you don't have to provide refreshments.

Apple=not a fruit but the kind of computer you should have gotten in the first place

Recycle bin= like your pantry with the canned peaches from 1939 and mismatched cups and saucers, formerly known as a trash can.

Jitterbug= a dance from the 1940's now a telephone with big numbers, loud speakers, and a live person on call 24/7 who can dial, forward, answer for you and call you by name, also what I'm going to get you for Christmas next year

Spam=pretty much what you think it is except it isn't meat and it doesn't come in a can.

1-800-CALL-THE-GEEK = the number you call when you've lost your remote, hit delete, see a blue screen, have a call on hold for more than two hours, time to switch clocks to daylight savings time, or need me to open the childproof medicine bottles.

I don't care who started the Geek Squad, I'm just glad they did. When I can't find a ten-year-old to solve my electronic problem or open my aspirin bottle, I head for the store with the nearest Geek. No need to ask which counter to go to. You just look for the longest line of people with the most white hair, the thickest glasses, and the computers with the most pink stickers on the bottom!

1-800-U-R-N-H double Hockey Sticks!

2011-07-10T19:44:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I knew this past weekend was going to be hot. I live in Texas. It's hot in the dead of winter.

Our favorite and only RV camping spot has shade trees but none when the sun hits the side of the trailer in the afternoon when they are needed the most. This time we thought we were prepared. We arrived at the campsite straight up high hot noon. Dr. Hubby proceeded to set up the trailer and then to unfold the six windshield reflectors for eighteen wheeler trucks he had bought. He began placing them on the roof of the slide-out. He used 2x4 blocks and bungee cords to hold them down. Then he attached more windshield reflector things to the outside of the windows using those suction cups things for holding Christmas wreaths. I had already applied tin foil to the inside of the windows before we left home. When he finished we looked like the Beverly Hillbillies.

I'm sure the people next door expected to see us emerge with tin foil wrapped around our heads so our brains wouldn't be sucked out by the aliens. I will say, however, that the TV reception was the best we've ever had.

We turned on the AC and set it for 45 but it couldn't keep up with the increasing heat. Inside the trailer with two children, two dogs, and two adults was like living inside an Easy Bake Oven. We went outside where there was a breeze. Outside the trailer with two children, two dogs, and two adults was like living in a convection oven, hot air blowing hard!

We had the Scalped Yelp with us and a black lab puppy we were "holding" for the new owners until they returned from the cool mountains of Oregon, assuming they would, indeed, return. Anybody who has ever had a puppy or tried to potty train a two-year-old knows that when they "have to go", they have to GO, right then no waiting. When the lab puppy yelped at 3 a.m., Dr. Hubby yelled for him to "HUSH". I, on the other hand, knew that sound meant "I need to go potty and I have a really bad tummy ache." Any mother of eight (ten if you count the dogs) knows that sound so I put the leash on the puppy and took him outside. Yes, he HAD to go and yes he had a tummy ache for good reason.

The heat and the puppy tummy ache continued for the next two days alternating with puppy throw-up. I gave the puppy Pepto Bismal but that did not buy me enough time to get him off the bed before we had major poopage. I stripped the bed linens and headed for the nearest wash-a-tiera. Dr. Hubby tried hosing down the trailer to cool it off. When that didn't work he turned the hose on himself, the children, and the dogs. I was still washing bed linens.

Sunday afternoon word came down that the fireworks scheduled for that evening had been cancelled due to the high fire danger. The six-year-old, I think delirious from the heat, chose that moment to confess that he had given the puppy a Snickers and animal cookies on Friday as a treat. "Did you give the puppy a lot of Snickers and animal cookies?" I asked. The future politician evaded the question with "Well, how many is a lot?"

I Googled puppy diarrhea plus Snickers and animal cookies overdose. The recommendation was to keep the puppy cool, no stress, and hydrated. I thought that made pretty good sense for us as well so we cut our long weekend short by two days. Dr. Hubby readied the tin-foil-alien-non-heat-repelling RV for travel and we headed for home.

We arrived home by midnight. The children slept all the way as did the dogs. It helped that we had the air conditioner turned so low it was spitting ice. Once home as I slid between the icy sheets of our bed with the air conditioner set on a comfortable 62 and the ceiling fan blowing just short of hurricane force winds, I turned to Dr. Hubby and said "I don't want us to turn into one of those old couples who are content to just sit on their front porch sipping mint julips, but dang, it feels good to be home and in our own bed." He snored in reply.

If you need to get in contact with us our new number is 1-800-C00L-DUDES R-HOME. We are no longer in Hell.

The Old Man and the “See What I Caught!”

2011-07-06T16:13:00.002-05:00

The Old Man and the "See What I Caught!"

By Jody Worsham

My husband is seventy years old but he looks and acts like he's much younger. We are both somewhat shocked when we see former classmates and how much they have aged. Of course, they haven't had the advantage of a six-year-old and a nine-year-old to keep them hopping, jumping, reaching, stretching, and grabbing for the Advil for the past six years.

Last week Dr. Hubby took all of us fishing. This week he decided to take the "old folks" fishing; that is his friends who are just a few years older than himself but don't have young children 24/7 to keep them hopping, jumping, reaching…well you know.. I asked if he intended for the six-year-old to tag along. "Of course. He will be the life of the party." He told the "old folks" a couple of days in advance about the fishing trip so they would have enough time to get ready. Unfortunately, he told the six-year-old the night before. No sleeping for either of them. Too much excitement and anticipation.

With Dr. Peppers, Honey Buns, peanut butter crackers, Snickers, Gatorade, iced tea, eighteen life jackets, six lawn chairs, sun screen, seventy-two rod and reels, ice chests, fifty-five tackle boxes, video games, minnow buckets, ladder so the elderly could get onto the barge before it is launched, all was ready. You will note from the last fishing blog the absence of the port-a-potty. All men this time.

At exactly 4:37 a.m., Dr. Hubby woke up the six-year-old. At 4:38 a.m. said six-year-old was dressed and out the door. At 4:45 the "elderly" arrived and were awaiting the departure. At 4:46 I rolled over and went back to sleep. Breakfast was not included by me in this arrangement for which all of the participants were grateful.

When Dr. Hubby returned, I asked him how it went. "Well, I got the two older guys up the ladder and onto the barge by having "the kid" (age 63) help pull while I pushed from behind. I just tossed the six-year-old over the rail and he was good to go. Then "the kid" helped launched the barge and drove the truck and trailer back up to the parking lot. In the meantime, I got the other two situated in chairs for the ride to the crappie hole. The wind was blowing pretty hard. I've never seen water splash over the top of the deck before." I interrupted long enough to make sure the six-year-oId had been thoroughly strapped into his life jacket. "Oh, yes." "So everything went ok", I asked. "Oh yes, well except when I told the boy (the six-year-old) to put ice on the minnows to keep them cool." "And?" "Well, he put so much ice in the minnow bucket that he froze the minnows. We had to leave early."

That's my boy. When the water is rough and the fish aren't biting, you do what you have to do. No minnows, no fishing. They learn so quickly!

His friends were in the barn cleaning fish. All of them wanted to know when they would be going again, including the six-year-old who came running from the barn yelling "See what I caught? I caught the first fish. Granddaddy caught the biggest and the rest of "the guys" caught a few but I think they mostly had fun trying."

I know Dr. Hubby spent more time serving as "rod boy" to his friends than he did fishing. I also know he had a good time taking his "elderly" friends fishing and sharing the joy and fun of having a six-year-old as your constant buddy.

Years from now when "the guys" are sitting on their front porches wondering if the fish are biting, Dr. Hubby will be sitting on the barge with his grown-up buddy; the old man and the "See what I caught, Granddad?"

Who Knew?

2011-06-29T12:13:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

My 91 year old mother hurt her knee and ended up in the hospital. Hospitals are dangerous germ filled places for people in the 90-99 age group. So many check in but never check out, pneumonia being the usual culprit. I was worried that she would lie there and with shallow breathing catch pneumonia so I drove the six hour round trip to check on her.

I need not have worried on that score. When I got to her floor, I didn't have to ask which room was hers. Those lungs were filled to capacity and bellowing out orders to everyone. She thinks the hospital is some kind of resort.

I spent the entire day with her or someone who had possessed her body. The nurse had given her a vicodin for pain before I got there and Mother then talked non-stop for five hours. I felt like I was watching the weather channel, same thing repeated every hour.

During her five hour ramble, she talked, more than once, about the ninety-five year old twins that had lived across the hall from her for several months. They didn't stay there long. They moved to a townhouse just across the drive-way from my mother's assisted living facility. I have my suspicions as to why. Mother can't cross the drive-way.

Then she complained that she had tried to reach some lady by phone. She wanted her to come and help her clear out a closet. I said "Well, Mother maybe she couldn't hear the phone ring." "Oh, she can hear it ring. She's nine-seven but she can hear." "Mother, you're calling a ninety-seven year old woman to come and help you clean out a closet?" "Well, I'd pay her."

These stories and several others that my brain cannot recall alternated along with her concern for her swollen knee for three hours. The doctor had aspirated the knee, tested, and performed an MRI. We were just waiting for the results. She had already made a couple rounds with her walker with two nurses in tow so I wasn't too worried about the condition of her knee at the present. My sister and I were concerned about what had caused the knee to collapse. If it was just worn out and the collapse was spontaneous, then we had to consider getting Mother a motorized scooter…a very scary thought. Mother had given up driving when she was 85 because of the other crazy drivers on the road. "I've never had an accident," she proudly claims. My sister and I exchange that "But how many have you caused?" look we share.

By hour four of the vicodin trip to fantasy land, I headed for the nurses' station. "I need drugs," I gasped. "For your mother?" They didn't even ask who my mother was or her room number. I guess they had seen that dazed look before. "No, for me. " "Sorry, your mother's nurses on the night shift already took all the drugs not under lock and key. Maybe if you leave the room she will fall asleep." I staggered back down the hall.

By hour four and five minutes, I went in search of a diet coke since the only alcohol I could find was the disinfecting kind, tempting but reason reined temporarily. When I came back, I slid with my back against the wall quietly down the side hall and leaned in to see if Mother was asleep. Just at that moment, she was leaning out of her bed peeking around the corner and caught me. Even at ninety-one, I can't slip anything past her.

After five hours six minutes and eleven seconds, the doctor appeared with the results. "The tests showed this is just a temporary injury. She must have banged it on something." At that point Mother vehemently and loudly proclaimed that she did not bang it on anything.

After talking with my sister, I learned that the Mavericks had played the same night she experienced "knee failure". It was a close and exciting game. Mother is an avid sports fan and armchair coach. The pieces began to fall into place. Mother would never admit it, but I'm sure Dirk was glad she was not at courtside when he missed that shot. Unfortunately, I don't think Mother's knee missed the side table.

When my head stops spinning and my blood pressure drops below 300, I will call my sister and see how Mother is doing tonight. I'd call the hospital myself, but I think the Mavericks are playing game six tonight and nothing interferes with Mother and sports.

I enjoyed the silent three hour ride home. I didn't even play the radio. I was afraid I would catch the Mavericks game. I was afraid if Dirk made a dumb shot, Mother might fall out of bed and hurt her other knee and by the time I turned around and got back to the hospital, she would be re-entering vicodin land. Mothers!

Link Me Up, Scotty!

2011-06-22T16:17:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I have been "invited" to link up with several people over the past few weeks. Now this isn't a dating thing, although for some reason my spam file is full of Cougar Find Your Cub mail lately. Linky dink seems to be some kind of business network thing. Since I am retired and heretofore unpublished, I don't know what business I have linking to whatever it is I linked…to. I know it has something to do with making connections but to what and what for, I haven't a clue.

It's like my friends that say they have a thousand "friends" on Facebook. How do they ever filter through a thousand e-mails each day? I don't think I know a thousand people and if I did, I'm sure I couldn't call them by name. Heck, I had to number my kids after a while because I couldn't remember their names. "Hey, Bobby, Billy, Brandon, Baxter, Bolivar, Number Six whatever your name is, stop swinging from the door facing and turn Number Four loose before you drop her."

Maybe they are looking for Baby Boomers to field test cell phones with supersized numbers and letters and speakers that plug into your hearing aids to give the Jitterbugs a run for their money. Or maybe they are testing those walk-in bath tubs with loud speakers attached that automatically say "Don't forget to close and lock the bathtub door" after you get in; course that might link you to the nearest plumber. Now that is something that I wouldn't mind being linked to given the age of my pipes.

I hope it is not like one of those electronic chain letter link things. I have been waiting six months and so far no new romance has come into my life (well except for those M&M dark chocolate pretzels). I haven't received any new recipes, the Publisher's Clearing House people haven't stop by with a bunch of balloons and an oversized check, and I'm way overdue for some good news.

In the meantime, "Link me up, Scotty!" This could be interesting!

Bite Me!

2011-06-14T17:13:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Sometimes when my husband can't find any playmates, he resorts to asking me if I would like to go fishing with him. "What about the kids?" "Oh, they can come, too," as if they had any choice. This once in a blue moon invitation comes at a price. "What time do we have to leave and when will we get home?"

Leaving at 5a.m. wasn't too bad except the human-alarm-clocks were "dinging" and "coca-doodle-doing" at 4a.m. while yelling "Get up, the fish are waiting. Are you going fishing or not?" My mind screamed "Not" but I grabbed coffee and was tugged and pulled to the pick-up truck. Hubby had already connected the barge and had it loaded with four ice chests, five hundred fishing poles, and six tackle boxes. I wondered if the fleet was going out.

Now I must say that Dr. Hubby does try to take care of his playmates when he goes fishing. He had loaded the port-a-potty into the barge and had even remembered toilet paper. The folding roof was in place and ready to be raised at the first hint of sunburn. He had two boxes of Honey Buns, Dr. Peppers, sufficient Diet Cokes and dark Hershey bars to see me through the day, and an apple. He had the aerator and ice chest for the minnows, frozen ice jugs for the caught fish, and a tiny dip net, oh, and frozen hot dogs. I'm not sure if they were "the bait of last resort" or if that was his idea of lunch.

It took an hour to get to the lake. There is a perfectly good lake not twenty minutes from the house but evidently the fish had all agreed to have a reunion at the lake sixty miles away. The children, true to their nature, slept the whole way. I thought I would take advantage of the situation and have a conversation with my new blue moon playmate without interruptions, but after five minutes of hook, line, and sinkers, I lapsed into a voluntary coma.

I came to when we stopped at Fishing Bait and Tackle Shop #1. "Why are we stopping here?" I asked. "Got to get some minnows," said Cat Fish Charlie. "What about all those tackle boxes full of lures and jiggy things?" I wanted to know. "That's in case the crappie don't bite and we have to switch to bass," said the American Angler Wanna-Be. Quickly he hopped out and as quickly returned. "They only had two dozen minnows. We need at least four dozen," and off we went to Fishing Bait and Tackle Shop #2 for additional minnows.

We arrived at the lake just as the sun was coming up. "Wow, look at that!" said the nine-year-old; "it's beautiful". "Yes, that's the sun. It comes up every morning. If you get up early tomorrow you can see it again," I said. "That's ok" said the six-year-old. "I've seen it before."

Launching the barge was a lesson in frustration due to the additional playmate weight or possibly due to the low water level of the lake. I vote for the low water level. After backing twenty-five yards further out into the lake, the barge floated off the trailer with us in it. Dr. Hubby moored us to a rock, parked the trailer and we were ready to find the crappie hole.

I have an exact formula for fishing. It is a ratio of one minnow per caught fish every three minutes and it was working this morning. The two children and I were pulling in fish faster than Dr. Hubby could take them off our lines, toss the fish in the ice chest, replace broken line, straighten out bent hooks, catch a minnow and re-bait our hooks. I could bait my own hook and did so…after a while. An hour later, Dr. Hubby caught his first fish.

None of the boats that passed by our crappie hole stayed very long, possibly due to the six-year-old shouting "Bite Me" as they trolled by. I guess they didn't know he was talking to the fish.

Once the novelty of fishing wore off and the formula ceased to work (about forty-nine minutes), the eating frenzy began. First the children attacked the Honey Buns. These were washed down with Dr. Pepper's and Gatorades followed approximately fifteen minutes later with potty time…off the end of the boat for the six-year-old and port-a-potty with me as the human privacy curtain for the nine-year-old. Had I been conscious when we left, I would have brought the DS Nintendo's, the portable DVD player, and books to offset the sugar high run-from-one-end-of-the-barge-to-the-other that was soon to follow.

By 9:30 a.m. the temperature had reached 89 degrees. Tempers were getting short but we were still long on minnows. I knew from past experience that as long as there were minnows, there would be fishing. I picked up a pole, told the children to do the same, and we began baiting hooks. "Ooops, that one fell off? That's ok, just put two on this time…and sling your line out there really hard." When Dr. Hubby would bring in a fish, I nicely caught one minnow for him…and threw a handful overboard when his back was turned. Soon it was "Dang! We are out of minnows. Guess it's time to go."

With the barge loaded, the fishing gear and the sweaty lifejackets stowed away, and the air conditioning running full blast in the truck, Dr. Hubby turned and said "Well, did everybody have a good time?" The two children already huddled under blankets, pillow pets scrunched under their head, eyes droopy managed a "Yes, the best…it was ….really….really…fun…"

And it was…in a funny masochistic sort of way. Now when is the next blue moon?

Miss Manners in the Dining Room with a Butter Knife

2011-06-09T21:27:00.003-05:00

By Jody Worsham

My nine-year-old's Girl Scout troop had been trying for a month to arrange etiquette lessons from a local Miss Manners but scheduling never worked out. As a recovering former Teacher-I-Can-Fix-Anything, I momentarily fell off the teaching wagon and offered to teach a concentrated lesson in table manners at my house. After all, I did have a dining room, dining chairs, and dishes. The fact that I can't cook is irrelevant. I even had my wedding silverware, antique silverware by now, and I had learned how to fold napkins on one of our cruises. What could be easier?

I got the extra leaf to the dining table out from under the bed. After I wedged the leaf into the table, it was only unlevel by a quarter inch in the center. I'd just put a piece of cardboard under that placemat to even things out. I rounded up all the dining chairs from the various rooms. The seat covers all matched except for one which I never got around to recovering. I bought three more placemats after I discovered the dryer had eaten just one. I have three almost complete sets of china thanks to oatmeal, Texaco gas stations, laundry detergent and green stamps. These are also considered antiques by now. After reviewing "Betty Crocker Entertainment Made Easy" I saw that it was ok to mix and match dishes. She, of course, meant it's ok to mix eight matching bread plates with eight different matching dinner plates but I didn't read that part until later…after everyone had gone. So between the three sets of china, I had service for eight.

