The Ice Age Cometh!

by Jody Worsham
All rights reserved for..wait, was that my cell phone?

I have declared today as Local Clean Out the Freezer Day. I think I have things in there left over from the first Ice Age.

With school starting on Monday I am in a frenzy to get all those jobs done that I was going to do all summer in the hopes that with school starting and me having six hours of uninterrupted thought patterns, I could get some writing done because I have to write and submit. My friend said so.

That is only going to happen if I accomplish those pesky household chores now. On the way to the laundry room with the first pile of laundry, I noticed my lonely i-pad on my desk. It is Hump Day, after all. Lots of e-mails on Hump Day. I better stop and check my humor groups on the I-pad. Laughing makes the trip to the laundry room more fun. Oh, there's the refrigerator and it IS Local Clean Out the Freezer Day. From the arctic depths of the refrigerator freezer, I can hear the "ping" of my i-pad. Better go back and check that to see if there is a response to ....anything.

After reading four more e-mails, squeezing out a damp mop in preparation for a "swipe and wipe" of the den floor, I reward myself with a quick glance at the lap top. Sometimes it gets things the i-pad doesn't, especially if I forget to recharge the i-pad. And there might be a link to something I'm missing.

To recap: It is 8:52. I got up at 6 a.m. I am still in my pj's. I have read five humor pieces, made six comments, walked the pile of dirty clothes to the laundry room (that's as far as I got), opened the freezer door observing the frozen wasteland, and have a damp-soon-to-be-dry mop leaning against the den wall. The kids and Dr. Hubby are down at the Trump Chicken Condos laying a brick floor in preparation for the arrival of 50 baby show chickens on Tuesday.

It's quiet now. Maybe I should take advantage of that. I made a pretty good start on the chores. I think I deserve some computer writing time. Now if I could just think of something to write about.

Dang, I forgot. It is Quilting Day down at the Center. If I can get dressed, find my quilting needles and thread, I will only be 30 minutes late.

I'll celebrate Local Clean Out the Freezer tomorrow. The ice should be melted by then.

Jody the Medicare Mom

Jody can be found most days observing household clutter, identifying archeological scrapings from burned dinners, watching damp mops dry and wondering why, like her friend Wanda, she never gets anything done.

Wring Your Own ....!

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for an  egg-sorcist

When Dr. Hubby mentioned that he would like to raise a few chickens, I didn’t think anything about it.  He has these ideas that pop into his head occasionally.  I should have known after 49 years that his ideas pop like popcorn and somehow expand exponentially.

We started with twelve little yellow fluff balls in a cardboard box in the barn.  The cute little yellow fluff balls soon outgrew the cardboard box and the pen hubby had rigged up temporarily and turned into twelve white feathered noisy pooping, smelly pullets.

 “Not a problem.  I’ll just build them a pen down where the old barn used to be.  We are going to need a place for the kids' show chickens anyway” says Dr. Hubby.

What followed is now referred to as the Trump Condos for Chickens or the Government Economic Term Stimulus Tentative Under Planned Interactive Development.  I just refer to it as G.E.T.   S.T.U.P.I.D.   In hindsight, I probably could have gotten a government grant to determine which came first:  The Chicken or the Egg.   But no matter, that was a moot question.

Actually the shed, the chain link fence, the recycled old patio doors, the unused French doors, the ceiling fan for circulation, the water-ers, the chicken feeders, plumbing and electricity, a door for easy access, covered porch for the John Deere Gator bought to haul the chicken feed, and shavings  came first.  But to keep the stimulus stimulating, more chicks had to be bought so there would be a continuous supply of eggs…of which I had yet to see one of…..egg  I mean.

We are now up to 24 chicks in various stages of development.  The eleven-year-old picked out her favorite and named it “Sweet Thing”.  After a few more weeks when the first birds were discovering their voices, Sweet Thing had to be renamed Sweet Boy.  Now we have 23 chickens and one rooster.  Dr. Hubby is now concerned that the older birds are pecking on the younger birds so….there is an addition to the Trump Chicken Condos.

 “Well, when the show chickens get here, we are going to have to have a separate place to keep the broilers away from the layers.” I had a better solution.  KFC came to mind.