The silverware was a different story. Yes, I had service for eight but only one butter knife, an integral part to my lesson on "tear off one piece of bread, butter, and eat, then repeat" segment of Miss Manners At the Banquet Table. I substituted plastic knifes. This was just practice, you know.

Since my teaching method has always been to "teach backwards", I piled up all the dishes, chargers, silverware, stemware, napkins, and place cards in the middle of the table. I then instructed them to "set the table." Chargers were placed on top of dinner plates, cups, saucers stacked to the left and the silverware was placed inside the stemware. Napkins lay limply to the side. Clearly time for Miss Manners intervention. I had prepared a poster with the correct place setting glued on…which fell off the minute I held it up for the girls to see. The table was finally set, amidst muffled giggles.

One of the moms served the bread using bread tongs which is my case were some pickle tongs I had found in the back of a drawer. I had wanted to cut the butter into little serving squares and stamp them with an initial like you see at fancy hotels, so I placed the butter in the freezer. Thirty minutes later I remembered the butter and began hacking the butter stick into squares using a butcher knife. Forget the fancy initial unless you are thinking Chinese/caveman hieroglyphics.

Having conquered the bread and butter, we moved on to serving coffee. I forgot I didn't have a silver coffee carafe, probably because I never had one, so I just used my Mr. Coffee pot. The girls practiced turning their coffee cups upside down to indicate they did not want coffee; except for one little girl. "May I have some coffee, please?" she asked. "No, coffee is not good for you; besides the pot is empty. We are pretending practicing remember?" I countered.

On to the main course. The object was to practice using a knife and fork correctly, both the American way and the European way. I served filet-of-wiener; that's a wiener cut down the middle with a bit of cheese in the middle and heated in the oven, not much chance of me messing that up. It was a big success, the filet-of-wiener, not the cutting and forking. That needed more practice.

After correctly placing the knife and fork on the plate in the three o'clock position, the mom-servers removed the plates from the right and served my very elegant dessert from the left; that being the ice cream-on-sponge-cake-with-whipped-cream-and-a-strawberry-on top. The "I'm allergic to strawberries" comment initiated the lesson on how to move food around on your plate and not eat it while holding meaningful conversation and no you cannot ask for substitutions at a banquet.

This led us into table talk. Topics of conversation could not involve body parts, bodily functions, bodily sounds, gossip, or comments on my cooking or décor.

It was a very quiet meal…mannerly but quiet.

Miss Manners would be so proud.

Scalped Yelp!

2011-06-02T11:36:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

It was time to get Tia Mia clipped. Not only do I know "nothing about birthin' no babies" I also do not know how to talk to a dog groomer. I call. I make an appointment. I show up with the dog on a leash.

"What kind of cut did you have in mind?" she kindly asked.

"Uh, short? Right now she's got chewing gum wadded up under her neck. I didn't do it. The kids did."

"Chewing gum? Oh my. So you want everything short?"

"Yes."

"Including the tail?"

"Ok, except the tail."

"And the ears?

"Ok, except the tail and the ears."

"And you want the Teddy Bear face?"

Ok, I have no idea what a Teddy Bear face looks like on a dog, but it sounded cute and I didn't want to sound any less knowledgeable than I already had so I said "Of course."

Two hours later I went back for my dog. Yes, I said my dog. The dog that "I must have or I will cry for days" had been unceremoniously transferred by the nine-year-old to the six-year-old back to the nine-year-old, back to the six-year-old and then to me. Each transfer was due to abundant poopage and wet spots in the current owner's room. I guess both "parents" had no clue as to how to house break a dog. "Your dog, you clean it" being screamed at the top of the lungs was a sure sign of an impending transfer of ownership.

I looked in all the cages for my little fluff ball. I guess I wasn't listening closely when the word "shaved" entered into the conversation earlier. All I remember saying was "She isn't a show dog, just cut it short so I don't have to brush."

The only dog remaining was this naked fluffy tailed, puffy faced, skinny thing with black spots. Who knew she had spots…or eyes…or toe nails…or a front end and a back end. Well, I won't have to brush for a while; just flick a yellow Swiffer Duster across her once and done.

I told my friend about it and she cooed "Oh, Embarrassed?" I didn't know if she meant the dog or the current owner, me, but the answer to both was yes. Cold and embarrassed. I put a sweater on the dog to take care of both.

I think next time I'll bring a picture of the do I want and maybe a picture of the do I do not want because what I got was a do that looks like do… well you know.

Mission Improbable Trip

2011-05-26T11:20:00.004-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I have never been on a church mission trip. As the mother of eight children, I suspect we were the object of most missions. I'm not sure I wasn't the object of this mission trip this time. I could just hear the planning committee.

"You know she's got these two little children and school is almost out."

"Yes, and at her age we need to get her away for a few days."

"Yes. Our real mission is to save the children but we will tell her it is a mission trip to help sort and pack supplies for flood victims at our distribution depot."

I was invited. There were two women going that I had known for at least thirty years and they were always lots of fun. Dr. Hubby only had a few questions.

"Where are you going?"

"I don't know".

"What are you going to do?"

"I don't know."

"What time will you be back?"
"I don't know."

"OK, I'll handle things here."

I have to admit I was also thinking of that long hot summer approaching when I would have to spend endless hours serving as backyard life guard and WWIII mediator as the children began re-establishing their territorial borders.

Yes, I would go.

When I arrived at the church to leave for our trip, I found myself in the car with two women I had known only for a short time and one I did not know…or didn't know that I knew…or knew but had forgotten I knew. To be on the safe side I just did not introduce myself.

Now, I know it is hard to believe, but I am a very shy person. "I never met a stranger I didn't like" only works if you are able to speak to that stranger and carry on a conversation. I opted for Mark Twain's advice "Better to keep your mouth closed and thought a fool, then to open it and remove all doubt." I would be a good listener.

It was a good choice as I had no idea what they were talking about. They discussed favorite recipes; I listened. They discussed master gardening techniques. I listened. They commented on every bush, flower, and weed on the side of the highway calling them by their biological name and allocating them to the proper category, phylum, and location at Lowes. I listened. They discussed diets, nutrition, and exercise. I listened. At that point I was wishing I had consumed a gallon of coffee before leaving so I could contribute to the conversation with "When is the next rest stop?" but I hadn't.

To their credit they tried to include me in the conversation.

"I bet those kids keep you busy," said one.

"Yes."

"Do you garden?" asked another.

"No."

"Are you enjoying being retired?" inquired the maybe-stranger- maybe-not person driving.

"I don't know."

"Oh, look at those thornius yellow bivoscrotum bivalve phyla-silly-us roses. Those would look so pretty in your yard (referring to the person in the front seat). You know they have cross pollinated those knocked out roses and now there's the double bloom that tolerates more extreme climate conditions…" And it went downhill from there.

When we stopped for lunch eight hours later, someone from the other car asked if anyone was ready to trade cars. ME!!!

When I got into my comfort zone car, a longtime friend asked "So how did it go?" I told them I didn't say anything; I just listened. I did not think that statement was cause for riotous laughter, but it did. I told them they talked about cooking (more laughter), diets (continued laughter) and at great length about knocked up roses they got at Lowes which I guess is the home for unwed and promiscuous roses. More laughter.

By this time the car was rocking from side to side as the occupants gasped for air. I could see the confused expressions of the occupants in the first car. Later that evening I overheard the maybe-stranger-maybe-not person ask if I was always this quiet and reserved which caused much spewing of coke through the noses of my old friends. "Just wait till she gets warmed up!" they warned.

I did warm up. My roommate that night was the maybe-stranger-maybe-not person. I relaxed when I discovered that I really hadn't met her before. I also realized that she suffered from the same condition my others friends have. They unexpectedly lapse into some kind of coma around 2 a.m. in the middle of one of my stories.

On the way home we stopped every fifteen minutes. I was passed back and forth like a hot potato. "We've enjoyed Jody for the last 22.8 miles. It's your turn now…my ears hurt."

One of the ladies I had ridden with during my "quiet period" asked "What happened to Jody? She was so quiet before". My old friend explained. "You have to understand, Jody only speaks six-year-old and nine-year-old. Real conversation with live adults is limited to her computer. When she finally gets her jaw and brain coordinated, she has to talk very fast and a lot before she returns home and enters the 'cone of silence". "Well, I think our next mission should be to get her among adult humans more often."

I agree. Maybe I'll go to Lowes and get some knocked up roses to plant.

The Eyes Have It!

2011-05-22T08:19:00.002-05:00

By Jody Worsham

No, this is not about son's eyeball flipping around. This is about my eyes and I haven't rolled my eyes around in my head since I was a teenager. This is about my recent eye exam.

My first eye exam took place when I was a junior in high school and the only reason I went to the eye doctor then was because I kept typing the same line over and over (I am a very fast typist so I don't read what I type as I am sure you are aware if you have read more than one of my blogs.) With that problem corrected, I didn't go back for about twenty years; then every ten years, five years, and now in the latter half century every six months it seems.

This time I was screened for glaucoma. I think one of the technicians, probably a former student that failed my class, must have seen me practicing my curb jumping and told the secretary to send me a card suggesting an appointment and screening for severe peripheral vision defects. I put on the one-eyed pirate mask and proceeded to click a button every time I saw a flash or as the techie suggested "Every time you think you see a flash." So is this a mental test or an eye test?

This was followed by, as the techie, said "Eyeball pressure check". I think the kid must have worked summers at a tire store. This was followed by the Sesame Street portion of the exam. "Is it better this way? Or that way? Better #1 or #2? Better #3 or #4?" I wanted to say "Better without the yellow numbing junk you squirted in my eye and the Star Wars Intergalactic light explosions I was subjected to earlier" but I didn't. I just said "One, two, two, one, no difference."

This was followed by a half hour wait to see the doctor. I tried to watch the educational DVD that was playing but all I could see were purple dots dancing across the screen.

Finally I saw the doctor. He hummed, hum? Oh, hum! and then declared me fine. I then asked "What about the double vision I have after reading a paperback book?" "Hum?" He looked at my chart, raised his eyebrows and said "At your age, I would suggest stronger readers and maybe these eye drops."

I was feeling pretty good about the results of the exam and miffed about the "at your age" remark until he added, still scrutinizing my chart, "You know, you don't look your age. You look at the most 55." That last remark, while flattering, didn't exactly instill confidence in his ability to see. I left thinking to myself, he needs to make an appointment with Darth Vader, the tire guy, and the Sesame Street drop out if he thinks I look 55!"

Oh well, six months and I get to do all this again. Hope it doesn't change to every three months.

Eyes Right, Sort of!

2011-05-14T21:55:00.003-05:00

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved to purchase Ray Charles glasses

In addition to all the other fun I have around here, I also take care of our forty year old son after a car wreck twelve years ago left him brain damaged and with only one eye. We built him an apartment about twenty-five yards from our house and he is semi- self-sufficient as long as I give him his medication, do his housecleaning, laundry, driving, and grocery shopping.

He has always been able to remove his prosthetic eye, clean it, and put it back in by himself for which I am grateful. Occasionally the eyeball flips around and he shows up at my backdoor with only the white of one eyeball showing with the pupil facing due west. The children think that is really cool and the best ever Halloween costume. I’ve gotten used to it and have learned not to scream out loud…as much.

With changes in his medication lately, he is able to remember more and remember it for a bit longer. He still gets confused and time for the most part doesn’t exist. Still when I reminded him the other morning to remove his eye and clean it, he did, sometime late that afternoon. This time, however, he could not get the eye back in. He tried, and tried, and tried, and tried. I suggested he just leave it out for a day or two and then try again.

I covered the empty eye socket with a patch and told the children he was pretending to be a pirate. Three days later, he still could not get the eye repositioned in the socket. I tried to tell him the initials on the eye are supposed to be at the top but he was sure I was wrong.

My son is a veteran. Dealing with the VA is much like dealing with a brain injury. The brain is there, just not much going on at times. In other words, it is a typical government agency. I phoned the VA hospital only to get a recording.

“If this is an emergency, hang up and dial 911. If you are having thoughts of suicide, hang up and dial 1-800- 8930-23-5610-82-820-6531; that’s 1-800-HOPE-IT-WON’T-BE-TOO-LATE.

For other options listen to our menu as numbers, extensions, location of the nearest MD, country of origin, and our physical location have changed.

To renew a prescription press #2, enter your social security number, the number of the prescription you want renewed, and your current condition…prone, vertical, comatose.

To speak to a nurse, press #3 and take a number.

To speak to a live person, refer back to #3.

To make an appointment press #4, then enter the month, date, year and in what century you would like the appointment, two numbers for month, two numbers for date, four numbers for the year and Roman numerals for century.

To repeat this menu in Swahili, press #5, Burmese #6, Spanish #7, Arabic #8, Russian #9.

For braille press #10.

If you are hearing impaired and cannot hear this menu, press #1.

To repeat this menu press #405-8200-33258 followed by your last four and current blood pressure reading.”

Finally a sympathetic telephone operator, in this case a live person, suggested I bring him to the Urgent Care portion of the ER. An hour and a half and 93 miles later, we quickly found a seat in the waiting room where we stayed for two hours.

The ER doctor took one look at my son and sent us to the eye clinic, the one I had been trying to reach when we were told to come to the ER.

Fortunately there was no one in the waiting room when we got there. Unfortunately there was a big discussion between the three doctors about, I assume, who was low man on the totem pole and had to stay and see my son.

A fourth doctor who must have drawn the short straw saw us immediately. He patiently cleaned out my son’s eye socket. Not knowing if the doctor had read the chart and knew that my son was brain injured, I tactfully told the doctor that the first prosthesis had the initials at the top, but my son is of the opinion that the initials on this prosthesis were at the bottom.

“Is your name Melvin Harrison?” the doctor asked.
“No,” said my son.
“Your initials aren’t MH?”
“No”
“Then the initials go at the top, H.W."

With eye ball in place and not rolling around, I took H.W., the son formerly known as M.H. home. I think I’ll have him leave his prosthetic eye in and just have him open his eye lid while he is in the shower… sort of a car wash for the eye. Beats a day at the VA.

Senior curb Jumping Reaches New Heights

2011-05-09T10:29:00.004-05:00

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for helmets, harnesses, and tire re-alignment

I can drive. I can. In fact, I’ve been doing it for quite a number of years. I can stop, pass, and even turn, as long as it is to the left. Right turns give me a bit of a problem. If I were driving an English car, this would not be the case; however, I drove an American car and my right turns have never been quite right. I think I may be left-brained.

Today I seem to be suffering from right-turn-itis more than usual. After picking up the six-year-old from school I had to travel to the next school to pick up the nine-year-old which necessitated a right turn. Possibly due to the strong winds we have been having, I managed to bump over the curb as I made my right turn. This resulted in a small spill of Sunny D the six-year-old was attempting to drink, a mini volcanic eruption from my morning cup of coffee still sitting in the cup holder, and squeals of delight from the dare devil in the back.

After picking up the nine-year-old I had to make another right turn as we headed home. This time the eye glasses bounced out of the dash compartment onto the floorboard and the nine-year-old said “That’s once.” “No, that’s twice”, corrected the six-year-old and they both giggled and snickered.

At home I dropped off the six-year-old, had the nine-year-old change into her ballet clothes and we left for class. We made a quick detour to check out the gymnastics schedule. This was a left, left, a wide turn to the right, drive, drive, and then a turn to the left into the parking lot. We got the schedules and started to leave.

I do not know why parking lots to not allow sufficient room to negotiate proper turns. It doesn’t require that much more cement. Right, bump-bump, glasses again to the floor, young hands quickly grasping the door handles amidst “Whoppee” and we were off to ballet class and from the back seat I heard “That’s three.”

As I was passing Mickey D’s, I heard the Mocha Frappe siren calling. I tried to resist but it was a left hand turn and I had no will power remaining. I think it got bumped out at the gym.
I had forgotten the drive-through required a right hand turn. Bump bump, and bumpity-bump, the back tires were involved this time. Knowing that my curb jumping was going to be reported to hubby, I decided to diffuse the situation immediately.

“My goodness, I seem to be hitting a lot of curbs today; how many was that?” I asked nonchalantly.
“You mean in the past two hours?”
“Yes.”
“Five,” replied the nine-year-old, “but that’s only since I’ve been in the car. This morning…”
“Of course this car is a bit wider than what I have been used to.”
“You’ve been driving this car ever since I can remember.”
“Yes, but the curbs haven’t always been where they are now.”
“You mean you’ve completely knocked out a whole curb before?”
“Ok, here we are and it’s a left turn.”
“Do you want me to keep counting as you pull away? That’s going to be a right turn, you know.”
“Hurry, you don’t want to be late for your class.”

As I left the ballet studio, I could feel her eyes watching so I made a wide turn to the left and took a short scenic trip down the dead-end street. Luckily there was a circle drive at the end which curved to the left.

My husband is constantly having my tires re-aligned. I told him it was just part of the learning curve; I only recently started senior curb jumping.

A Salute to Fat, Something We Can All Get Behind

2011-05-01T14:02:00.000-05:00

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Crestor

Continuing with my “Salute To” series, I have chosen to salute fat, that most maligned of all body products. Info-commercials and regular commercials abound with FAT reducing pills, rubs, drinks, and wraps. Exercise contraptions of torture, recently released by the CIA and, FBI from Quantico, are now offered for sale with an eighteen year easy finance program available. Cables, pulleys, inclined pains, and rotating saucers are touted to give you washboard abs, a stronger core, firmly toned upper arms, and reduced body fat not to mention weekly visits to your chiropractor. Provided you have very good eyes and an 8x 12 foot TV screen, you can just make out “coupled with a 200 calorie starvation diet and your personal on-site former wrestling champion consultant”.

Fat makes the taste buds happy. Fat is necessary. Whales would freeze in the Arctic waters without it. Early man would have found himself in the dark without bowls of fat to burn. Potatoes would be used for library paste without a sufficient amount of butter. Fat is to humans what a fur coat is to people in Florida. It makes a statement. It says “I have this and I’m going to keep it whether it’s needed or not.”

Fat has been the bad guy; number one on the most unwanted list. The truth is fat has kept many a person from receiving debilitating injuries from a fall. Without that ample seat cushion of fat, many adults would find themselves in the emergency room with something other than a very large bruise. People with insufficient padding suffer more broken bones.

Statistics show that an abundance of body fat has enabled pirates marooned on a desert island to survive longer than their low fat counterparts. It also offers more protection to vital organs and bones when being attacked by a man or woman eating tiger. If you are worth your weight in gold, wouldn’t extra fat be preferable?

Fat has enriched our vocabulary and writing. Who can forget “Fat cat. Fat lip? Fat chance! Fat bank account.” Or their cousins “Padded expense account, padded cell, and padded seat.”
Fat has been honored by the great artists of the Renaissance and Baroque periods. Cherubs are always pictured as chubby and happy. Nudes are portrayed has having been well fed over the years with that ample figure type highly valued. Twiggy, Barbie and Brook Shields would never have made it as models in those days. No stick figures for the world’s greatest artists.

So here is to Fat! May it keep us warm in winter, protect us when falling, and provide food for us when marooned with pirates. Thank you for flavoring our food, our literature, our language, and our art. Oh, and for inspiring this piece!

God's Middle Child

2011-04-28T13:32:00.000-05:00

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for Him.

I’m published! Well, actually I was included in my Christian Writers Group book of devotionals that is published and available at Amazon. They each wrote ten or twelve devotionals; I wrote one. It’s akin to eleventh hour repenting, just under the wire but it counts. I figure it’s like being God’s middle child, not his first or his last, or his only child, just His middle child.
You know how that is if you come from a large family. The middle child sandwiched in between two siblings is generally left alone. The first child is the one with all the new stuff and about a gazillion pictures. The new parents call on God for absolutely everything. He gets quite accustomed to hearing that first child’s name.

Along comes the second child and if it is the same sex as the first, the parents are “Oh, I remember that, no biggie. Thanks, God, we’ve got it covered with this one. Now I need Your advice on how to handle this temper thing with our first child.” This second child also gets all the hand-me-downs and left over toys and furniture from child number uno.

Then comes child number three and if it turns out that this will be the baby of the family or the only girl or the only boy, the second child is in for a double whammy. “God, I just don’t know about this boy (or girl). The other two were so different” and God gets to hear all about child number one again and the last child at length. Because this child is often a different sex and years behind the middle child, none of the old toys are still good and none of the hand-me-downs will work so the last child gets all new stuff and the middle child is left out, again.

So what about God and the middle child? Well if you happen to be God’s middle child, you get The Book (a manual of operations, a how to book) and a quick pat on the back. God will then say to you “I have great confidence in you. Remember to P P (that’s Pray and Praise) every day and follow The Book. If you get lost, refer to The Book. If you have a problem, look it up in The Book. If you still can’t figure it out, call Me. I’m available 24/7. Otherwise, I’ll be handling world situations and your parents as they try to deal with child number one and number three.
Good luck and remember I’m on your side!”

Ok, middle is not so bad! Thanks God!

A Salute to Average!!

2011-04-25T08:42:00.000-05:00

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for average t-shirt franchise

Somewhere along the way “Average” has become an adjective that applies to everyone else. Parents are screaming about testing, obviously inaccurate, that shows that their child is average. I have adopted the position that being average makes my child stand out from the crowd.

Think about it. In ballet class, every parent thinks their ballerina is superior, above average. My child is an average dancer, the only one it seems, so when the recital comes around, the entire superior above average dancers will be crowded onto the stage all dancing together and being compared to each other. My average dancer will be dancing a solo, since there are no other average dancers at the studio. There will be no one to compare her to; therefore, she will dance beautifully with no discernable mistakes and receive a standing ovation.

Then there are those SAT test scores. My child is average and will score that way on the SAT test. Because of this, others will look much smarter and more intelligent than they really are. In fact, the worse my child scores on the test, the better others will look. I can foresee desperate parents recruiting average students to enroll in classes designed to help them dumb-down before the tests in order to tilt their child’s scores upward. However, because my child is just “average”, she may qualify for all kinds of grants and incentives to help colleges and universities look like they are non-discriminatory and serving the needs of the average person as well as the super elite.

Being average can also keep you from being clobbered in dodge ball in required P.E. classes. Far superior athletes will be chosen first. The average will be chosen in the middle and the poorly skilled will be chosen last. During the game, the far superior athletes will go after the poorest players first. The average person, hiding in the corner, will be pretty much ignored until the end. By that time the far superior athletes will have worn themselves out pulverizing the easy targets and will lose their steam when it comes to attacking the average. The average players will take advantage of the situation and will triumph. Having defeated the top far superior athletes, the average will come to the attention of professional dodge ball coaches who are recruiting.

The Olympic coaches will then rethink the average child’s abilities and increase their interest. The professional recruiters will then become more aggressive and will up their offers. Once your child accepts, signs the five year no-cut contract, and is shuffled off to training camp, you can relax. Soon the coaches will discover that your child really is average and will be benched, safe from being pulverized by other powerful dodge ball athletes…but the no-cut contract is binding. The money keeps coming in and average wins again.

With the income, your child can open an Average Store. T shirts could sport logos that say “Robbers, don’t bother. All credit, no cash”, or “Jenny Craig, Go Away, My weight is Average”. The IRS would ignore your child’s business, because, after all, it’s just average. It’s a win win situation.

So the next time your friends begin bragging about their super superior children, just smile and say “No need to thank me; if it wasn’t for my child, yours would just be average. Want a t-shirt?”

Easter Mess or Passover Cake

2011-04-21T16:24:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I don't know why making a fresh coconut cake for Easter popped into my head. Maybe, because I sleep with the TV on, a replay of Alton Brown's episode on how to make a fresh coconut cake crept into my subconscious. At any rate, I awoke this morning wanting to make a fresh coconut cake.

I went to Wal-Mart and got a white boxed cake mix (I'm cooking challenged, not stupid). Then I headed for the fresh produce aisle. I assumed a real coconut would be there somewhere. Now I have no idea how to pick out a good coconut. You can't thump them like a watermelon and smelling them only makes your nose itch from those little hairy string things. I looked at the end but no stem, only three brown/black circles. I turned it around and it seemed to make a little face so I went through all the coconuts looking for the happiest face. Once I had my happy face, I headed for the check-out line.

As luck would have it an elderly woman, by that I mean someone way older than me, said "Oh, you must be making a coconut cake." "Yes, do you have any idea how to get the coconut out?" I asked. "No, but my grandmother used to make a coconut cake every Easter and fresh coconut just doesn't compare to the ready prepared kind." Ok, I calculated that if her grandmother insisted on fresh coconut it was because ready prepared coconut hadn't been invented yet; still, fresh is best or so I'm told.

The children were eager to help when I got home and I let them. I figured three heads are better than one, even if two heads are under the age of ten. I poked holes in the coconut and the six-year-old got to milk the coconut. I strained the juice and added it to the cake mix in place of water. Each child had to drink some. "Ooouuu, yuk!" came out of their mouths and I hadn't even baked the cake yet. One child cracked the eggs while the other child mixed up the batter. "Am I a good cook or a good chef?" the six-year-old wanted to know. "Definitely a chef" and I proceeded to take a hammer to the coconut.

I had the coconut into fairly large chunks but then how do you separate the coconut from the shell? Something in my brain was replaying a portion of the "Good Eats" program and it was saying "Put the shell in the microwave." Now I am sure some of you are wondering why in the world she didn't Google fresh coconut. I'm on dial up, remember? By the time I would have gotten the information, it would have been time to Google "How do you know when the turkey is done?" Just let me say, NEVER put a piece of coconut in the shell in the microwave. My husband thought we were popping firecrackers in the kitchen. The children were now bored, or shell shocked and went outside to play.

I finally scooped out the coconut with a spoon but it still had that thin layer of brown on the meat side. I took a knife and cut that away. I don't have a food processor but I do have one of those mini-food graters; in fact I have two. I only had to pay shipping and handling for the second one. It only reduced the coconut chunks to smaller coconut chunks, though. I found one of those hand graters in the back of the kitchen junk drawer and for the next forty-five minutes I grated coconut. I'm glad my counter tops were clean because I got more on the counter than I did on the plate.

The cake is cooling waiting for the icing. I have ½ cup of finely grated coconut, 1 cup of coconut chunkettes, and shell fragments in the walls for my efforts. The lady in the check-out line said something about Seven Minute Frosting but I don't care what you call it, I know it would take me longer than seven minutes to make anything so I opted for Icing-in-a-can.

I figure I will slather icing on top of the cake and sprinkle my half-cup coconut over the top. If nobody eats it, then it will be forever known as the Passed Over Cake or if you were on clean-up detail, the Easter Mess.

Either way, I guess we created some Easter memories.

The Song Writer and the Melt-down

2011-04-17T16:11:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I am no longer worried about the job possibilities for my five-year-old if he grows up dyslexic. If he isn't drafted by the New York Yankees or the American Ballet Company, that's ok, too. He has a newly discovered talent that will probably earn him more money than the rest of us will make in a lifetime. He informed me that he can write songs for rock stars and win a "Granny."

To prove his point, he sang his latest song. Here are the words. See if you don't agree that he is right up there with The Rolling Stones, The Eagles, and The Everly Brothers

"I need chop-uh back up!

I need chop-uh back up!

I need chop uh back up cause there's a bad guy on the loo-oose.

He was singing his future platinum song over and over as I drove them to school the next morning. Somehow I don't remember as much bickering with the first six children, possibly because they were all older when we adopted them or maybe because I was already at work by 7a.m. or maybe I just can't remember. All possibilities.

The melt-down began with a simple question and answer session instigated by the nine-year-old which, I'm sure, was designed to halt the back-up choppers.

"How many diamonds are on my sunglasses", she asked.

"Nineteen million", replied the five-year-old.

"Ok, that is your final answer." She didn't quite catch the game show phrase here.

"No, I was just kidding."

"You can't change your answer. You said nineteen million."

"Can, too. I can change my answer."

"No, I asked and that is what you said."

"But I didn't mean it."

"Well, it's too late. You said it. No overs."

"I want to change my answer."

"Well, you can't."

"How come?"

"Cause I said so."

"Mimi, make her let me change my answer".

Each response increased in decibels and shrillness. Then the wailing and gnashing of teeth began… on my part, not the five-year-old's. What followed was a tirade of pent up emotions and words spewing forth from a coffee deprived being that will surely find its way into the lyrics of some heavy metal screaming soloist accompanied by an equally loud guitar.

I wisely paused in front of a stop sign as I began.

"Why are you bickering over the number of plastic sparkles on the sunglasses? (Silence) Why do you have to aggravate a five-year-old? (No answer.) You are nine years old; you should know better. (As if age had anything to do with when you can aggravate and when you can't.) And where did you come up with nineteen million in the first place? There's no way nineteen million diamonds could be on one pair of glasses. (As if logic has anything to do with a five-year-old's answers.)

At that point there was a line of cars behind me. Some of the drivers were laughing; others were craning their necks to see if there were casualties on the road (not yet). I drove off still providing lyrics for a multitude of other songs.

"This is why we don't go on a vacation. This is why we will never go on a vacation. We wouldn't get out of the drive-way before you two would start in with the bickering." At that point I missed my turn. "See, you've got me so upset I missed my turn."

By now the children had gone into ignore mode…eyes focused on a book, hot wheels car, dead silence, no discernable movement to indicate active breathing or heart rate or that I was continuing my song lyrics in the front seat. After I dropped them off, I felt a strong desire for a giant chocolate mocha frappe, heavy on the coffee.

When I picked them up that afternoon, the five-year-old told me he had a new song for me. Having had more than a sufficient amount of the three C's (coffee, caffeine, and chocolate) I listened patiently as I was driving home.

"I need chock-let back up!

I need chock-let back up?

I need chock-let back up cause Mimi is melting dow-ow-ow-own!"

I wonder if he will share the royalties?

Thar She Blows!!!

2011-04-13T20:00:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I have been told that the wind blows in East Texas. I have even seen the tops of the pine trees moving from time to time, most notably when Hurricane Katrina came through. Yesterday I fully and totally experienced a wind storm in East Texas as we celebrated the five-year-old's birthday/hurricane party in the park. I calculated the wind to be around thirty-nine knots. This is the number of tangles I combed out the nine-year-old's long hair last night.

Normally we do not have wind blowing in my part of the state, but yesterday either the hole in the ozone layer opened up and created a draft or the trees had yet to spread enough of their wind blocking leaves, because it felt like a gale. We had rented one of those giant inflatable jumping houses and slides for the party. I knew we were in trouble when the guy started unloading extra sandbags to weight the thing down. "Don't worry, I'll position it so that it heads into the wind," he said. I had visions of small children being stuck at the top of the slide unable to slide down because of the wind pressure. I flashed back to a Nat Geo program explaining how heavy airplanes were able to fly into the wind and could imagine the children lifting off, bound for Oz.

Red four foot long strips of crepe paper streamers stretched out to eight feet after being tied to the picnic pavilion posts. Red plastic tablecloths billowed up like sails making the area resemble some kind of new age Buddhist-Temple-Carnival. Ice chests and plastic bins placed on top only partially held down the table cloths.

When the little guests arrived, they held onto the posts with one arm as they handed the gift bags over with the other. Presents had to be placed under the table to keep them from becoming unguided missile bags. The bouncy house stabilized somewhat with the added weight of the children.

My plan was to have the children decorate their own cupcakes as part of the party fun. With bowls of colored sugars, sprinkles, and crushed cookies taped to the table, the party goers gathered around to decorate their very own cupcake. The ones that were seated downwind did not have to do anything. They just held up their cupcake and collected all the blowing sugar dust from those sitting upwind. To console those children sitting upwind with naked cupcakes, I passed out bubble wands.

Blowing bubbles should have kept them busy for at least fifteen minutes. Because of the wind, the children had but to dip their wand in the bubble mixture and hold it up. For about thirty seconds the park resembled Sponge Bob's underwater park. That was it, no more bubbles, but the ever creative children turned the empty bubble wands into light sabers which I quickly confiscated before Darth Vader (a.k.a. the birthday boy) had anyone in tears.

I had Styrofoam cups and a three gallon drink dispenser filled with lemonade and ice for the thirsty bouncers. The children, after gulping their lemonade, left a small portion in their cups for the lemonade god and placed them on the table. Unfortunately for the four adults holding down the corners of the table cloth, no one was holding down the tributes to the lemonade god. All adults received wet lemonade blessings.

It was time at last to sing the birthday song, blow out the candle, and open the presents. The song was barely heard over the wind. It was pointless to even attempt to light the #6 birthday candle so I held my finger up behind the #6 and symbolically tucked it into my fist when he "blew out" the candle. Lame I know, but short of a blow torch nothing was going to stay lit today. The presents were opened sending a tornado of colored tissue paper whirling threw the air. Party favors were retrieved from their secure holding places beneath the table and passed out. The wind burned party guests and their lemonade drenched parents went home.

After we got home and I was unloading the party aftermath, I overhead the children talking.

"This was the best party ever. Did you see the way the table cloths were flying all over the place?" said the birthday boy.

"And the cups sailing through the air …." chimed in the giggling nine-year-old.

"And the Mom's squealing when they got lemonade on them..."

"Yeah," replied the nine-year-old, "I hope the wind blows like this at my birthday party."

I'll be sure to check the Doppler radar map before scheduling her party. Maybe something along the lines of "Sleet and heaving icing" will add to the party fun!

Design Mine…Field

2011-04-10T19:08:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Recently a friend of mine, Wanda Agersinger (www.wandaaargersinger.com), wrote about the woes of finding attractive fashionable clothing for the well-endowed female. I sympathize and empathize with her, not that I am, was, or ever will be in the "top heavy" category, just the opposite. I suffer, like many women, from the ill-fitting body syndrome. My mind and my body do not match; neither does my top and bottom. Wide bodies have a difficult time finding fashionable clothes or even unfashionable clothes that fit. Try finding a bra when your chest measures 40 inches and your cup size is AA.

So is there anyone designing for mainstream America? A look at any security tapes at Wal-Mart (ignore my three visits per day at mine), K-Mart, Sears, Beal's, J.C. Penny's, Target or other middle income stores or even more high-end stores will reveal a variety of body types and shapes. We hour glass shaped women with the sand definitely running to the lower globe need attractive fashions that fit a more realistic shape. Our body types need it 100 times more than any Barbie-wanna-be's.

Could some new and innovative designer possibly design some attractive, age appropriate clothing for those over the half-century mark? For example, I would like a swimsuit that doesn't look like a tent on a beached whale. Couldn't you design some flattering fabrics using more than twelve inches of fabric? My belly button hasn't seen the light of day in a loooooong time and isn't likely to now. Couldn't your design camouflage/conceal/hide what age and those McDonald Mocha Frappes have done? If they can make steel-belted radial tires, I don't see why there can't be a steel-belted radial swimsuit.

At least some of the two piece swim suit companies have begun to allow customers to buy tops and bottoms separately and in different sizes. I guess they got tired of me, I mean other people, switching the tops and bottoms in the dressing rooms. There is a growing market beyond the two piece swimsuit so please take that into consideration.

Perhaps there should be a reality show based on oh I don't know, reality? A Fashion Designers Challenge TV Show. The show would be based on fashion designs for the less than perfect body type…like mine…and for people with limited income…like me. The rules would be simple: No map, vacation prints, or big flowers on anything. No Velcro, elastic waists, or long back zippers. They must design attractive clothing they would want to see their parents wear in public...when they are out with them…and they run into friends, yours and theirs. That should get the sketch pencils going.

Until that time, my only hope is to be selected by "What Not to Wear" and let them navigate the current designer mine field. With $5,000 maybe they can render me fashionable or at least presentable. Maybe I'll nominate myself!

Plaaaaay Ball Part Duh!

2011-04-05T18:05:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

"Take me out to the ball game…again

Take me out to the sand, dust, grit, hard bleachers, crowd

Buy me some peanuts, popcorn, sodas, snow cones, hot dogs, taffy, and Cracker Jacks

I don't care if I never come back

'Cause it's root root root for you little guy in the baggy pants,

And if he never hits who's to blame?

Cause its 1,2,3 swings at the pitch, then it's switch to the T

And you're back at Little League Ball Game!"

Yes, it's that time of year again…pollen, taxes, and Little League Baseball.

As a mother and white pants washing failure, I am pleased as bleach that my child's uniform pants are black this year…on purpose. Now he wouldn't look like he had already played six games before the opening game or so I thought. We have red dirt/dust and white sand. While everyone else looked especially sharp in their red and black uniforms for that first game, my child looked like he had missed the black-pants memo and had chosen to wear gray!