With the added room, more chicks arrived because…I don’t know why.  He’s a man who can’t resist a sale, auction or anything homeless.  We are now at 32 birds and one rooster and awaiting the arrival of 50 show chickens. 

After four months and an additional 500 square feet of condo living, the first eggs arrived.  It was very educational.  Our eight-year-old has, after much observation, deduced that it takes all day to make an egg.  “First you have to get the yoke in it; then make the shell and add a little dab of protein.”  I think he has mixed up farm life and the cooking network.  Our eleven-year-old was a bit more astute.  “Chickens don’t lay eggs before 10:00.  It is now 11:00.  Do you think chickens can tell time?”

With a rooster in the flock, the eight-year-old got a lesson in sex egg-ucation early on.   Sweet Boy is anything but sweet.  If you walk into the chicken condo carrying anything in your hand like a bucket, he will attack.  If you walk in empty handed, he rushes up to you and wants to be petted.   He has also developed a powerful set of lungs as our neighbors down the road will verify.

As promised, egg production began to increase.  At first we got two or three eggs per day.  Eggs sunny side up.  Then we began to get half dozen a day.  Scrambled eggs.  French Toast. Omelets.  A dozen eggs a day.   Egg salad.  Quiche. Boiled eggs.  Egg custard.  18  eggs per day.  Egg sandwiches.  Eggs Benedict.  EGGS FOR SALE!  I even pushed for our church to declare an Egg-umenical Sunday.  I lobbied for Egg-stra school days.  I argued for a yard sale of Egg-normous size.  I nagged for an Egg-ercise program at the gym.  Nothing.

We can’t afford any more eggs.  Between the chicken feed, the egg cartons, the now egg allergy shots, it is costing us to have chickens.  I am waiting for the old hens to shut down.  Then I’ll add:

 FRESH CHICKENS FOR SALE!  Wring Your Own and Take Her Home!

 And I am not egg-aggerating!

Concerto for Can and Shoe Box

By Jody Worsham

All rights reserved for ear plugs

My husband was soon to celebrate his 72^nd  birthday.  The children were huddled up assembling the carrot birthday cake they had decided to make for his birthday. The topic then turned to birthday presents.  The seven-year-old declared presents weren’t necessary, “Because love is the best present… and that doesn’t cost anything.”  If he had just left off that last part, I could have basked in the glow of superb parenting.  The tween-ager, thinking more of her upcoming birthday I’m sure, declared presents were an absolute must, but since  I’m sure she was also thinking of her limited cash flow from the Trump Chicken Condo business venture, she was thinking I would have to provide the money for any gifts.  From the office where Dr. Hubby was wading through pages of credit card charges, I could hear rumblings and then very clearly   “No presents.  I can’t afford presents.”

“Well, you can’t have a birthday party without some kind of present,” declared the Tween-ager.  I have always been a proponent of giving something of yourself, something that cannot be bought or given by anyone else.  With this in mind, the seven-year-old declared, “We will give him a concert.”  Some of you may recall from past blogs the Summer Concert for Plastic Barrel and Galvanized Pipe that lasted three hours and caused dogs to howl and hearing aids to squeal.  Since this did not require the Tween-ager to delve into her egg money, she agreed.  “A concert is the perfect gift.”

Immediately they abandoned the carrot cake, leaving me to finish up.  Since I had been paying for violin lessons for three years and started the seven-year-old on guitar lessons this summer, I foolishly assumed the concert would involve, you know, actual musical instruments….and maybe a recognizable song or two.  Ha!

 “Where is an empty shoe box?”

“I can’t find the rubber bands.”

“I need two pencils that have not been sharpened.”

“Are you going to use these empty cans for anything?

“What are you guys up to? “

“Recycling! Who needs real drums when you have cans?”

“Multi-tasking.  I’m checking out the science project on sound and vibrations while making a shoe-box guitar.”

“We need coke bottles filled with different levels of water.  Not chemical bottles because you are going to have to blow on them.”

While I watched the cake and washed out coke bottles, rubber bands were stretched over the shoe box and various sized cans became the Tween-ager’s version of steel drums.  Soon the “rehearsals” began.  The seven-year-old strummed his “guitar”, the Tween-ager kept the tin can beat going, and I blew till I was light headed.

A few deafening minutes later, Dr. Hubby slipped me the credit card.

Happy Birthday, Honey!  Hope you like your presents.