Alas, somewhere in the past twelve months since last season he has learned to talk "trash". "You're going down. Gonna whop that ball! Eat my dust! Flying the bases! Scooooore!" And this is during the game before ours. Hubby was laughing and I was apologizing. Then the opposing team arrived. Everyone had those cool baseball bags, some with wheels since the bags were bigger than the little guys pulling them. They all marched up to the fence and hooked their bags onto the chain link. "Where's your bag" one little fellow asked my five-year-old. "Don't have a bag, I've got a bucket" he proudly replied. Ok, get one baseball bag, got it.

This year my little guy moved up or over or maybe it's a "transition year" because the coach now pitches to their players in a game if he so chooses. If the player doesn't hit the ball after three pitches, then out comes the T and the little league player swings at the ball on the T until he hits it. This can take a while…and often does.

Coach pitching is a new thing for me. I'd never seen pitching and t-balling at the same time and for the same player during the same game. The Agent Moms from last year with cell phones in hand were giving a blow by blow account to their absent husbands, trainers, and/or fans. "Oh, dear, that's two pitches and he hasn't hit the ball yet. One more and no no NOOOOOOO! They're bringing out the T. NO NOT THE T." The T is a sure sign of a beginning player or worse, an underdeveloped player. Nobody in this transition year wants THE T.

My five-year-old who will be my six-year-old next week managed to hit from the pitch once! I was so proud! I was about to alert the media when he had to resort to the T during the next inning.

Over all, the team seems less interested in chasing butterflies this year and more interested in chasing fly balls. A big improvement. This year the team is actually throwing the ball to first and second bases and sometimes the first and second basemen actually come close to catching the ball.

Team members are accepting training much better and often remember some of the training during a game. I watched during practice as line base hits were fielded by the little guys who would then run to the baseline, straddle it with their outstretched arm held straight, ready to tag the base runner as he came by. The catcher on the opposing team last week had learned this lesson well. As my little guy was rounding third and heading for home base, the catcher straddled home plate, outstretched arm straight holding the ball…and my little guy slid right between his legs! SCORE!!

One game down, nine weeks, eighteen practices, and eleven games to go! But who's counting!

How Dumb…do they think I am?

2011-03-31T10:55:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Is it just me or are there some really dumb commercials out there; commercials that you see and think "What were they thinking" but lately the dumb commercials must think I'm dumb also.

Take for instance the Lysol hands free soap dispenser. "You never have to touch a germy soap dispenser again." Ok, now the general sequence of events is 1) your hands get dirty 2) you turn on the faucet to get your hands wet 3) your germy hands push the soap pump 4) AND THEN YOU WASH YOUR HANDS, the same germy hands that touched the soap pump that are now being washed clean. So the Lysol soap can't remove the few extra germs you picked up on the soap dispenser? I'm more concerned about touching the faucet again, after you've washed your hands. What am I missing here?

The Snickers Squares with the sharks is not only dumb, but in bad taste (oh, no pun). Maybe Steve should have just stayed out of the water. Or maybe I object because the commercial for the" Soul Surfer" movie (the one where the girl loses her arm to a shark and then comes back to win some surfing contest) played within the same couple of hours. Sharks eating people because the people ate Snicker's Squares doesn't make me want to rush out in my bathing suit at the beach and buy Snickers Squares! Aren't ads supposed to make you want to buy their product?

The other commercial that has me thinking "Whaaat?" is the Bissel Spot Remover. Now the poor doggie has obviously made a "mistake" on the carpet. This dog must have had some major digestive issues because most of us would grab some paper towels, stomp on it with our shoe, throw the towels in the trash, and then follow up with a quick spritz of disinfecting soap and it's a done deal. I speak from recent experience having just gotten a shih tsu who is making her mark. But this doggie mess requires you to haul out a 24 inch by 24 inch huge machine that has to be filled with cleanser and water. Then you have to haul it to the spot, find a plug to plug it in, wait for it to clean up the job, empty the dirty water, coil up the electrical cord, and return it to the closet.

Northern Tissue was introducing their "quilted" version of their toilet tissue. Several cartoon characters were sitting around the tissue quilting…with knitting needles! Even I know you don't use knitting needles to quilt! I can't imagine an ad campaign going through all the levels it takes to get a commercial on national tv and nobody picked up on that. They pulled the ad after only a couple of weeks.

I don't think it's just me. Maybe the ad people have just watched too much television. They need to take up some activities, like digging in the dirt, swimming in the ocean…with sharks, walking the dog instead of wiping up after the dog, and quilting…with needle and thread.

I Thought It Would be Different This Time!

2011-03-28T13:45:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

I don't know why I thought it would be different this time. Maybe because it's spring, hope eternal and all that. Maybe because I didn't have anything to post and cooking puts a sure fire end to writer's block. Maybe because the children were putting on those extra McDonald's pounds. Whatever the reason, I was really making a concerted effort to get it right this time.

I began last night by pulling out all my cookbooks, all three of them. The children and I sat at the kitchen table and leafed through the books marking things that looked good but most importantly easy. After they went to bed, I went back through "Deceptively Delicious" by Jessica Seinfeld. She had recipes for sneaking vegetables into foods without the children being the wiser. I needed this since the five-year-old who once ate every gourmet dish offered on the cruise ship has suddenly turned into a carnivore and the nine-year-old who once was a carnivore is now close to becoming a vegetarian.

I made a list of all the recipes we would try, noted the page number and the cookbook where it could be found. From that one page, I made a list of all the ingredients that I did not currently have in the house. That took up two and a half pages. This morning after dropping the kids at school, I headed for Wal-Mart, lists in hand.

The "Deceptively Delicious" required pureed sweet potatoes, squash, carrots, and cauliflower. Since my cooking utensils consist of a couple of skillets, a knife, and a mini food chopper, and no food processor within the thirty-five acres, I had a brilliant idea. Baby food is pureed. I'd get that. I chased all over Wal-Mart with my list. I found a pork loin, ground turkey, wheat elbow macaroni, baby food carrots, sweet potatoes, cauliflower, unsweetened applesauce and the other 5,000 things that were supposed to be healthy if you would only eat them. The spice aisle took me awhile, since all I had was salt and pepper. Who knew spices were so expensive!

Back at home I tackled the pork loin first. The recipe said to salt and pepper the pork loin, crush the garlic and rub all sides with rosemary. It seemed more efficient to just throw all the spices in the backing dish and just flip the pork loin around and roll it over and over. Off to the oven for thirty minutes at 425 degrees. After 30 minutes, it still looked raw. I couldn't find my husband's smoker meat thermometer so I just cooked it ten more minutes. It still didn't look brown so I cooked it ten more minutes while I searched for the thermometer. I found it and sure enough the pork loin was done, well done, very well done. I didn't know there were that many degrees of "done-ness" for pork.

Next I tackled the applesauce-rolled-oats-pureed-carrot-muffins. I guess I should have read the right side of the recipe and not just the list of ingredients on the left. I just dumped everything together at the same time. What is the point in messing up two bowls, one for dry and one for wet, when you were going to put everything together anyway. Fortunately after I measured the 1 ½ cups of flour into the first bowl, I was a bit suspicious of the "flour" which turned out to be not flour but powdered sugar. I wisely got a magic marker and labeled that clear container "powdered sugar" so I wouldn't make that mistake again. Of course pouring the bowl of sugar back into the narrow container resulted in a few spills. I found the flour, labeled it and proceeded. By now my counter top is strewn with assorted measuring spoons, every bowl I own, vegetable oil, foil cupcake cups, oats, applesauce, sixteen spoons, and assorted piles of sugar, flour, so when I knocked over the quart of vegetable oil, it didn't seem to matter. Luckily my black counter tops are supposed to be lightly oiled every two weeks. I won't have to worry about my countertops for at least two months. I never said I was neat.

I had the cupcakes neatly placed evenly around the cookie sheet for even browning and they would have stayed that way if I hadn't hit the edge of the cookie sheet on the oven door as I was preparing to put the cupcakes in the oven. Now they resemble an applesauce sheet cake with little foil dividers. I tasted one after they were done and while they aren't much to look at, they are quite tasty.

Next I tackled the "healthy meatloaf". I must have run out of paper when I was listing all the ingredients I needed because I somehow missed the Italian flavored bread crumbs and the parmesan cheese. Not to worry, I had cornbread stuffing mix so I just threw in some Italian seasonings I had bought for another recipe. This time I read the order in which to mix the ingredients on the right side. See, this was going to be better… edible! I called my hubby in town to bring home the cheese. I wasn't sure my family would eat the ground turkey so I mixed it with some regular ground beef. The secret hidden ingredient this time was…carrots. I must have changed my mind about whatever recipe required the squash and cauliflower. So far carrots are in everything. Can you eat too many carrots?

I got the meatloaf safely into the oven and it would have been just fine except, well now I had something to write about so I sat down to my computer and started to write. After the second draft, I became aware of some irritating beeping sound coming from the kitchen. I don't know how long the timer had been going off, but from the looks of the meatloaf, quite some time.

I have loaded the dishwasher twice trying to get the kitchen back to semi-normal. I fear the new puppy may O.D. on spilled sugar, flour, turkey, catsup, and applesauce from the floor. It has taken me four hours and $150 in spices and groceries to produce an over-dried pork loin, thirteen applesauce cupcakes, and a crispy meatloaf. And that's just lunch and supper today. Tomorrow I will have to do it again.

Some people are just helplessly and permanently cookingly challenged. I don't even think "America's Worst Cooks" would take me.

All in the Course of a Day

2011-03-24T08:58:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

For whatever reason, our nine-year-old has decided she wants a small dog for a pet. She has been wagging around a tiny rat dog (I don't care if his breed makes Taco Bell commercials or has two Beverly Hills movies, they look like rats). Recently a more acceptable type dog, a Shih Tsu has taken up residence at our house but it is just a matter of time until the owner comes to claim him, I'm sure, then the crying will begin. However, it was beginning to look like we could be taking care of this lost dog for a while. He's been here off and on for over two weeks.

For us this was all in the course of a day. Of course my day went something like this:

6:00 a.m. Lost dog is sitting on top of 9 foot sand pile waiting for the children to wake up.

6:01 a.m. Half naked children are running around on the sand pile playing with lost dog.

7:00 a.m. I manage to get sand off children and dog.

7:30a.m. We leave for school with hubby holding crying dog.

8:00 a.m. Am at Wal-Mart buying dog shampoo, dog food, flea stuff, dog brush, leash, chew sticks for the lost dog

9:00 a.m. Home to shampoo lost dog, scrub bathtub, dry off lost dog, blow dry lost dog with hair dryer.

9:30 a.m. Print FOUND DOG signs on computer for neighborhood

9:35 a.m. Post FOUND DOG online with local newspaper

9:45 a.m. Ok, still mastering the online thing and now scanning local paper for dogs. Find two promising ones.

10:00 a.m. Call first number, nobody home, call second number, yes she has a year old dog but now the pine trees are interfering with phone reception. Remember, I'm buried behind the Pine Cone Curtain. Promise to call back on land line.

10:04 a.m. Puppy needs to go outside so we walk out the side pasture next to the road to tell Hubby about the possible dog

10:05a.m. Pick up truck goes by, stops, backs up, man climbs the fence and asks if our lost dog has a black collar.

10:06 Lost dog recovered, I am now in a panic because school will be out in 4 hours and the crying will begin.

10:15 Call lady back on land line. She's an hour and a half away, could meet me maybe Thursday or Friday yadda yadda yadda. She has a 12 year old granddaughter with puppy that doesn't get along with her dog; I have a 9 yr. old who will cry a river of tears when she learns lost dog has been found. Bottom line I need a dog by the time violin practice is over. She will bring me the dog at 6:00 Hooray!

10:15 and a nano second What is so bad about this registered Shih Tsu that she's willing to leave work, drive an hour and a half to bring me this dog?

10:16 Me: What does dog look like?

Lady: I'd send you a picture with my phone if I knew how.

Me: That's ok, my phone doesn't have e photos. It does, but I don't know how to connect it. Send a picture to my computer.

Lady: I would except my granddaughter is in school and she's the only one who can do that.

Me: I understand. That's ok. Mine is in school and I can't open a picture without her.

Lady: I'll just bring the dog.

Me: Ok.

10:16-3:30 Dog ready the house!

3:30 p.m. Give hubby instructions. Drop five-year-old at ballet at 4:30, take nine-year-old to Girl Scouts and drop her off at 4:45. Then pick up five-year-old from ballet at 5:15, then pick up nine-year-old from Girl Scouts at 5:50 and take her to violin lesson at 6:00 while I wait for dog delivery.

6:05 Lady calls and we agree to meet to the right of Wal-mart in the grassy area.

6:06 She hangs up but I don't know if it is the right of Wal-Mart as you face it or the right as you are coming out of Wal-Mart.

6:07 Calling her back, get voice mail as my phone is beeping telling me she is trying to call me again.

6:08 Finally get her, tell her I'm driving the Medicare Mom mobile, wearing blue pants, white shirt and I'm standing in the middle of the street…dodging cars. I see a lady on the grassy knoll at the back of Wal-Mart parking lot walking a small dog and she's talking on the phone and waving at me. I think it's her. How do those online dating services ever get anybody together?

6:09 Hubby drives by Wal-Mart sees the Medicare Mom mobile, a pair of blue pants dodging cars, lady with a dog and stops.

6: 15 Dog, dog bed, dog leash, dog crate, dog clothes (she has 4 outfits) dog bowls, dog papers and money exchanged.

6:20 Load up everything, hubby hands over five-year-old who is all smiles holding Miss Tia and heads for poker game.

6:25 Arrive at violin lessons. Five-year-old is walking Miss Tia. She poops on the grass. Five-year-old is ecstatic! "Look, she pooped. Ahhh, it's so small." "Don't touch it", I yelled. He's going to be such a good little daddy.

6:30 Violin practice is over.

6:31 "Why are you smiling so much? What's going on?" Ok, I could never play poker.

6:32 Sees five-year-old with Miss Tia. "Is that my dog? You got me a dog? This is just the best day of my whole life. I can't believe you got me a dog. This is just the best day ever."

And it was. Sometimes things just seem to work out!

How Much is the Free Doggie in the Window?

2011-03-19T09:34:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham

Why is it when you are trying to get rid of an animal or sell an animal, four horses come to mind, you can never find a taker or buyer; yet when you are trying to find one, there aren't any available, at least within your price range?

I thought when the last adult child left the nest, she would take her animal with her. Not so. We inherited a part yellow lab which isn't too bad. She's been spayed and she stays outside, the dog not the daughter. Her only purpose in life it seems is to race frantically across the yard in pretext of chasing squirrels or deer when we drive up. Otherwise, she is inclined to recline in front of the door. Still talking about the dog.

I even brought home a stray dog from school several years ago. I named her Lizzy B. I should have named her Lazy B because along with the lab mix she pretends to chase squirrels and deer when we drive up and then sleeps the rest of the time. Neither dog barks at strangers. In fact, they lead the UPS man and any other stranger right up to our door. If it wasn't for our advanced early warning system (a yard booby trapped with bicycles, tricycles, broken chairs, assorted metal tables, a precariously leaning basketball goal, assorted dolls, broken wagons, rakes, shovels, and other assorted farm equipment) plus the fact that there is obviously nothing worth stealing from this house, we might not be safe at all.

Still when you are a parent/grandparent and your grandchild/child pleads for a puppy and looks up at you with those big blue eyes, the parent/grandparent gets all combobelated, reason exits the door, and you start looking for a puppy. The nine-year-old wants a small lap dog she can carry around and dress up. This might have an upside. If she has a puppy to dress, maybe she will stop dressing her brother up in tutus and wanting to paint his fingernails. The vet bills and puppy supplies will cost less than therapy for the five-year-old when he turns twenty.

I agreed to puppy hunt provided we were looking for a "small dog". By that I mean a dog that weighs less than ten pounds fully grown and one that actually looks like a dog: not a mop, a rat, or some kind of wire scrub brush.

Normally in the spring the parking lot at Wal-Mart is full of pick-up trucks with "Free Puppies" painted on a piece of cardboard and a truck bed full of yapping puppies. Not so these days. I tried the animal shelters and those offering free adoptions which turned out to not be so free after all. Also the so called "free adoptions" require more home visits and paperwork than I had to fill out when adopting eight children and two government owned donkeys.

I even tried the classified ads in the Houston Chronicle. You'd think a big city newspaper would have lots of small dog ads and they do. The only trouble is that now with the internet I found myself inquiring about "free-to-a-good- home" small dogs that were in Canada, Ohio, and even Hawaii. I just had to pay shipping. Other dogs for sale were sporting champion bloodlines and price tags to match. I didn't pay that much for my first truck!

In frustration, I bought one of those virtual pet games for her. I pointed out that you had the same responsibilities for the virtual pet as you would a real dog except you didn't have to actually pick up poo. You could name your Vpet, toss the Frisbee, walk him, brush him, pet him, feed him, and then when you were through, unplug the sucker and go on to something else. She was not impressed.

Tomorrow Pet Smart is offering Saturday Adoptions. I will be at the store at 10 a.m., first one in line to look over the adoption hopefuls. You may think it mean that I do not take her with me to look over the animals but I know what would happen. She would want to adopt all of them and I, knowing what their fate will be if no one adopts them, couldn't look at them and then at her and say no. There is strength in one, total capitulation if you add a blue-eyed-nine-year-old and sad eyed homeless dogs to the mix.

With any luck, maybe tomorrow I will find a doggie in the window that will not require a second mortgage. At least she didn't want a monkey!

The Milk God!

2011-03-14T11:45:00.001-05:00

By Jody Worsham March 2011 406 word count

"Who left the empty milk jug in the refrigerator?" I yell.

"Not me. Besides, it's not empty."

"It's empty."

"No, there's some in the bottom!"

"Enough for a gerble maybe."

"It's not empty. There are starving children in China..." as the oldest throws my Mother's favorite admonition for wasted food, half full glasses of milk, back at me.

"They aren't starving for two drops of milk!" I countered.

There seems to be some kind of universal unwritten law that says a gallon of milk should always have a minimum of two drops of milk in it, otherwise, it will have to be thrown in the trash. Ah ha! Whoever empties the gallon of milk must be the one to dispose of the container in the trash. You never leave an empty jug in the refrigerator. It's not a monumental task requiring extreme balance and coordination to accomplish this. You grasp it by the handle, you walk to the trash bin, and you drop it in. Simple! But for a household with multiple teenagers, you'd think it was a task equal to climbing Mt. Everest.

I can trash an empty gallon jug. My balance and coordination are still intact enough to do that. Teenagers, on the other hand, feel it is a challenge to see how many times they can pour milk from the same container without emptying it. I have seen them pour the next to the last drop of milk from one gallon, then reach for the full gallon next to it to finish filling their glass with milk. Many times I have seen a gallon of milk with only a single drop of milk left in the bottom to be finished off by whom? a fairy? I have come to accept this as their miniscule tribute to the Milk gods. And while they may balk at going to Sunday School, or giving up something for Lent, they always honor the Milk god. "Thou shalt not leave a milk jug empty."

Now that we are between teenagers, you would think this problem would disappear for a while. Not so. They have trained my husband well. Maybe it's a "male" thing.

"Who left an empty milk jug in the refrigerator?"

"It's not empty," responds my husband and then "it's a tribute to the Milk Gods."

Well, who can argue with religion!

The Cowboy M.D.

2011-03-10T10:09:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

I have never suffered from morning sickness, mainly because I've never been pregnant but if what I experienced yesterday was anything like morning sickness, it's a wonder the world ever got populated.

I'm not sure if it was a virus, food poisoning, or the combination of hot mocha coffee and the cookies that had been stashed in the back of the suburban for a couple of months, but whatever it was, it was not pleasant.

I was finishing up my day of subbing and transporting kids to ballet, Girl Scouts, violin lessons and was headed home. Since our car is truly a "mobile" home, we long ago gave up on those cute little litter bags for the front seat and opted for a basket lined with a Wal-Mart plastic bag. A good choice considering what was about to transpire.

On the way home, I managed to make it to the first stop sign. That's when I made my first "deposit" into the plastic bag lined basket. The kids, in true Mama-can-handle-anything manner, began yelling.

"Call Daddy."

"Pull over"

"Call Daddy!"

"Pull over!"

I could do neither because a) hubby was playing poker with friends and I had forgotten to charge my cell phone and b) we were in traffic so there was no place to pull over. Fortunately the stop signs and the stop lights were coordinating with my need to deposit. With only three miles from home, I yelled for the nine-year-old to strip the beach towel cover from the backseat and pass it to me. She did, sending all the accumulated snack wrappers, empty cups, straws, and partially eaten cookies on to the seat the towel was there to protect. That was ok; throw-up took precedence over crumbs. Two miles to go. I can make it.

To their credit, as soon as they stopped gagging, they went into emergency rescue mode. "I'll get a cold wash cloth as soon as we get home" strategized the nine-year-old. "I'll get a bucket" from the practical five-year-old. I was so proud of them, green, but proud. We made it to the house without any further incidents.

As I was stripping and heading for the shower I yelled to the nine-year-old. "You have got to take over. Help your brother with his homework, then get him into the shower, see that he brushes his teeth. Turn off the TV at 8:30 and put him to bed." As soon as I hit the bed, she hit me with the cold wet washcloth and the five-year-old, true to his word, brought me a plastic bucket and placed it beside the bed.

I must say I was very proud of the nine-year-old. She rose to the occasion. Homework was finished. She tested the temperature of the shower amidst cries of "Don't look at me" from the five-year-old who, until a few months ago, thought all clothing was optional in the country. Her responsibilities to her brother accomplished, she proceeded to her room to do her homework, shower, and get ready for bed.

A few minutes later from the living room I heard "Cowboys to the rescue." The five-year-old appeared at the bedroom door in his black ballet t-shirt and ballet pants, wearing his black cowboy hat, his cap pistol buckled around his waist, a red bandana tied around his neck and a towel neatly folded over his arm. In his best imitation of a combined Paladin, The Virginian, and Cheyenne, he ambled over to my bed. He tucked he towel under my chin like a giant bib. As he turned to leave he said "Now you holler if you need anything, Ma'am."

Here I should tell you that the muscles you use to throw-up are the same muscles you use when you laugh. The last thing I wanted to do was "activate" those muscles again. No amount of visual imaging of cold icy wind on my face or snowflakes resting on my forehead could erase the picture of my cowboy-ballet-pistol-packing-waiter/doctor or his admonition to "Holler if you need me, ma'am." As soon as the door closed, I headed for the bathroom.

While there may not be any scientific evidence to substantiate this, I can offer my undisputed testimony that you can laugh and throw-up at the same time!

Yeeeee-Ha!

2011-03-06T12:34:00.001-06:00

The Race to Finish…Something…Anything!

By Jody Worsham

This was to have been my entry in a blog contest. I started it several days ago but, uh, I got distracted and didn't finish until now, sort of. Let me explain by telling you about a typical day in my life.

We've lived in our house thirty-two years and it isn't finished yet, mainly because we built it ourselves. There's still paneling "temporarily" tacked to the wall in the breakfast room. The baseboards for the living room have been stored in the barn now for six years. Shingles for the new roof are stacked on the patio waiting for the second half of the roofing project to be completed. This isn't a major concern since the shingles are warrantied for twenty years and there's still eight years left. The vacuum cleaner is in the middle of the hall where I stopped vacuuming four days ago.

My plan yesterday was to do a load of laundry, but first I had to move the wet laundry to the dryer and since I needed a full load, pick up the clothes in the other rooms. On the way to doing that I remembered to wake the kids up again for school. While I was in their bedrooms waking them up, I might as well change the bed linens since I was doing laundry and needed a full load.

By then it was time to take the kids to school. On the way to the car, the bug man called and said he was coming to spray the house. I turned transportation over to hubby so I could sweep the floors before the arrival of the Bug Man. If I'm going to sweep, I may as well mop.

I rested the mop on the desk with the computer and thought about the fourth grade math I couldn't do last night; so just one quick e-mail to my friend who had written a book about ADDH. Then I saw an e-mail from Tracy-no-e and thought I might have to butt her rebuttal about names on Facebook, but she was just talking about Blogher 11 which I didn't know there was a Blogher 9 or a 10, so I had to check that out.

Then the school called to tell me to pick up the near-to-throwing-up five-year-old old which I did. I got him home and I was on the way out the door to buy 7-up when I spotted the mop leaning against the desk with the computer. I started to move the mop when I decided to take a quick peek to see if my ADHD author had responded since I was also going to try and buy ADDH inhibiting foods. That's when I saw e-mails from Rose, Wanda, Sharon, Gilda, and the entire Mormon Tabernacle Choir. I had to respond; it might be life changing.

The mop is still leaning against computer desk, the laundry never made it to the laundry room, the dryer never got turned on, the five-year- old miraculously recovered, the bug men sprayed and left. The race is still on, I just don't know where I'm going.

Can you say SQUIRREL?

Sing…Sing a Song…Sing Out Loud…Sing Out Strong!

2011-03-02T21:32:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

Along the way on this second adventure into Parenting by Seniors, I discovered the value of song. Not the value in songs I sing, I can't sing, but the value of having the children sing. In an attempt to get a jump start on kindergarden, I first tried the alphabet song with the then three-year-old. "A B C R Q S Teeeee, H L G V O N Peeeee". This should have been a clear signal as to the forth coming diagnosis of dyslexia.

When the youngest was old enough to get in the bathtub with two inches of water, I would tell him to make some noise if I had to race to another room for pajamas or shampoo or whatever was needed AFTER he was in the tub. Screaming at the top of his lungs was his idea of noise and caused near fibrillation on my part as I catapulted back to the bathroom to rescue him. "Sing, baby. Let's try singing", I said between gasps of air. "Ok". He began singing as I began gathering pajamas. "Maywee had a wittle… sputter blub" as the wash cloth passed over his mouth. "Wittle lamb, wittle wah ahmb" That would be the ears. Why can't you clean your ears without your mouth gaping wide open? "Maywee had a wittle lamb it's fleas was white has sno ho ho ho hee hee" as…other parts were washed. He would continue singing and I would know all was well.

I did not think of my new found sonar location device again until I took his five year old sister to Disney World. On our return trip a college athletic team was ahead of us in line at the airport and taking an exceptional amount of time going through security, probably due to all the baseballs and bats they were carrying. The tour leader told us to break off into smaller groups to expedite security.

It was seventeen minutes before take-off. I ran to the security check point stripping off shoes, belts, watch, cell phone, flopping passports in one hand as I yelled for the five-year-old to do the same. We piled everything into their wonderful dishpans only to have the line stop because an alarm was going off three persons ahead of me. Fourteen minutes till take off. I picked up my bucket, headed for the next line, told the five-year-old to grab my belt loops and we got through without setting off any alarms. Eleven minutes till take off. No time to redress. I ran through the airport barefooted with two blankets, two pillows, my shoes, the five-year-old's shoes, a doll, passports, money belt, and purse piled above my head. I looked like the Michelin tire cartoon. I yelled "Run baby, run," to the five-year-old. She replied "My pants are falling down." I gasped "Keep running". Four minutes till take-off. I couldn't tell how far behind me she was. As my life, or other travelers, passed by, my oxygen deprived brain remembered the bathtub early warning signal. "Sing, sing…"! "Twinkle Twinkle Little Staaaaaar……." came from behind.

Three minutes till take-off. The barefooted Michelin Tire Woman and a barefooted, droopy pants little girl singing "Twinkle Twinkle Staaaar "at the top of her lungs arrived at the gate with sixty seconds to spare. We boarded and then waited… and waited… and waited… Thirty minutes later the five-year-old had to go to the restroom. Down the aisle and from behind the folding door I heard "Twinkle twinkle little staaaaar…..".

Maybe I'll just strap a GPS on their wrists.

Why We Have Dumb Rules

2011-03-01T16:49:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

"Do not operate equipment while asleep." "Too much caffeine can cause sleeplessness." Ever wonder the I.Q. level of people who write these warnings? More importantly, ever wonder about the I.Q. level of people who would need such a warning? I was wondering about this as I waited in the pick-up line for the five-year-old today. No need to wonder any longer.

"Hi, little man, how was your day?"

"I don't want to talk about it."

"Uh, oh, what color did you get?" Kindergarten behavior is color coded on clothes pins that are moved up and down a flower at the discretion of the teacher according to actions observed during the day. Blue is Super Student, Green Good Boy, Yellow Beware, Red your BUTT IS DEAD!

"Yellow, have you got anything for me to eat?"

"YELLOW???!!!!!" I said quietly. "WHAT DID YOU DO THIS TIME?"

"I don't know. Do I have a snack?"

"YOU DON'T KNOW??? YOU GOT YELLOW AND YOU DON'T KNOW WHAT YOU DID? THAT'S SCARY! WHAT IF YOU DO IT AGAIN TOMORROW AND YOU DON'T KNOW YOU ARE DOING IT? WHAT, HAVE YOU HAD A STROKE? DID YOU GET HIT IN THE HEAD BY A SOCCER BALL? DON'T MAKE ME PULL OVER."

"OK, maybe I stood in the sink in the boy's bathroom. But I was good except for that."

"You stood in the sink in the boy's bathroom. You got yellow because you stood in the boy's bathroom sink?" I took a few minutes to process that and decelerate the car down to the speed of light. Possible scenarios were playing in my head:

He was being threatened and he had to be taller than the bully so he stood in the sink.
He was barefooted and stepped on jalapenos in the cafeteria and had to cool his toes in the sink.
A commode was overflowing and that was the only dry spot.
Somebody dared him to stick his foot in the drain.
I never told him not to. YIKES!

"Explain, please. I don't understand and here's some cheese crackers." Food always gets him distracted from any pre-planned tales he may have engineered.

"Well, uh, I didn't want to jump. My knees have been killing me for the last five minutes." I suppose having older parents, he's heard that phrase many times.

"Why did you want to jump in the first place?"

"To see in the mirror. I wanted to know if I had a milk mustache. Emily might see me at recess."

For the next ten miles I rattled off all the possible rules for things I may have neglected to tell him not to do starting with "Don't stand in the sink in the boys or girls bathroom anywhere. Don't put your head in the commode. Don't eat grass. Don't stick your tongue to the flag pole in winter. Don't drive a car, tractor, dune buggy, four wheeler or anything with wheels until I say so. Put your socks on first, then your shoes" and ending with "Ask a friend you trust if you have a milk moustache."

Emotionally exhausted, I made a quick stop at McDonalds for some C and C (coffee and caffeine). On the cup? "Caution. Handle with care. I'm hot." I wonder if the writer once had a five-year-old who stood in the school's bathroom sink? Now I understand!

Hot Cross Chinese Buns

2011-02-27T13:34:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham, Jan. 2011

My nine-year-old has been taking violin lessons since August. I am a piano girl so this has been a whole new experience for me. I never knew there was so much to playing the "fiddle". Evidently there is much strengthening and conditioning of muscles before you ever get to the "fiddling".

We have been conditioning arms and fingers now for four months so you can imagine the excitement when she played her first song today, "Hot Cross Buns". In fact she was so excited, she played it again… and again, … and again. This was the first song I ever played on the piano so I was quite familiar with the tune. I now understand why my mother chose the day I learned that song to beat the rugs, wash the windows, and rearrange all the pots and pans in the bottom of the old metal cook stove as I practiced again…and again…and again.

Her violin teacher must have had great success teaching her other students that same song today because after the fourth run through, she asked her to stop. "Here's a flyer about the 2011 International Young Artists String Competition being held here on Saturday" said her violin teacher. I gulped. Now I'm very competitive and I push my children to achieve beyond their means and I am very proud of their achievements. Don't get me wrong, I thought "Hot Cross Buns" sounded good but good enough for international competition? Then the nine-year-old said "I don't think I'm ready!"

"No, no, no I just thought you might want to go and listen," she replied as both the nine-year-old and I exhaled. "Oh, I knew that," I lied. I took the flyer and noted the names. It was indeed an international competition. Competing in violin and cello were Tsai, Chen, Wu, Kapoor, Nakashima, Francisco, and Xiaoxiao. I don't know how these people found their way to our little spot in the piney woods. I don't even think you could find it on a GPS, Tom Tom, or On Star but here they were.

Unless I change my child's name to Ching Chang Kim Su, I don't think my blue eyed blond child stands a chance even if she played Hot Cross Buns with her toes.

Social Net Picking

2011-02-24T17:06:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

The TV touts that one in five relationships start with an online social networking service.

At first there was the E-Harmony.com, the website that offered matchmaking on the deepest level much like the professional matchmaker only you didn't have to be Jewish. E. Harmony promised to match you on twenty-seven levels of your deepest self by answering a few hundred questions like "Do you have a pulse? Or Do you breathe air?"

Today the late night TV abounds with all kinds of social networking websites. There is one called Booty Call.com. I don't think that one is interested in any level of deep compatibility, just plain sex. I thought soliciting was illegal; well, except in Nevada. Lava Talk is for those not ready to physically commit to…anything.

Plenty of Fish.com is obviously targeting the recently dumped, those left waiting at the altar. The Plenty of Fish line seems to be "throw'em back, there's plenty more out there."

A more recent one is Senior Find.com. The person who founded this networking service is either a senior citizen himself or has a mother living with him he's trying to unload on someone else. You might expect only those over sixty to visit this site, but I imagine there's a few under thirty young things out there looking for a rich baby boomer with more than social security to offer a trophy wife.

A more specialized site is called Black Friends obviously catering to an African American population although it does not say that.

Zoosk.com is a site that lets you "flirt", "wink", "look", or carry a sign that says "I'm Desperate". It's global so I'm sure there is a translation button somewhere on their site or they may just let "one picture say it all."

Another actual site is for those seeking a Christian mate. I assume the Jewish population is still depending on the matchmaker or the Jewish Mom Network of Florida, Georgia, and New York. The Jewish Mom Network doesn't rely on the internet but on the neighborhood butcher, doctor, rabbi, or Levi's aunt's sister's mother. Any daughter or son nearing that marriageable age will immediately go "live" on their network and will suddenly find themselves dinner guests at people's homes they don't even know. This will continue until the JMNFGN successfully marries off all eligible offspring.

What's next, military matches? Find your Soldier of Love. List name, rank, serial number, military training, years of service, and arsenal of weapons. Include picture of weapons.

If one in five relationships start on a social network, I think I will hold out for those four who still seek a mate like in the old days. You remember don't you? "Hey, go ask Sally if she has a date for the prom and if she says no, see if she would be interested in going with me if I were to ask her which I'm not saying I will; but don't tell her I told you to ask. Then come back and tell me before gym but don't let her see you talking to me". So simple and no computer required.

Heredity vs. Nature or Guilt by Association

2011-02-22T10:27:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

It is a conditioned response. The teacher asks for a conference and you automatically go into accuser mode. What have they done now? What did they NOT tell me? Have I already signed the adoption papers? Just wait till I get them home.

The conference begins and you try to focus on what the teacher is saying, something about lack of attention, inability to stay focused on a subject. Your mind is racing toward what you can take away from them when you get home i-pod, TV, DVD…oh, what did she just say? A quiet place to study? Oh, sure, sure.

On the way home I rehashed the old heredity vs. environment arguments that have existed since man first adopted children. Is lack of focus an inherited trait or one that is conditioned in children? If it is inherited, you are off the hook. It's not your fault. If it is environment, then blame it on the pine tree pollen. But what if it is neither of those? What if it is a result of association? Association with other attention deficit family members and if so, which family member? Surely not me!

I quickly shifted my mental gears into reverse and thought about my day yesterday.

We've lived in our house thirty-two years and it isn't finished yet. There's still paneling "temporarily" tacked to the wall in the breakfast room. The baseboards for the living room have been stored in the barn now for six years. Shingles for the new roof are stacked on the patio waiting for the second half of the roofing project to be completed. This isn't a major concern since the shingles are warrantied for twenty years and there's still eight years left. The vacuum cleaner is in the middle of the hall where I stopped vacuuming four days ago.

My plan yesterday was to NOT read e-mails so I did a load of laundry, but first I had to move the wet laundry to the dryer and since I needed a full load, pick up the clothes in the other rooms. On the way to doing that I remembered to wake the kids up again for school. While I was in their bedrooms waking them up, I might as well change the bed linens since I was doing laundry and needed a full load.

By then it was time to take the kids to school. On the way to the car, the bug man called and said he was coming to spray the house. I turned the school bus job over to hubby so I could sweep the floors before the arrival of the Bug Man. If I'm going to sweep, I may as well mop.

Can you say SQUIRREL?

The A Team or A Team of One

2011-02-17T19:02:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

Little Dribblers. The name does not conjure up pictures of robust athletic types, more the senior citizen types trying to manage their soup. Still, if the five-year-old was to play basketball, he had to start young, and at the beginning…Little Dribblers.

If you are going to have little people playing basketball with small sized basketballs, and goals lowered to eight feet, you would think their uniforms would also be downsized. Not so judging from the size of the uniform he brought home which was supposed to be extra small.

At first I thought he had brought home uniforms for the entire team, or maybe a tent. I tried pulling his shorts up, but that only made him look like he was wearing a strapless dress. I pulled the string in the waist band up to fit him, but then that left six yards of string left trailing behind him. The shirt wasn't much better. When he put it on, it managed to clear the floor by a good two inches. After some major alternations, he was able to take the court looking not unlike one of those blue polyester fluffy balls you use in the bath.

It didn't matter any way. We got down to our last game of the season having yet to win a game. My little dribbler was standing next to me watching the other team warm up; rather, I should say watching #10 on the opposing team sink basket after basket. "I'm dead meat," replied my little polyester ball. The opposing team had stopped warm-ups for a quick drink and to pose for parents to capture those "last game" photos; well, except for #10, he kept sinking baskets. "I'm officially dead meat," came from my little puff ball. I tried to bolster his confidence, but even I knew he was "dead meat."

After the first quarter, the score was 12 to 0 with #10 scoring all the points. The others were there just to make the team official. #10 was a one man team. He stole the ball, he rebound the ball, he dribbled the ball, and he sunk the ball. I expected to see a Nicks scout in the audience. At one point when #10 was momentarily distracted, one of our team members actually scored a goal. The crowd went wild. Ok, all of our parents went wild. I think that may have been the only basket we made during a game all year.

At half-time the score was 20 to 3. I was hoping that in Little Dribblers, they didn't count any score above 20. During this time, both teams were guzzling Gatorade while three of the opposing team members took to the stage in this gymna-cafetorium and gave us some original Fosse choreography while #10 continued to shoot hoops.

It was obvious the others on the "team" knew they were window dressing. One entertained himself by doing a hop-skip-and-jump down the court as #10 sunk basket number seven. Another one tried cartwheels while #10 stole the basketball from one of our players and dribbled down the court for basket number eight.

During the second half, #10 was sidelined for a few minutes to give us a chance, I guess. He cried so hard, the coach finally put him back him. I would have, too. His team mates had each had about three chances to shoot the ball and none of them had scored. During the second half, while #10 added five more goals to the score, his teammates entertained us with an imaginary soccer game using an imaginary ball, a karate exhibition with an invisible foe, and more skipping and jumping.

With a score of 30 to 3, the game was finally over. Both teams gathered around their respective coaches for the presentation of the plastic trophies and the goodie bags filled with candy and gum…well, except for #10, he was still out there shooting hoops.

As we got in the car to leave, the five-year-old turned to his sister and said "Told you I was dead meat." "Yep, totally, can I have some of your gum?" was her sisterly comment.

On the way home, I day dreamed about what it must be like to be the mother of a one man team, of a child so athletically talented with college scholarships flooding in years from now, a future NBA star. My daydream was interrupted by a little hand tapping on my shoulder. "Want to hold my trophy? It's real gold!" "You bet" and I placed the trophy on the dash. I wondered if #10's mom was day dreaming about us.

A.T.M. (All Telephone Manners)

2011-02-12T15:12:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham, Feb. 2011

A writer friend posed an interesting question. Do you talk while sitting on "the throne"? I have an equally interesting response "Do you have one of those video web phones?" because that is an entirely different roll of toilet paper.

Before, with telephones securely attached to the wall in the hall or the living room, telephone wearing apparel and manners were obvious because usually there was a parent or some family member in the same room with you while you were on the phone.

Because cell phones have become so tiny, so powerful, so technically advanced, we of the Emily Post generation find ourselves in unexplored etiquette territory. Therefore, to keep Generation X from becoming Generation XXX, I offer these rule addendums to dear Emily Post.

First, do not ask "What'cha doing" when calling a friend, given all the things that friend could be doing with a hands free cell phone clipped to the ear. You really might not want to know.

Second, with the first rule in mind, do not end a conversation with "Gotta go." That just leaves you open for all sorts of interpretations.

Third, given the total portability of our phones, do not ask the person to whom you are speaking to "Hold it" or "Hold on for a second." Given the question posed at the beginning of this piece that might not be possible.

Fourth, flushing and flashing are no longer considered proper etiquette while on the phone. Wait until the caller has hung up before you flush or drop that towel.

Fifth, when in doubt, put a black bag around your phone before answering it. You never know when that telemarketer might just have a webcam phone and is secretly taping you for that new reality show "Bare All."

I hope this has cleared up some of those troubling little questions you may have had regarding bathroom/cell phone etiquette. I'm sure in the next edition of Emily Post, there will be entire chapters devoted to cell phone, webcam, text, and virtual weddings.

2011-02-09T16:29:00.001-06:00

Dick Tracey, Et. Al

By Jody Worsham,

As a child I thought Dick Tracey's wrist radio/TV was way, way, way in the future. How could you make a television set so small? Our 1950 15 inch television was set in a cabinet the size of our ice box.

Superman would be hard pressed to find a phone booth today. The caped crusader would have to duck into the nearest McDonald's or Exxon station restroom before emerging to save the world in costume. At first glance, as he's running down the street looking for a place to change, he would think aliens had already possessed us as he encountered people seemingly talking to themselves with borg-like metal objects stuck in their ears.

Batman would have it a little easier. He changes in the Bat Cave after seeing the Bat Signal projected onto a cloud. Of course, trouble could only come at night. You can't see the Bat Signal on a sunny day. I wonder why no one has ever noticed that? Today he would receive the Bat Signal day or night via a Blackberry or Android.

Dick Tracey would be amazed now, well first of all because he would be about 111 years old, but also with how far technology has come. With cell phones the size of his wrist watch, you can watch movies, TV, web cam your house, surf the net, read online newspapers, books, magazines, take videos send photographs, locate your car, e-mail, text, as well as actually use it for a phone.

Personally, I'm waiting for the phone that will do my taxes, activate my washing machine, vacuum the rug, and give me the answers to today's fourth grade math homework. Until then, like E.T., I just want to phone home.

2011-02-08T09:25:00.001-06:00

Wired for Wi-Fi

By Jody Worsham,

It is no secret. If you live in the country as I do amongst the tall pines along a very narrow corridor, you can't have Wi-Fi. Everybody else can, but you can't. If you want internet service, you have to have dial-up or you have to camp out at the various places in town that offer free Wi-Fi.

Hasting's Book and Video Store offers free Wi-Fi. They have tables, comfortable chairs, outlets, and restrooms but I don't often buy anything there. Of course, if you have enough battery life, you can just hang out in their parking lot. Now that the children's ballet studio is across the street, I will be spending more time in their parking lot than before. I must remember to park in different locations, though, because I'm not sure what the loitering laws are.

One of my favorite Wi-Fi destinations is McDonald's, the one closest to the university. They have tables, plug-ins, restrooms, and you never have to leave for food. I spend much time there as evidenced by my elevated cholesterol level, high blood sugar, and increased weight gain. I could munch on salads while camping here, but it is much easier to use a straw and suck on a large mocha frappe while using both hands to type. Of course, after two hours you are automatically disconnected from their Wi-Fi. But not to worry, you just have to log in again.

That's a good thing, though for me, as I tend to forget about time when I'm writing or checking e-mails. Since I don't know how to set the alarm on my cell phone, and a ticking computer bag containing one of those cooking timers tends to make people nervous, I time my log in so that I'm kicked off when it's time to pick up the children from school or I've had four Mocha Frappes, whichever comes first. I use the car to pick up the children although after four Mocha Frappes I could race to the school, put them on my back and run home.

I have spent the better part of the day eating fast food, drinking Mocha Frappes, reading, and writing. I'm caffeine wired and Wi-Fi running! It's time to go!

Waaaahoooo!

2011-02-04T17:43:00.001-06:00

Is that Your Liver or Your Heart?!

By Jody Worsham

I don't have health issues; I have age issues. But many of my friends are entering that 100,000 mile check point. As if the brown spots that make you look like a slice of raisin bread, the knees that bend only half way, the neck that requires your entire body to rotate if you want to see what's behind you isn't enough, there are now added concerns should you need surgery; or as the insurance people like to say "a procedure." Here is a check list I have created for my 100,000 mile friends.

First, check to see if your surgeon attends AA meetings. Then determine if that is a good thing or a bad thing.

Second see if there are toddlers, a newborn, twins, teenagers (or worse twin teenagers) as these can affect the amount of sleep your surgeon has received.

Third, scan the local newspapers for any pending malpractice suits, divorce proceedings, or fallen tree issues on the horizon. These all affect the surgeon's state of mind, finances, and hands.

Fourth, if your surgeon has been happily married for a number of years, they probably have a "special day". You will want to avoid having your procedure the day before that "special day" as his mind is definitely not thinking about your gall stone. If you have your procedure after that "special day", he's still got his mind elsewhere and not on the bunion you are having removed. If you have your procedure on that "special day", you run the risk of having your belly button stapled to your lungs in his rush to get home.

Fifth, schedule your emergency procedure when there is not a weather emergency, such as the wintery blizzard conditions we have been having. The electric companies tend to institute the "rolling brown out" which cuts power to facilities for up to fifteen minutes to conserve energy. Not good when it's you on the operating table.

Sixth, and this is extremely important especially as it relates to number five, make friends with the hospital janitor/engineer. He is the one who periodically checks the hospital's emergency generators to be sure they are working in case of a "rolling brown out". Most importantly, he is the one who has to remember to flip the switch back to AUTOMATIC so the generators will kick on instantly during a "rolling brown out" and you won't be on the operating table… in the dark…while your doctors try to figure out if that's your appendix or your liver they just took out.

Please feel free to copy this checklist and take it with you as you interview doctors for any procedures you may be anticipating in the future. I'm also including the 1-800 number for the psych hotline, the Weather Channel, and Worry-Beads-R-Us. Mention my name for a laugh and a 10% discount.

2011-02-02T16:03:00.001-06:00

Snow Bound!

By Jody Worsham, Feb. 2011

The Weather Channel is non-stop blizzard! I haven't seen those people this excited since Katrina and Rita came through. Jim Cantores doesn't know which city to go to first: Oklahoma, Chicago, Denver, New York? He has his sled dogs all hooked up and ready to race the latest cancelled flight to whichever city seems to have the worst weather.

I have been watching the white and pink line of bad weather slowly approaching my home town. While the northeasterners are refueling their snow blowers, adding extensions to their car antennas with additional tennis balls so they can find their car once the snow plows bury them, my little town has joined in the mad preparations.

Just this morning when the temperature was hovering around 40 degrees and threatening to drop even lower, the Wal-Mart parking lot was basically empty. Evidently I am among the last to hit the store for needed supplies. All the white bread was gone. Only that healthy 43 grain gravel bread was left. Toilet paper was down to some recycled brand I had never heard of but was forced to buy. I managed to snag some ground meat, canned beans, Snickers, chips, hot chocolate, pop tarts, and a couple of gallons of milk. While we have a generator, we may be limited in gasoline. Years ago we wisely opted for both a propane and electric heating system plus we have two wood burning fireplaces so keeping warm is not a concern.

My top priority is to make sure the two portable DVD players, two DS Nintendos, and the i-pod touch are fully charged should school be cancelled for a day or two. All the children and teachers are doing the "Make it Snow/Ice/Sleet/Power Lines/Down" dance in the hopes that school will be cancelled. All parents have headed to the nearest church to pray for temperatures 32 and above. Either way, I'm "charging" ahead. You won't catch me in the house with a five-year-old and a nine-year-old and no electronic paraphernalia to keep them occupied.

Should this ice/snow/power out storm last longer than my charged up electronics, I have plan B: a deck of cards, a set of dominoes, and a bag of pinto beans. Once we have exhausted all card games known to man: Go Fish, Battle, Slap-Jack, Texas Hold'em, Five Card Stud, Canasta, Bridge, One-eyed Jack, Pregnant Three's, Follow the Queen, Dr. Pepper, Rembrandt, High Chicago, Low Chicago, Crises-Cross, Viper, Race Horse, Take it to Your Buddy, Elimination, Seven Twenty-seven, Constellation( to name a few), it's on to dominoes.

Besides "42", "84", regular dominoes, Mexican dominoes, and match, we can build domino houses, villages, countries and proceed to line them up then topple them over, just like in Egypt. We can make domino towers, tunnels, lakes, and corrals. When they tire of that, it's on to the pinto beans.

Pinto beans are the poor man's moon sand, sand pile, Etch and Sketch, calculator and BBs. You can count them, divide them, make mountains, valleys, ditches and bean slides with them. You can search for buried treasure, play hide and seek looking for the "red" bean. Add an empty paper towel roll and you have a "rain machine" or other musical instrument. Match up identical beans, play hide the beans, and create bean mosaics. Add a rubber band and you can have a mean, lean, pinto bean throwing machine. Set up photos of Super bowl players you want defeated and "bean" them with your rubber band BB gun. Recycle those straws hiding in the back seat of the car and make bean blow darts. If you have eaten beans the night before, you can add appropriate sound effects. After all the games are over, wash the pinto beans, soak overnight, cook and you have dinner for the next day.

Being snowbound doesn't have to make you crazy. It can. It will. It does. But it can also bring the family closer together, very close, claustrophobic close. Just save the pinto beans for last.

2011-01-31T08:29:00.001-06:00

Stress Test

By Jody Worsham,

There is a lot of stress in raising a five year old and a nine year old when you are looking seventy in the face, but I thought I was handling it pretty well, at least until recent times.

Just before Christmas my husband won a $250 gift card in a drawing. I should have been the winner since I inadvertently dropped his entry into the hopper instead of mine. I quickly confiscated the gift card and just as quickly lost it.

A week or so after Christmas I finally wore out the band to the dinner ring he gave me thirty years ago. After snagging the broken band on a towel I thought it best if I removed the ring before I lost it. The ring had only left my finger once before when I had the stones tightened. Remembering the lost gift card, I decided to put the ring in the safe…I think. Later when I went to retrieve the ring and take it to the jewelers, I couldn't find it.

The children asked why I was crying. I told them I lost my ring. The next day the nine-year-old told all her friends I had lost it. They told her not to worry; their mothers "lost it" all the time. They wrote me a sweet note saying they were sorry I was losing it.

I put the ring and gift card incidents aside and focused on more immediate things. Updating the children's passports. The five-year-old no longer looks like his eighteen-month-old passport picture which subjected us to lengthy questioning by the Customs people last summer after our cruise.

First I got on line to see what was needed. As usual, nothing referred to renewing passports for minors. I grabbed a pair of jeans, laid on the bed so I could zip them up and headed for the courthouse.

I have not set foot in a courthouse since we adopted the children four years ago. Had I known the security guard was going to rummage through my purse, I would have a) gathered up all my loose change b) taken the extra pair of underwear out and left them in the car c) put the 1,000 Wal-Mart receipts in an envelope and d) renewed my "Support your Local Sheriff" membership.

"Where do you need to go?" she asked with her hand resting on her gun holster.

"To the passport renewal desk," I answered with my hand resting on my heart.

"Second counter on your left." As I gathered my things back in my purse and headed for the second counter on my left, I noticed she was following me. I kept thinking, "This woman is not one of "Charlie's Angels". This woman could handle Alcatraz." I was so paranoid I stopped at the first counter as I heard her footsteps thundering behind me. "Ma'am, the next counter." "Oh, thank you and I scurried on with the footsteps still following…and gaining. "Ma'am" and she got right behind me and said quietly in her low powerful voice "I don't mean to embarrass you but you've split the back out of your jeans." "Thank you," I muttered pulling off my jacket and tying it around my waist.

I explained to the clerk, who was snickering, that I needed renewal passport forms for the children. "Just take these, fill them out and put them in the mail." I hurried past the security guard and headed for home.

I looked at the forms then called the National Passport Information hot line for more information. These were the wrong forms. Back to the courthouse, well after changing jeans. This time I left my purse in the car but I forgot to change from my very distinctive Disney World zip up hoodie. Yes, the same security guard was there and yes I know she was scrutinizing my backside as I once again made it to the second counter. "Oh," said the district clerk when I told her she had given me the wrong forms. "Then you will need this".

With correct forms in hand I returned home to fill them out. First instruction: You must have two of the following A) valid driver's license. Nope. Five and nine year olds cannot drive. B) voter registration. Nope, can't vote only watch campaign commercials. C) Student ID Nope, kindergarten and fourth grade do not issue ID's. E) Valid work card. Nope, setting the table and making your bed does not require a work card." Back to the phone. The National Passport Information 1-800 number is now on my speed dial and they know me by name. "No, none of those are required; however, all four of you must appear before the district clerk with old passports and with the required funds," he said.

With children and hubby in tow, it was back to the courthouse. Just in case the same security guard was there, I changed shirts. To be on the safe side, I took the large briefcase containing social security cards, court ordered adoption papers, shot records, report cards, birth certificates, baby pictures, pulled baby teeth, Christmas card with family photo, little league trophies, newspaper clippings about the recent fishing tournament they won, DVD of last year's ballet recital, and their handprints I had received for Mother's Day I years past. I also carried our framed marriage license, hubby's old draft card, my teaching certificate, and our tax records for the past 50 years. The security guard had fun going through all that.

I walked confidently to the second counter having committed the location to memory, and wearing a different shirt, different jeans, and with my little red wagon full of documentation to prove I am who I am and they are who they say they are. We paid the fees and now must wait for our passports.

Oh, the stress…and to think I have to do this all over again in five years…but next time I'll start out wearing bigger jeans… made by Goodyear.

2011-01-27T17:52:00.001-06:00

Fish Tales

By Jody Worsham

Each year our City Parks and Recreation Department hosts a tournament at a small lake across from Wal-Mart. Every January they stock the lack with 800 trout and a few days later host a tournament for children one to sixteen. It is the biggest little fishing tournament of the year as far as Dr. Hubby is concerned.

The temperature is always in the twenties here at this time of the year and Saturday was no exception, 22 degrees. The trout thrive in cold weather. I shiver in cold weather. Two years ago our three-year-old won the tournament having caught the most fish. He also won a couple of rods in the drawing they hold at the end of the tournament. This year Dr. Hubby was out for a repeat win.

Saturday morning is the one morning I do not have to set the alarm. You would think I would be able to sleep late. Not so. Five mornings I set the alarm then spend thirty minutes trying to awaken, dress, and feed breakfast to two sleepy heads and get them off to school. On the sixth morning the five-year-old's internal clock says PLAY TIME and he is up and running around by 7a.m. and thus me also.

On THE DAY of the fishing tournament, all three children (one of them being seventy years old) were up, chattering, layering on the thermal underwear, grabbing woolen hats, fishing poles, bait, rubber boots, and were out the door for breakfast at McDonald's by 8a.m. The tournament started at 9a.m.

At 11:30 I dropped by after my daily Wal-Mart run to see how they were doing. It was just across the street, remember? Dr. Hubby was having trouble keeping the five-year-old focused on reeling in the fish. The nine-year-old had abandoned ship and gone up to the registration tent to help them gut the trout and fry the trout that had been caught so far. She said she liked fried trout. Later she said she was going to help mix up the apple cider and serve it. I left little Miss Paula Deane and the wandering fishermen and headed back home.

I returned with camera in hand at 2p.m. in time for the awards. The five-year-old had managed to stay focused long enough to catch the largest trout and the most trout for his age group. He received a new rod and reel, an expensive tackle case, and a fifty dollar gift card. If anyone came late for the awards and missed his presentation, he proceeded to walk around with his rod and reel and tackle case over his shoulder so everyone could get a good look at his "winnings." Little Miss Paula Deane stopped serving long enough to catch the largest trout and the most trout for her age group. She also came home with a pink rod and reel that lights up when you turn the handle and a pink fishing tackle box which she immediately began converting to a spice and cooking utensil carrier.

After we got home, the kids dumped their loot and headed for the swings. Dr. Hubby was looking for just the right place to display the new rods and hang the tackle cases. "Two out of three years. He's won two out of three years and even she won this year. Good year!" He was still grinning from ear to ear when he fell asleep in his recliner.

The next morning all three "kids" were sniffling and snorting but still smiling from their successful six hour cold water fishing tournament. My job was to retrieve the Sunday paper. After much looking and ahhing and oooing over the newspaper article and picture, I was allowed to cut out and frame the article and alert the rest of the northern hemisphere. By this afternoon Dr. Hubby had the five-year-old casting his new rod and reel in preparation for next year's tournament. Little Miss Paula Deene baked brownies and a cake.

If you happen to stop by the little lake across from Wal-Mart next year, give us a holler. Dr. Hubby will be the old gray haired man in five layers of clothing with the five-year-old who will be running up and down the dam chasing the geese and pulling in fish. The nine-year-old will be serving up fried trout and hot apple cider before hauling in her catch.

I will be missing having wisely decided once again to remain home where it is warm until award time. Oh, and preparing this year's Fish Tale.

2011-01-23T16:54:00.001-06:00

Run, Jane, Run! Sweat! Sweat! Sweat!

By Jody Worsham, Jan. 2011

I recently wrote some gym rules for my friend Jim who is going to his new gym. In fairness, I think I should include some rules for my friend Jane.

First, Jane, do not sign a contract for the gym for more than one month unless you think guilt will be a good motivator. You know, the way you are when you go to an All You Can Eat Buffet. You figured you paid for it so you should eat everything in sight, hence the need for a gym.

Second, while spandex is not Jim's friend, it could be yours provided the garment is constructed in the same way as Michelin tires; steel radials. Anything less than steel can cause a major spandex blow-out, especially if you try lifting weights. Not pretty.

Third, like Jim, you need to avoid vegetables before a workout, but you also need to add dairy to that list. Nothing says bloating like milk and cheese at your age. You definitely don't want You-Know-Who asking when you're due!

Fourth, no matter how hard the exercises, how heavy the weights, do not make any sounds while you are working out. Plaster those collagen, botoxed lips shut; otherwise you will sound like a hippopotamus in mating mode…or a really bad porno-for-fat-people movie.

Fifth, carry a bottle of Fiji water around with you. Yes, I know it is $6 a bottle. Just buy one for the bottle and keep filling it from the tap at home. You will look informed and nobody will know the difference.

Sixth, wear make-up to the gym, but make sure it is water-proof, smear-proof, sweat-proof, and drip proof. If you really are planning on sweating, pardon me perspiring, I suggest a long sleeve top so you can tape bars of soap (preferably Irish Spring) under your arm pits. Not only will you smell better, but when you work up lather, you know it's time to take a break.

Seventh, X marks the spot. Most gyms now have those heart fibrilater boxes on the wall in case of heart attacks. The instructions say to place the electrodes on women just below the breast. Unless you want them super charging your belly button, I suggest you make a big X on your spandex top where your breasts used to be.

Eighth relates to mirrors. Avoid them. If one look in the mirror at home sent you to the gym, imagine that sight reflected back and forth off multiple mirrors. You don't want to go into cardiac arrest the first day, especially if you haven't yet marked the spot.

If the gym experience doesn't work out, you can sell your cars and vacuum cleaners, fire the maid, carry out your own garbage, hang clothes on the solar dryer (clothes line) and literally run errands yourself. Results are the same, just no spandex.

2011-01-20T20:17:00.001-06:00

Gym Rules for Jim

By Jody Worsham, Jan. 2011

A writer friend of mine penned some etiquette rules for those who are following through on New Year's Resolution #5 "Get into Shape". However, I feel he has missed some very basic rules that I wish to add for my friend Jim at the gym.

First, Jim, I know you are on this health kick with your gym membership and healthier eating styles but just let me give you a word of caution. DO NOT eat the broccoli and cauliflower salad three hours before you go to the gym, especially at your age. Impeding explosions of that magnitude could rattle the windows in nearby stores and would certainly evacuate the premises in record time.

Along those same lines, if you are beefing up with protein lay off the beans on gym day or at least take your Beano or there will be no gym left.

Secondly, do not go to the gym on the same day you are eating your last high fructose, fried junk food, taco-double-cheese-burger, banana split with a triple vanilla shake before forsaking all that for healthier foods. Trying to do a sit up with all that in your stomach is a no no!

Third, see your doctor before undertaking anything strenuous like opening a glass paneled door. Ambulance sirens and paramedics entering a gym about the time other people are arriving is a big turn off. Try to schedule your heart attacks before or after you leave the gym.

Fourth, what you wear to the gym, Jim, is very important. Spandex is not your friend, I don't care how cute the salesgirl was at Academy, do not buy spandex. If you are tempted, remember the hot air balloon festival you saw last summer and visualize yourself as the human version of the Kodak Hot Air Balloon.

Fifth, should you ever get to the point that you actually break a sweat, bring several towels, wear one on your head, one around your neck, two around your ankles, and two around your elbows. That way, when you pass out, you have some additional padding when you hit the floor and you won't leave a big puddle.

Sixth, avoid looking in the mirrors, especially at your age with your body. Not a pretty sight. Remember, objects in the mirror may appear larger… and usually are…and could cause undue stress on your heart.

Seventh, wear ear buds while playing your i-pod or mp3 player. Have your children program it with encouraging music but tell them to avoid "Eye of the Tiger", "Chariots of Fire", or the theme from Bonanza. You could get caught up in the music and exceed your limit. Start with some quiet elevator music.

Eighth, do no take pictures of your grandchildren with you to the gym because a) there are no pockets in your sweat suit and b) digging around in your suit then pulling out pictures of your grandchildren to share is just weird.

Ninth, and this is the most important, label all your clothing with your name and next of kin. Better yet, have it printed on your sweat shirt so that it is easily accessible to anyone who finds a sweaty, towel wrapped, overweight old man flopped over the exercise bike. Be considerate!

Follow these simple nine rules, Jim and I'm sure you will be considered the most polite person ever to visit the gym…at least once.

2011-01-18T13:35:00.001-06:00

Noah and the RV

By Jody Worsham

Since the kids were out of school today, we took advantage of the long weekend and went to Shreveport with our RV right after the kindergarten Olympic basketball game on Saturday. According to the Weather Widget, it was to be warm and sunny for the weekend. IT RAINED NON-STOP FOR 2 DAYS. I don't think the kids have ever watched so much TV or played so many video games.

At one point they asked if they couldn't please do something else. I gave them some tin foil I had removed from the windows so I could see how close the rising water was to our RV. They began making boats out of tin foil followed by 30 minutes of rule interpretation before the Tin Foil Regatta began. I was enjoying all this until I heard the five-year-old ask where the motor would go. Water? Electricity? Motor? Fortunately the nine-year-old said motors weren't allowed.

They put water in the bath tub and had a competition to see whose boat could hold the most coins before sinking. I was promised by the nine-year-old that she would return my $2 in change, which never happened. She claimed coin sinking victory but I think she cheated. She gave him quarters and she took the dimes. After two coins, his boat sank but hers was still afloat after four dimes.

I would like to think that they were learning something about water displacement and weight with this experiment but I think the nine-year-old just learned how to bilk me out of my change, cheat the five-year- old, and claim Tin Foil Regatta Championship for herself.

With these skills, I fear she may be headed for a career in politics.

2011-01-14T12:55:00.001-06:00

Slap, Thwap, Slap, Thwap…Round Ball

By Jody Worsham

I have done the soccer thing and the t-ball thing but none of those prepared me for Little Dribblers. No, that does not refer to the toddlers in the church nursery or the Senior Citizen Soup Supper. I'm talking about pint sized basketball. Competitive pint sized basketball. Small school competitive pint sized basketball.

If you have ever seen the movie "The Hoosiers", add about a hundred people to the town, chop the players down to about 42 inches in height, put them in elementary school, throw in a few girls on the kindergarten team and you have Little Dribbler Basketball. Since my five-year-old had never seen a basketball game, I thought it wise to take him to one before his game the next day.

It has been about fifty years since I attended a high school basketball game so I expected some changes, and there were a few. There was no longer a key hole painted on the gym floor where you lined up for free throws. They didn't have a jump ball after a tie ball. The uniforms were baggy and down to their knees and there were no Frito Pies at the concession stand. But everything else was as I had remembered.

The parking lot, when we arrived, was packed. This was the first home game. Everybody was there. I had forgotten the level of hometown support there is in a small school. When we finally got to the gym, a retired teacher friend of mine was there selling tickets, supporting the team, chatting with all the kids and the kids of the kids she had taught.

When we entered the gym I heard that familiar slap thwap slap thwap, screach, screach. Someone was dribbling the ball down the court. No artificial, manmade floor can compare to the sound of a basketball hitting that super polished hardwood floor or basketball shoes screeching across it. It is the sound of the game. As I scanned the crowded stands for a place to sit, I noticed every age was represented there from babies all the way up to great-grandparents. It wasn't just the parents of the kids who were playing that I saw. The community had come to see their team play. The other half of the stands were full of the visiting team's fans, again a great mixture of ages. What was that line in "Hoosiers"? Last one out of town, turn out the lights!

At half time the nine-year-old asked "Is there a restaurant here?" "Sort of", I said, "it's called a concession stand". "Do they have pizza?" the five-year-old wanted to know. "They have basketball food" and with that I was off to the concession stand. The high school students were bustling around taking money and shouting orders back to the parents who were piling chips with gooey cheese and jalapenos for nachos, dipping corny dogs out of the fryer, flipping burgers, and fishing giant dill pickles out of gallon jars. The smells hadn't changed in fifty years.

My field trip to show the five-year-old a live high school game had taken me full circle to my high school basketball days. The only thing missing was the Frito Pie.

2011-01-10T20:19:00.001-06:00

Oooooooh, Sam! My, My!

By Jody Worsham
All rights reserved because I am, somewhat.

Some people think I am addicted to Wally-Word but I live out in the country and it's too far to go home between ballet lessons, violin lessons, Girl Scouts, and basketball practice so I come to Wally-World. I find lots of last-minute per cent-off-while-supplies-last bargains because of that. Needless to say I have enough Christmas wrapping paper and decorations to last till 2025, also cat litter in case I ever get a cat.

I note changes at Wally-World the way some people note the seasonal changes by watching birds migrate south, or the falling leaves. It may be August, but I know fall is near because all the Halloween costumes are already on display right next to the Thanksgiving table cloths and straw cornucopias. By October the garden center is decked out in Christmas decorations and those foot massagers that only appear once a year.

Even though I have no idea the actual date of the game, I know it is nearly time for Super Bowl Sunday because the seasonal aisles right in the center of the store, closest to the registers that are never open, are jam packed with things other than marked down Christmas items. And this brings me to a point of contention I have with my store of choice regarding their aisle closest to the entrance door.

No matter which entrance I use, or which random row of nested carts I select, I will always find the car with the three good wheels and the one flat wheel. As I wobbled down the aisles next to the closed registers I noticed the marketing theme did not seem to center on Super Bowl Sunday but on physical fitness, perhaps due to the number one New Year's Resolution "Get into better shape". I noted the yoga fitness mats, the Gatorade, the vitamins, wheat germ, the protein bars, that five hour energy shot drink, and a rather large area devoted to Epson Salts. Then, at the very end of the aisle, there was a rather large display for an item that is usually discreetly placed on the lower shelf near the pharmacy counter.

What were those doing here? At the front of the store? Among the build a better body items? Am I such a prude? Ok, that's a yes. Had corporate Wally-World marketing researchers been hit with too many ads for Viagra? Had the vice president in charge of End of the Aisle Display just become an avid member of Planned Parenthood? Or were the night time shelf-stockers playing a joke?

I didn't ask. I quickly left that aisle and headed for the check-out stand, the one that was open at the far end of the store. Once I got home I began to wonder. Did I really see what I thought I saw? Maybe it was an advertisement for condominiums and my eyesight was playing tricks on me. Maybe it was a display for key chains or hand warmers with the name of that UCLA football team emblazoned on the items. I had to be sure. Back to Wally-World with phone camera in hand.

Unfortunately, I was right the first time and now I looked like some kind of senior citizen pervert taking pictures of the not afore mentioned item. As I was leaving that aisle, I saw an employee in that very recognizable vest who was collecting cash drawers.

"Do you know what is on that aisle?' I asked.

"The one with all the health items on the clearance aisle?" she said.

They put them on clearance? "Yes." I gulped.

"Not surprising, got to get rid of them some way."

At least that's what I think she said. I was making a hasty exit as I contemplated the full ramifications of what I had heard, and before she could ask how many I wanted and burst out laughing.

Maybe I'll just hang out at the library from now on, in the cooking section.

2011-01-07T13:28:00.001-06:00

Channeling Agatha

By Jody Worsham November 2010

Clean G rated murder mysteries? Now that may seem like an oxymoron, a contradiction of some sort, but out there somewhere there has got to be more writers like Agatha Christie, Sherlock Holmes, Perry Mason, and John Gresham. I'd read Matlock if it were a book. I'm so desperate for a good clean story about stabbings, shootings, poisonings, or strangulations, I've started to watch "Murder, She Wrote" reruns.

I've seriously thought about dialing that California psychic hotline to see if there is another Agatha on the horizon. Surely there is a writer/mystic out there who is capable of channeling Agatha's creative spirit and give us a clean G rated murder mystery.

This all started when as a child I began reading the Bobbsey Twins, Nancy Drew, and the Hardy boys. I don't remember any murders in their books, but there was always a puzzle, a mystery to solve. In the summertime, I would read a book a day. Television did not start broadcasting until one o'clock in the afternoon (I know, hard to believe) and if the book was very intriguing, I would read right up until the last page or I fell asleep, whichever came first.

I crave good mysteries with interesting characters, plausible plots, twists and turns without the R rated language, bedroom sex, or the depraved. I just want a good clean murder, not nightmares. Where are those writers?

JoAnn Fluke puts a neat spin on her mysteries, a who-dun-it with recipes thrown in along the way. The main character runs a cookie shop. Not the most challenging mysteries but then there is a wholesome love-triangle and the recipes are my kind of cooking. "Just pack the flour down in the measuring cup". The little cooking footnotes are also fun. "Don't have any chocolate chips, just chop up the leftover chocolate Halloween candy or grab a couple of Hershey bars, the more chocolate, the better." That's my kind of recipe.

I'd go back and re-read my favorite mysteries but even at my age, after a few pages, I remember who-dun-it, even if I can't remember the plot exactly. So I say "Rise up you decent G rated murder writers and give us a good mystery I can sink my rapier sharp bookmark into!"

Oh, Agatha, I do miss thee!

2011-01-04T22:08:00.001-06:00

New Year's Resolutions I can Keep

By Jody Worsham, Jan. 2011

Everyone starts the New Year with a long list of resolutions. Most of these resolutions will be broken by next weekend. However, after reading about a zillion motivational books, I have come to a great discovery. Nothing breeds success like success; therefore, I have created a list of New Year's resolutions that I know I can keep. In fact, I am so confident that I can keep these that I am going to reward myself with a seven-day-after Christmas cruise starting December 31 and I am booking it today.

Here's my list.

I resolve to buy something that will immediately go on sale the next day.
I resolve to gain at least two pounds before Thanksgiving.
I resolve to buy a gift card, then put it somewhere safe and forget where I put it.
I resolve to try a new recipe and make no substitutions in ingredients at least once.
I resolve to exercise one time.
I resolve to wear something in May that the cleaners obviously shrunk in February.
I resolve to buy the hottest new electronic game/printer/e-book/phone that will be outdated by the time I get it to the cash register.
I resolve to assemble something myself and have extra parts left over when I'm finished.
I resolve to find the on/off/record button on the new TV remote.
I resolve to laugh out loud every day.

Happy New Year's Resolutions!

2010-12-20T21:01:00.001-06:00

"Sixteen Days of The-Never-Ending-Christmas-Vacation

By Jody Worsham

We are now in Day 3 of the "Sixteen-Days of-the-Never-Ending-Christmas-Vacation-of-original-toys/games-to-entertain yourself-without-spending-any-Money if you don't count therapy sessions.

Now I concede that more than one child has had more fun playing with the boxes than with the presents that came in them. And most children with a yard have played mud pies or in the sand pile with just a spoon and a tin can. My children, however, seem to have set the bar for creative play things.

How many children have spent three weeks entertaining themselves by dragging around a flip flop tied to a short piece of rope? Granted, he was three years old but most of the time you can't keep a three-year-old's attention more than three seconds, much less three weeks. And wadding his sisters' shorts into a ball then wrapping a towel around it to form baby "Coverly" is a classic example of a super creative child, or one with some serious issues.

I sold our ancient piano a few years ago but that did not deter my children from developing the right or is it the left side of their brains. I can't remember because my brain has turned to mush. On Day One of the Never-Ending-Vacation, I was privileged to hear a twelve-hour outdoor concert for white plastic barrel, hammer, and galvanized pipe. Music was written with lyrics and actually sung, sort of. The windows in the house are still vibrating.

On Day Two of the Never-Ending-Vacation, when they couldn't find the hammer (I had confiscated it) the five-year-old and the nine-year-old invented the Roll-Out-the-Barrel-with-Your-Sibling-in-It activity. The nine-year-old put her brother inside the plastic barrel and rolled him down the hill. They actually took turns trying to knock the other's brains out and to see who could get the dirtiest as each rolled through the piles of ashes left over from burning leaves. Since I could only see the whites of their eyes as they came mumbling incoherently in to supper, I declared it a tie.

Day Three of the Never-Ending, well, you know, found both children in the pasture again with their toy of choice, the white plastic barrel; only this time they weren't inside rolling down the hill. I had carefully explained that Medicare did not cover barrel-rolling-induced-strokes in elderly mothers. Instead they had straddled the toy four wheel 'gator and were busy "herding" the barrel all over the pasture. I don't know if they were inventing a variation on NASCAR, demolition derby, or playing 21^st century Cowboys. If I had known they could have had this much fun with a plastic barrel, I would have gotten them one long ago. Hubby said it was a genetic throwback to his old car tire rolling days although he had to admit he never participated in the Get-Inside-the-Tractor-Tire-and-Roll-through-the-Cow-Patties activity.

The children have now been bathed. It only took a thirty minute soaking followed by fifteen minutes of scrubbings using one bottle of body wash per child tonight. I have had my Valium, Advil, Zoloft, and a quick three minute shower. I had caught just the tail end of their conversation "With the drill and the jigsaw..." so I dared not take any longer.

Tomorrow will be Day Four with only twelve more days left in the "Never-Ending-Christmas-Vacation". I am currently searching the internet for Holiday Camps. Spring break will be here before you know it!

Toys R Not Us

2010-12-17T20:16:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham.
All rights reserved for custom monograms!

I don't know why I buy the children toys. Years ago when the nine-year-old was a four-year-old, her favorite toy at Christmas was the box our 37" TV had come in. She colored it, I cut holes in it and it became a McDonald's Drive-Thru, a house, a fort, and a space ship among other things. The best part was that after two weeks of non-stop playing, it was in shambles and ready for the burn pile. Nothing to store, trip over, or pick up when she was through playing. And, if she wanted another one, I had only to go to the back door of Sears and pick up another cardboard box.

Yet who wants to be known as the cheap Grinch of Christmas who gives children cardboard boxes? Not I, so when little brother came along every Barbie, Ken, Cabbage Patch Baby, Tonka truck, and match box metal die cast car that ever graced a Toys-R-Us store shelf, is now piled in a baskets in the bottom of their closets. With toy chests you can't close and shelves dripping with toys classic and new, their very favorite thing to do is play in the sand pile with a rusty spoon and tin can.

Now with the never popular daylight savings time that turns afternoon play time into night time, the children have had to abandon the sand pile in favor of inside activities. Now maybe they will play with some real toys, I thought.

Last night the five-year-old came into the living room carrying a blanket wrapped around a pair of wadded up shorts belonging to his sister. I put down the book I was reading, "How to Raise Your Second Round of Kids when You Are On Your First Round of Medicare", and decided to play along.

"Well, what do we have here?" I asked.

"This is my baby. This is her face. Don't worry, the shorts are clean."

That was reassuring so I continued. "What a lovely child. What is its name?"

"Coverly"

"Well that's a very unusual name."

"Yes, but if you call her that, she'll come to you."

Which makes sense, if you think about it; your name is your name after all.

I began to think of what names my great-grandchildren might have, given who their parents will be. Probably nothing I could find preprinted on a Hallmark Christmas ornament or on hot chocolate mugs at Wally World. No Sue or Brandon for sure. I doubt "Coverly" would be on any of those pencils or calculators you find in the bookstores before school starts.

No, I'm sure expensive custom painting, engraving, or embroidering will be required for their names. At least I'll save money when it comes to toys. I'll just spray paint a tin can, add a rusty spoon, and put those in a cardboard box.

I'll write their names, whatever they turn out to be, in permanent marker. Coverly and Preseptorian will think I'm the coolest granny ever! And I will be! Cheap, but cool! After all Toys R Not Us!

2010-12-14T09:51:00.001-06:00

The Half-Naked Santa

By Jody Worsham,

The five-year-old was cast as Santa in the school Christmas program. Yes, this little public school can say Merry Christmas and have a Christmas program without going through 27 pages of protocol to make sure they don't offend anyone; rare, but true.

He was especially excited because he got to say his lines into a microphone. I hauled out the microphone and amp at home and he practiced. "Rudolph with your nose so bright, won't you guide my sleigh tonight." He opted to say the words rather than sing them; a decision we all supported.

I cut his beard out of quilt batting and secured it to the sides of his hat and got him in his costume for a quick check. I felt like putting a name tag on his costume because otherwise, no one would ever know who he was. He was completely covered in a red suit, hat, and beard. I had him say his lines to make sure the beard would not muffle his words. Yes, this Santa was definitely going to be heard.

Now having subbed in kindergarten one whole day but taught high school students for a long, long time, I knew the kids needed to see him in his beard before the performance. "What if they laugh," he asked. I honestly told him, "They will laugh but not at you but because they haven't seen many five-year-olds with a beard. Ok, they have never seen a five-year-old in a beard but laughing is good. It means they are happy." I don't think he bought that for a minute.

The children did laugh, but not at his beard. The pillow I had used at first for Santa's stuffing was too big and heavy so I had taken his sister's white tutu and pinned it to his t-shirt for padding. It was light weight, fluffy, and, I thought, a clever solution to the padding problem. They only saw a boy with a tutu pinned to his shirt. Something else for him to talk about when he's in therapy

I watched part of the dress rehearsal for the Christmas program or what I thought was the Christmas program. Eighty kindergarten children on a stage at the same time could be doing anything and were. I think they were in the process of re-writing the program and disregarding anything the teachers had planned. Some children were engaged in a calypso type number while others, dressed as cheerleaders, were having a major discussion on the order of letters in the world T-R-E-E-S. At least they weren't trying to spell H-E-L-L-O. I could just see Miss O deciding she wanted to be at the head of the line and the whole program going from G rated to R for language. Everyone got over their giggles at Santa's beard and stuffing. I made a mental note to get BIG bars of chocolate for the teachers.

Performance night arrived and I hustled Santa with his beard firmly pinned to his Santa hat to his classroom. There amongst assorted angels, cheerleaders, human Christmas trees, and I can only assume various mini-sized delegates to the UN, I deposited Santa. I then raced to the caf-a-gym-na-torium to get a good folding chair.

I looked for the kindergarten teachers. If they were highly visible to the audience, I could expect a good show. I noticed four people huddled together against the side wall in heavy trench coats, hats, and sunglasses. They were mumbling something about "Only … eleven days …..till the… Christmas break. I can do this…I..can do this…." Oh, boy.

The program began. After a near fight, the "head cheerleader", got T-R-E-E-S spelled correctly on the stage and the audience applauded. I'm not sure if the applause was for the head cheerleader's leadership skills or that they spelled trees correctly.

The introductory music for "Rudolph the Red-nosed Reindeer" began and all my cameras were aimed at Santa. The big moment had arrived. Santa stepped up to the microphone, but the microphone was still set for the two foot tall cheerleader. Santa was at least three feet six inches tall, not quite ready to ditch the booster seat. He would never be heard, I thought. Not to worry, Santa belted out his lines right through the tutu stuffing and batten beard. No need for a mic for this future Thespian! I was so proud!

After the program I went back to the classroom to get Santa. That's when his teacher told me to leave all of his costume on the table; there was another performance in the morning. Fortunately I had put shorts on Santa to wear under his red pants but that still left him shirtless. To his credit, he did not want me to take his shirt off in front of the cheerleaders who had launched into another chant "Take it off, Take it off, Take it off!" Fashioning my puffy coat into a make-shift dressing room, the tutu attached t-shirt came off and I put my big purple coat on the half-naked Santa. He looked like the guy wearing the purple grapes in the Fruit-of-the-Loom commercial. More material for the therapist!

On the way home, I gushed praise on the half-naked Santa in the hope that it would counteract any emotional scars my creativity had heaped upon him. I didn't think it wise to show him the DVD when we got home.

There's only so much a former short-bearded-tutu-stuffed-Santa-stripper can handle in one night.

The Paula Deen Curse

2010-12-09T12:59:00.001-06:00

By Jody Worsham

Thanks to Paula Deen everyone thinks if you are from the South, you can cook. If you can't make the Southern Sacred Sweet (pecan pie) than you are immediately suspected of being a transplant, an alien, or worse…a Yankee!

I don't know why I keep trying to cook except for fear that my five-year-old will be the new poster child to End World Hunger and I might have to relocate up North! I simply can't cook, or maybe I can't read, or maybe I can't read and cook. It is even difficult to type this, not because of any emotional feelings of inadequacy or failure, but because I burned my finger and I didn't even burn it on the pecan pie I was trying to make. I burned my finger on the syrup that got on the hot pad while I was trying to remove the pie from the oven before the smoke alarm detonated.

Let me back up a bit. I left the house alone this morning at 7:30 for a three hour trip to see my mother to try and convince her that her refrigerator was not trying to kill her, and to make sure she was really alright after the doors to both her freezer and refrigerator fell off their hinges a few days ago knocking her on her ninety-year old behind. That's another story; see previous blog.

The new 46 inch TV my sister and I had gotten her for Christmas and given her early had her mind off the Attack Refrigerator. She was feeling well enough to have me haul her ninety-year-old self to CiCi's Pizza for lunch, Wal-Mart for house shoes, icy hot patches, aspirin, Christmas toys for her great-grandchildren, then to another grocery store to cash a check, then back to her apartment. Each stop necessitated me hauling out the mini-step, flipping down the legs, helping her out of the car, de-flipping the legs, putting the mini-step back in the car, and repeating it when we got back into the car. When I arrived back home at 4:30 my head and back felt like a refrigerator door had fallen on me.

While I was gone, my hubby came across the old screw type pecan cracker that he and his grandmother had used when he was a child. The children were not only fascinated with the machine but were even more motivated to shell the five gallon bucket of pecans (he just happen to have) when he told them I would bake them a pecan pie when I got back.

The nine-year-old has developed a strong desire to cook, probably out of hunger and desperation. I traded her twenty minutes of violin practice in exchange for helping me with the pies. I would make one while she was practicing, and then I would help her bake another one when she finished.

Ok, I am one of those people who failed the Follow Directions Test in college, the one that starts "Read all questions first". Yes, I was standing up shouting "Bullfrogs" to question #3, patting my head while whistling "Dixie" to question # 9 and totally embarrassed when the last question read "Now go back to question number one and sign your name." I read the list of ingredients for pie #1 and dumped everything in the bowl. Only when I turned the page did it give instructions as to the specific order. Also, at no place in the recipe did it say "deep dish pie pan". Fortunately, from my many cooking disasters in the past, I knew to spray the cookie sheet with Pam before placing the full-past-the-brim pecan pie in the oven.

Pecan Pie #2 followed a different recipe. I figured I would claim the better tasting pie. The nine-year-old did a better job of following directions than I did, and she's dyslexic. My pie had to cook for an hour; her's fifty minutes or "until firm." Now if they had just left that last phrase out all might have been well. Exactly what is "firm" and firm compared to what?

After twenty additional minutes of cooking pie #2 trying to determine firm and bandaging my burned finger, I removed the pie from the oven. Firm can be like cheesecake, or pound cake, or Jell-O, or it can be something else.

Anybody ever taste Pecan Pie Jerky?

Curse you, Paula Deen!

2010-12-05T22:25:00.001-06:00

The Attack of the Refrigerator

By Jody Worsham Nov. 2010

If you live to be 90 there are going to be some challenges. Our ninety-year-old mother is an avid sports fan. She played professional basketball in the 1930's and to this day when she watches games on TV, she dresses in her favorite team's jersey, has the team throw emblazoned with their logo across her legs, and her Diet Coke in the team sanctioned koozie.

She insists on having more clothes than will fit in her assisted living closet. My sister and I asked her why she needed so many clothes. She said "People talk if they see you in the same outfit during the same month." "Mother, most of these people can't remember what they ate for breakfast." "Well, I can: toast, scrambled eggs and bacon." We bought two of those rolling laundry type hangars to cram into her tiny apartment. Every outfit must have a matching pair of shoes and jewelry. The jewelry we could handle, but finding orthopedic shoes in every color in the rainbow was something else. We resorted to spray paint.

Most of these challenges we have managed to handle but the attack of the refrigerator caught us both off guard. My sister was 2,000 miles away when the nurse at Mother's assisted living facility called her. "Hum, your mother fell. She's alright. She will be a little sore….the…uh…refrigerator door… fell… off…and…uh…your mother fell …back." "WHAT?" "Thedorfellofftherefrigeratorandknockedyourmotherover….but she's ok."

Fortunately Mother did not suffer any broken bones, however, when my sister called me three days later it was Houston, we have a problem! Our mother had decided that the refrigerator was out to kill her. No amount of logic, reasoning, or physical evidence of rusted hinges would convince her otherwise. The refrigerator was out to get her. She took everything out of the refrigerator and placed it on the kitchen cabinets. We talked with the facility manager about getting another refrigerator. My brother-in-law has been checking the hinges daily but still Mother is convinced that somehow during the night when no one is watching, the refrigerator will sneak up on her and do her in.

My menopausal sister was at the end of the chain our mother was jerking, but I knew just what to do. There are certain advantages to being a Medicare mom. It has only been three years since my five-year-old was in the terrible two's. There is a definite connection between the Terrible Two's and the Nerve Wracking Nineties. There was only one solution. Get her mind on something else.

Mother had commented recently on how clear a flat screen television was at some restaurant where my sister had taken her. We had decided then that we would get her a new super large TV for Christmas. Santa is going to make an early delivery.

I had ordered the TV on line and had it delivered to my house so we could surprise Mother. With this newest challenge, my sister told Mother she was getting a new TV, a really big clear one. She would be able to see Dirk Nowitzki up close and really good. She would be able to read the scores at the bottom of the screen without having to get up and walk up to the screen, like she would need to check any stats on a ball game she was watching. In that respect, her mind was as sharp as it was when she was twenty. That was all that was needed. Her mind was now on Dirk Nowitzki.

That was on a Wednesday. I told my sister I would bring the TV and the cabinet to Mother's on Sunday. "NO, I can't wait that long. I'll make the three hour drive today; in fact I'm in the truck now headed your way. I think there is a game tonight and she wants her TV NOW". My sister made the three hour drive to my house in record time without getting a ticket. We loaded the TV, the cabinet I had refurbished to hold it, the chocolate cookies I had made, and she was off on the return trip. Total time as my house 8 minutes and 13 seconds.

Later that night I called my sister to see how things were going. "Great! The refrigerator is no longer a threat. Mother has stopped relating the story of the Attack Refrigerator to anyone who walks by her door. She has her Mavericks jersey on, her throw blanket, and her koozie all ready to watch the game tonight AND she even opened the refrigerator and put the cookies you made inside without using the Grab-it stick we got her to pick things up off the floor." This was real progress. "So the refrigerator is no longer an issue?" I asked. "Not the refrigerator. We'll have to see what challenge tomorrow brings."

Todays' challenge met and conquered, now on to the next. When your mother is 90…that's a good thing!

The Medicare Mom

Tips for Over Worked Parents and Underworked Children

Cookie Monster Time!

If China Owned U.S.

F.F.A.A.T.

House of Cards

T’Was the Night Before Christmas on the Magic Ship!

Let Sleeping Dogs…Sleep!

Middle Schoolers and Other Forms of Alien Life

Rudolph Can’t Guide My Sleigh

Operation Black and Blue Friday

No DIY or HGTV Episode was consulted in the Writing of this Piece

Black Friday Shopping Tips

Shaving at Six

Shaving at Six

There’s a Hole! There’s a Hole! There’s a Hole in the Bottom of the Seat!

Memoirs of a Six-Year-Old

Smurf’s Up

Hand Crafted Memories

The Once and Future Mascot

Before the Before

Cone Head, the Barbarian

Check, Please!

The Germs Have It?

Frying Purple Chicken Beater!

Raising Cain, and Able to Do It!

Small Successes

The Great Wolf-at-your-Door-Mortgage-the-House Lodge and Waterpark

Egg-scuse Me?

It’s ALIVE!

Scratch That!

A Geek for All Seasons

1-800-U-R-N-H double Hockey Sticks!

The Old Man and the “See What I Caught!”

Who Knew?

Link Me Up, Scotty!

Bite Me!

Miss Manners in the Dining Room with a Butter Knife

Scalped Yelp!

Mission Improbable Trip

The Eyes Have It!

Eyes Right, Sort of!

Senior curb Jumping Reaches New Heights

A Salute to Fat, Something We Can All Get Behind

God's Middle Child

A Salute to Average!!

Easter Mess or Passover Cake

The Song Writer and the Melt-down

Thar She Blows!!!

Design Mine…Field

Plaaaaay Ball Part Duh!

How Dumb…do they think I am?

I Thought It Would be Different This Time!

All in the Course of a Day

How Much is the Free Doggie in the Window?

The Milk God!

The Cowboy M.D.

Sing…Sing a Song…Sing Out Loud…Sing Out Strong!

Why We Have Dumb Rules

Hot Cross Chinese Buns

Social Net Picking

Heredity vs. Nature or Guilt by Association

The A Team or A Team of One

A.T.M. (All Telephone Manners)

Snow Bound!

By Jody Worsham, Feb. 2011

All rights reserved for Valium Hot Toddies!

Besides "42", "84", regular dominoes, Mexican dominoes, and match, we can build domino houses, villages, countries and proceed to line them up then topple them over, just like in Egypt. We can make domino towers, tunnels, lakes, and corrals. When they tire of that, it's on to the pinto beans.

Being snowbound doesn't have to make you crazy. It can. It will. It does. But it can also bring the family closer together, very close, claustrophobic close. Just save the pinto beans for last.

Toys R Not Us

The Paula Deen Curse